Croak by Gina Damico Page A

position like mine.”
    “Why, what are you?”
    Driggs let out a snicker as he donned a Cuff. “He’s the mayor, Lex.”
    “What? You never told me that!”
    “Details, details,” Uncle Mort said. “I’m only in charge of the town and all of the Grims’ operations within.”
    “Oh. Only that.”
    He gave a modest shrug. “It’s not as glamorous as it seems. I miss working out in the Field,” he said, touching the Ghost Gum. “So have some fun out there for me. If you run into any problems, I’ll be at the library. And remember, you’re partners now, so try not to give each other concussions, okay?”
    Agreeing to no such thing, Driggs and Lex dug into their pockets and took out their scythes. And since Croak was no different from any other culture—and therefore contained its own equivalent of a pissing contest—the two partners immediately sized up each other’s scythes as they tore them through the air.
    “Sapphire,” Driggs said, waving a gleaming blue weapon.
    “Obsidian.”
    Uncle Mort smirked. “Adorable.”
    The two rolled their eyes in unison, then disappeared into the ether.
    ***
    “For future reference,” said Driggs as he Culled the soul of a man trapped under a tractor, “I wouldn’t go around telling people about these shocks of yours.”
    “Why not?” Lex asked.
    “It’s like announcing to the world that you have crabs. It’s embarrassing, and no one’ll ever shake your hand again.”
    “But these feelings are not ones of crotchal itching,” she said as they scythed to the bottom of a gorge. She tapped their target, a fallen hiker impaled on a jagged rock, and flinched as the charge coursed through her body. Driggs watched, unnerved. “Why should they be embarrassing? Uncle Mort just said they’re from an overdose of talent or whatever.”
    “They’re different. People don’t like different. And if Zara found out—trust me, she’d make your life a living hell.”
    “I think it’s too late for that,” she murmured, remembering the look Zara had given her.
    Lex tried to suppress the shocks for rest of the morning (which, as Uncle Mort had promised, flew by faster than she could have imagined), but nothing worked. Over the next five hours of Killing, she saw enough death to last for a lifetime of nightmares—car wrecks, geezers, heart attacks, diseases, drugs, suicides, a hodgepodge of other fatalities—and the currents that shot across her nerves seemed to intensify with every target she touched.
    And Driggs’s reactions certainly weren’t helping. By the end of their shift, the looks of bewilderment flashing across his face whenever she Killed were making her want to gouge his eyes out with a melon baller.
    “I’m trying, okay?” she finally snapped as they scythed onto the deck of a cruise ship. “But I can’t help it! It’s rooted in my nervous system or something, it feels like fireworks exploding through my body—” She jabbed the target, jerked back, sucked on her inflamed finger, and looked at Driggs’s aghast face. “See? You’re staring at me like I’m drowning sackfuls of kittens.”
    “I’m not—I mean, partly, but it’s mostly because you’re—” He scratched his ear and seemed almost shy. “You’re
really
fast.”
    “Oh. Um, thanks,” she muttered, suddenly very aware of the last time she’d been complimented by a boy (never) and the current condition of her hair (pure chaos). She smoothed it out and tried to change the subject while Driggs Culled the target, a woman nearly burned to cinders in the hot midday sun. “Death by tanning?”
    “Nah. Her drink was spiked.”
    Lex looked at the empty margarita glass sitting next to the lounge chair. “How could you possibly know that?”
    “GHB. Date rape drug. Salty taste, almost impossible to detect in a salt-rimmed margarita glass.”
    “How did you—”
    “Experience. Once you’ve got enough of it, determining cause of death becomes second nature.”
    The urge to search the