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face. “Perhaps,” I smile broadly, “we could do some exploring.”
    “Exploring?” He pushes the bag away from him and I drop my arm.
    “You’re not allowed to reap, and I’m not allowed to kill anyone, but Gus said nothing about reanimation.”
    “You need a body for reanimation. Are you hiding a corpse on you? Tucked it away in a pocket?” He crosses his arms.
    “Reanimate the memory ,” I draw out the word, letting the y hang on my lips. “In my lessons, Gus is teaching me how to reanimate the soul without needing a vessel. He uses it to gather information from them that might be useful—like special skills or weaknesses they could use to their advantage later.”
    “And the point of this would be…?”
    Nothing , I want to say. There is no point. It’s only a way to eat up the hours. It’s only a way to convince you we should listen to Gus instead of ignoring his orders and finding a more violent way to keep you entertained. But I don’t say that. Instead, I offer him a suitable alternative, the next best thing to pain—recounting other people’s pain. “Aren’t you even the least bit interested about the memories of these souls? One girl drowned her brother.”
    “I heard.” He sounds uninterested, bored.
    “Yes, you heard about her . But they were all in restraints, tethered to chairs.” I watch him closely as he leans back against the grave. He crosses his ankles to match his arms. I come at him from another angle, swinging the satchel around in the air uncaringly. “Remember Ariel’s little aneurism back at the asylum?”
    He lifts his chin, paying attention. “She said one of the souls was lost.”
    “You heard that?” I ask, and he shrugs. “Right, so she was seriously freaked about something. And Sablo too—you saw his face. Don’t you want to know what made them give up so easily?”
    He considers this, chewing his lip.
    “Come on, Az,” I push, bouncing up and down on my toes. “Live a little!”
    Something shifts on his face, dark amusement and a decision. “Again, not the best choice of words, but sure, why not.”
    “That’s the spirit!”
    I notice him pull out a dark, metal tube from his pocket. It is old and heavy, with black carvings that string around it like the greedy fingers of weeds. Jeremy’s soul is trapped within the container, locked until it reaches Hell. Azael rolls the vial between two fingers before sliding it back into his pocket for safe keeping. That’s the one soul we won’t get to explore, and I know it’s the one he’s most interested in.
    The bag that holds the rest of the souls feels soft and heavy in my hands. I pull at the golden ropes until the knots fall apart and look into the shadowy bag. There’s a faint glow coming off of the souls, like the dying glow of a star behind a blanket of clouds—a hazy silver-gold that is warm and clammy. The greasy souls roll over one another, reaching towards the untied opening, grasping for freedom that’s just out of reach.
    I plunge my hand inside and instantly the warm, slippery substance of souls wraps around my arm, grappling for escape. It feels like my hand is painted in oil, and I try to shake them off, but they hold on stubbornly, lacing tighter around my fingers and stretching up my arm with their clawing tendrils.
    “Uh, a little help here?” I call over my shoulder.
    Azael heaves himself off of the headstone and grabs my arm hard, scraping his scythe over my skin and forcing the wispy souls back into the bag. I read the carving on the stone behind him. The letters are shallow, only a whisper of a name. ELIZABETH HART, 1889-1905. GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTE… I imagine I can still see the N, even though it’s erased from age.
    “Thanks,” I manage, pulling my arm from the bag and flexing my fingers.
    He nods, cleans his scythe on his shirt, and walks back to the edge of the clearing. He sits down in front of a second tombstone that tilts backwards, as if it is trying to escape the patch