The reaper paused just behind him and blew a soft breath in his ear. Santo stiffened, lifted his head, and looked around uneasily.
Yes. I’ve come for you.
A shudder went through the human and he took another hasty drink, wincing as the burn of the alcohol slid down his throat.
A light hung just above the couch and coffee table where Santo wallowed in his misery. The reaper gave it a gentle nudge, making it sway back and forth, producing cadaverous shadows that slithered across the walls. The chain squeaked ever so slightly in a macabre overture to what would come. Santo’s gaze darted warily around the room. His fear seasoned the air and the reaper breathed it in. Fear always honeyed the reaping.
He moved closer, trailing his fingers over Santo’s broad shoulders, admiring the hard strength of him. Yes, he would be perfect.
Perfect, he whispered.
Santo jumped and spun in his seat, staring right through the reaper, seeing nothing but the queer boogeymen of his imagination. His anxious eyes grew hot with panic as he turned back around. The small hairs on his nape stood on end. Santo reached for his gun and fumbled, sending it in a tailspin across the table, knocking over a framed snapshot he’d propped in front of him—a silent witness to his madness. The gun skated off the smooth surface and hit the carpeted floor with a dull thud.