I didn't realize what a piece of crap I was until I died.

The Grim, the post-mortem chaperone who collected me, is the crankiest Death in the greater Kansas City area. Understandable, since her job is to bag the souls of the worthless and rotten. Apparently I'm so crummy they made me her apprentice. There are so many other kinds of Death, and of all of them, I get lassoed to Miss Buzzkill, who loves to remind me I'm hers with her big, green gargoyle finger, pointing and giving me her spooky come-hither.

As the Grim's new involuntary Lackey, some of the rules are easy:

✓ Avoid inter-office conflicts — Mind your own Death's business.

✓ Shelve your souls before exiting the locker room.

✓ No Death Suits in the hot tub.

But other dos-and-don'ts I just can't handle:

— Never getting a love of my life.

— Giving up the love of my death.

In my new hereafter, the Grim gives me two options — stay and help her take souls, including the love of my death, or refuse and condemn those souls to nothingness forever.

I'm opting for door number three — sacrificing myself to get back to life. Which, I'm pretty sure I can do, if I can get the most spine-tingling jeebie-making Death in the Underworld to shove me in his moan-oozing Gray Box of the Unknown.

It's not like I'd come back as a possum. Right?

Sign up now to get the most out of Books2Read

Discover something great at Books2Read.

Thanks for signing up for Books2Read notifications!