The first time I encountered Death, I hurled my mother's medical chart at him. As far as impressions went, I blew it, but I was five at the time, so he eventually forgave me. Some days I wished he hadn't—particularly when we crossed paths on the job.

"Ms. Craft, this is beyond unacceptable." Henry Baker accented the statement with a plump fist slicing the air before his face. Behind him loomed Death.

Eighteen years of practice kept my gaze off the jean-clad soul collector and on my client, whose face darkened from cherry red to bruised purple. I fingered the spray of funeral lilies at my side, dreading the direction this conversation was taking.

"Our contract stipulated I raise the shade. I did."

Baker swatted aside my protest. "You promised me results."

"I said you could ask your questions." I leaned against his father’s coffin. It wasn't exactly respectful, but I'd just shoved the senior Baker’s shade back into his body two hours before his funeral. Respect had nothing to do with this job. But hey, a paycheck is a paycheck.

Baker turned on his heel and stomped across the aisle. I waited. I knew what was coming. Baker was a fortune hunter, a failed one at that, and I'd worked with his like before.

Death followed in Baker's wake. He exaggerated each heavy step, mocking the chubby man's jerky movements. All the while, a grin clung to his lips, his dark eyes never leaving me.

This had better be a social visit. I met his gaze, pleading, warning—I didn't care which—him to leave my client alone. He flashed a row of perfectly straight teeth, which didn't tell me anything.

Baker continued to pace.

Well, best get this part over quickly. "According to our contract, you can pay by cash, check, or money order. Will you need a receipt?"

Baker jerked to a stop. His eyes bulged, the skin hanging from his cheeks shaking. "I refuse to pay for this."

Here we go. I shoved away from the casket. "Listen, mister, you wanted a shade raised. I raised a shade. If dear old dad didn't say what you wanted, well, that's your problem, not mine. We have a binding agreement and if—"

He dropped his fist, and his eyes flew wide, startled.

That was simpler than expected. I let out a breath to purge the rant from my tongue and pasted on my professional smile. "Now, will you need a receipt?"

Baker gripped his chest and wheezed. Once. Twice. Then, in slow motion, his neck twisted, his gaze moving over his shoulder. The amusement melted from Death's face.

Oh crap.

Angel of Death, Soul Collector, Grim Reaper—whatever you called him, most people only saw him once. He strolled forward, and Baker stumbled back a step.

Crap. I jumped from the casket platform. "Don't."

Too late.

Thanks for checking out this early sneak-peek excerpt! I will be releasing the full first chapter closer to the release date, so check back.