Death watched me, amusement once again lifting to his dark eyes. Unlike me with my bedraggled clothes and knotted hair, he looked good in the morning light streaming into my apartment. Okay, actually, he looked exactly the same as when I’d first seen him when I was five years old, but recently I’d come to appreciate the way his black T-shirt pulled tight over the expanse of his shoulders and his faded jeans hugged his ass. Not that I was looking, of course. I mean, he was Death.
I showed some teeth. “I have one more thing to do.”
Roy was moping in the corner, and I walked over so Falin wouldn’t overhear me.
Not that he wasn’t watching. “Alex, are you planning to talk to that wall?” he asked.
“Yeah, it’s a nice wall,” I yelled over my shoulder, then turned back to the ghost.
He unlocked the safe and pulled out three guns and several magazines, as well as his FIB badge, an extra harness, and an extra pair of knives. Some of these disappeared to various concealed locations under his clothes and the rest went in his duffel bag.
I blinked at the haul. “Are you planning to go to war? Sure you don’t want to pack an assault rifle as well?”
He looked up from the bag. “You have met yourself, right?” He zipped the bag closed.
“So should I get a gun too?”
“I’d fear the day.”
“Sorry. One handshake doesn’t admit you to the good graces club.”
“But one phrase said in anger—justified anger that someone was tampering with evidence in my case—is enough to bar me from it?”
I smiled at him. “First impressions suck that way.”