Book Seven: Chapter 253

Death chuckled, then held out his cup. “Would you like to try some?”

“No thanks.” Cyrus patted his belly, which pressed against the inside of his coat. The soft fabric rustled like leaves. “I’m still full from breakfast.”

“I see.” Death looked over at Mike. “Poi?”

“Sure.” Mike took a sip from the cup. “Hey, that’s pretty good.”

“Of course it is. Why would I ever...” Death trailed off as the front door of the house opened and an Arachne emerged. Cyrus felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as a distance created by decades crumbled to dust. The mirror image of Ana Rae, the Arachne he had once hunted, stepped through the doorway, ducking her head to avoid the frame. Mike and Death watched her walk to the gazebo, holding Grace’s hand. When the two of them arrived, Grace broke away from the larger Arachne and patted the arm of Cyrus’ seat.

“Papa Cyrus,” she said, then snagged a hotdog off the table and shoved it in her mouth, smearing ketchup acr