I stare at Death and his smug expression. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He crooks his finger as if to say, Come closer. I scowl but do as he bids. When I’m close enough to read the strange, ever-shifting words on the page, he points at a line. I lean in, squinting as I read aloud, “Subject will not bring up the circumstances of their own death.”

I read it silently one more time before leaning back, tapping my chin to buy myself some time to think. “I don’t know. I don’t think just asking about the possibility of it can technically be classified as ‘bringing up the circumstances of my own death.’”

He rolls his eyes, waves his hand, and the contract disappears into thin air. I blink, trying to ignore the small thrill of seeing something so magical happen right in front of my eyes. I can’t afford to get distracted. This is my only chance at surviving my junior year. Literally.

Part of me is relieved that Death stopped me before I could doom myself, but I resolve never to admit that to him.

“Our contracts are binding.” I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off. “As much as you love to argue, even you can’t talk your way out of the rules. The trials are rigid for a reason.”

“Why?” I demand.

“If this was easy, it wouldn’t be called a trial,” he says evenly. I have to admit, he has a point. “The rules must be followed.”

He’s not going to budge on this. I try to shift tactics. “What are you getting out of this? Why would you let me take part in this trial?”

“Beyond just wanting you to stop talking so I could get to my next…appointment?”

My hand shoots out before I can stop it, and I shove his shoulder playfully. It’s what I would do to any of my friends, an unconscious move that happens before I can think it through. His T-shirt is as soft as it looks, although the muscle underneath it is as hard and unyielding as diamond. A steel glove sheathed in velvet.

As soon as my brain catches up to my body, I draw back in sheepish horror at my own daring. He looks down at where I’d touched him, a small crease appearing on his forehead for an infinitesimal moment before it smooths out again. Then he continues as if nothing had happened.

“I thought you brought up some decent points. It’s been a long time since anyone so…eager has attempted the trial. Usually my warnings are enough to dissuade them.” He pauses delicately here, underlining again how spectacularly unwise my decision was. “At the end of the trial, you will either live and I’ll go back to attending to my duties, returning to collect you later in your lifetime, or you die and are subjected to eternal torment. Either way, it makes no difference to me.” I bristle at his nonchalant tone. “Still, it would be wise of you to remember not to mess up so early in the trial. If you break a rule, you’ll just end up in eternal torment much earlier than you’d like.”

The blood rushes from my face. I feel light-headed. Shit. I should have paid more attention to the contract before I signed it.

“You look surprised.”

“This is news to me,” I admit. “I didn’t know breaking a rule would end the trial.”

“It’s right here, on line three.” He reads the guilty expression on my face, and his tone turns flat. “You didn’t read it. Any of it. Did you just pretend to scan it before you signed your life away?”

I can hear the unsaid question as he trails off: Are you really that stupid? I shake my head. “I read some of it!” I protest, but it’s weak, even to my own ears. He looks unimpressed. Time to stop playing dumb. “Okay, okay, so maybe I didn’t read it as closely as I should have. Can you blame me? I was riding the high!”

He tilts his head questioningly. “What high?”

“The high of convincing you to give me another chance!” I pause, a craft expression stealing over my face. “Would you be open to contractual amendments?”

To my surprise, Death lets loose a wild bark of laughter. Without the dour, put-upon godly aura, he almost seems like a regular guy who could use a bit of a tan. It makes him less intimidating, that’s for sure.

“You know what? This is going to be more fun than I thought it would be. But no, you can make no amendments,” he says with a wolfish grin. Then his lordly, devil-may-care impassive mask slips back onto his face. “And let me make one thing clear: whatever changes you make during this trial are permanent. You can’t go back. Once something is done, it’s done. I can’t fix anything for you, and I can’t interfere. Got it?”

A mix of relief and worry floods through my veins. Thank god he’s not letting this first strike go against me. For all I know, one of the provisions could be as simple as “If you say the name of your killer, you will explode into a thousand dust bunnies.” But the gravity of the situation is suddenly very clear to me. He’s right. I should have read the contract more carefully, but at least he’s letting giving me a chance

“I got it,” I say as confidently as I can. Then, after a beat, I ask, “By the way, do you have a name? I can’t keep calling you Death. It feels…weird. Like calling someone Hungry, or Pain.”

He shrugs. “That’s honestly not too far off.”

I blink. “What do you mean?”

“Well, what else would you call my brother when he oversees your eternal torment?”

It takes me a second to understand what he means, but when I do, the look on my face must be comical, because he grins again. “You—”

“As for my name,” he says, cutting me off smoothly as he leans against my old dresser, his hip resting carelessly on the old wood. “I have many. Death, Thanatos, Kharon, Lord of the Oblivion, Bringer of Eternal Sleep, among others. Pick your favorite.”

I stare at him. “You’re wild if you think I’m going to call you any of those things. Those are ridiculous names.”

I tilt my head, letting my gaze wander from his dark combat boots up his lithe body to his broad shoulders and crow-black, messy hair. I hate to admit it, but I’m warming to his strange skin. The glow under his gray shade is almost soothing, like looking up at a full harvest moon on a warm autumn night. That poet was right.

“I’m going to call you Grim.”

“You can’t—what?” If he was a human man, he would probably splutter and turn red with annoyance. The cool, calm, and collected Lord of the Oblivion would never allow himself to react in such a human manner. Instead, he just stares at me through his dark sunglasses, temporarily speechless. “Just call me Death.”

I shake my head, holding out my hands in a helpless gesture. “Sorry, no can do. I can’t call you Death. It’s maudlin.”

He stiffens, injecting as much imperiousness into his tone as he can. “I already have a name. One that’s served me well for generations before you were born.”

I hummed. “If you don’t like Grim, how about Kyle? I’ve always liked the name Kyle.”

Now he’s completely nonplussed. Inside, I preen proudly over the fact that I’ve thrown Death—no, Kyle—for a loop. I bet that doesn’t happen too often.

“You can’t possibly think you can just rename me. I won’t be referred to as something as pedestrian as Kyle.” He spits out the word as if it’s personally offended him. It’s the exact same way I would talk about abominations to the human race, like “socks with sandals” or “pickles with ketchup.”

I nod, as if he’s said something exceedingly wise. “Then we agree. I’ll call you Grim.”

Grim sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He mentally counts to ten before he responds. “Fine, Giana. If it means this conversation will come to an end, I will be Grim.”

I snicker at his clearly unintended pun. He frowns as he realizes what he’s said. “That’s going to get old really quickly.” Then he straightens, all business again. The imperious death god is back. “Enough. Call me whatever you like, but it’s time for you to go back. This time, don’t you dare forget—you can’t tell anyone about what happened.”

“I won’t.”

“And this was a one-time only exception. Don’t think I’m going to keep saving your hide. If you break one of the rules again, the trial is over. I will fail you and consign you to eternal torment.” The world starts blurring in a now-familiar way. He blurs with it, becoming nothing more than a grayscale smudge as he leaves, a final warning ringing in my ears: “That’s a promise.”