When the Grim Reaper develops feelings for the children’s librarian whose soul he is supposed to collect, he finds that with feelings comes something far worse than death—life.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and and excerpt from A Date with Death by Kelly Creagh, which releases on July 14th 2026.
Helena Hart isn’t having the best night. Her date just ditched her, her Halloween costume bombed, and her only sympathetic ear is a dead silent partygoer in a Grim Reaper get-up. But when she falls off a balcony and he catches her with a very real skeletal hand, she realizes he may not be a party guest at all. Before she can process the near-death experience, he vanishes, leaving her to wonder if she hallucinated the whole thing.
Grim isn’t supposed to save souls. He’s supposed to reap them. And while he’s not sure why he spared Helena, he does know that if his superiors find out, he’s as good as dust—which is saying something for a guy who’s mostly bones. But keeping away from Helena is proving harder than expected—especially when she isn’t the least bit afraid of his monstrous form.
Worse, to his horror, Helena makes him feel. And for a reaper, feeling is a fate far more dangerous than death.
Given that we’d reached mid-October—and, more importantly, Halloween season—I shouldn’t have been surprised to find a man dressed up as the Grim Reaper on the balcony of Anatole Manor. Still, the historic Gothic home turned event venue made him look so perfectly picturesque, I couldn’t resist investigating.
I rapped a knuckle against the sliding glass door, but the impossibly tall, hooded man didn’t look up. Instead, he stood in profile at the banister of the stone balcony, lonesome and cutting an ominous image, the handle of his huge scythe propped against his shoulder. Its curved blade gleamed as silver as the slivered moon that floated high above.
Opening the door with my free hand, my other cradling a plastic wine cup, still half full of cheap Chardonnay, I stepped into the night.
I closed the door behind me, muffling the thumping techno remix of “Monster Mash.” The music bled from the crowded ballroom that I’d given the slip—right along with my otherwise-occupied date, who hadn’t noticed my exit anyway.
As the sound subdued to a fainter heartbeat rhythm, I breathed a sigh of relief.
Was that why Tall, Dark, and Gruesome was out here? Maybe his ears—and nerves—needed a break from the ultra-kitschy spooky-themed tunes, too.
“Wow,” I said, turning to my fellow party absconder. “That costume is a ten out of ten on the epic scale.”
The figure didn’t move. And though he remained still enough to be one of those overpriced-lawn-ornament-type deals, the dramatic brooding act wasn’t fooling me. This guy had clearly spent weeks planning this. And no one poured that much time into a costume unless they were dying to show it off.
Not only that, but the man had implemented the special effect of gray fog tendrils curling off the tatty hems of his robes. I wasn’t sure how he’d accomplished that, but my educated guess was that he’d sewn dry ice packs into the fabric.
A glowing hourglass hung from his belt, multicolored orbs floating within—another off-the-scale special effect.
“Truly,” I said as I approached, the floor-length skirts of my sparkly lemon-yellow taffeta ball gown rustling with my movements, “that look is movie-level authentic. Did you rent those robes? Or maybe you made them. Either way, please tell me you’re entering the costume contest. I think there’s a cash prize. Runner-up gets a spa gift card. I guess you don’t have flesh, but you could still get your phalanges done.” I wiggled my rainbow-painted nails at him. “You’d certainly get my vote.”
He didn’t answer. I didn’t care.
He didn’t own the balcony, and I needed to get away, too.
As the quiet wore on, a pleasantly chilly breeze stirred my wheat-blond hair, which I wore long under my crown. My dress didn’t have sleeves, but it had been warm in the manor, and thanks to the wine, I probably had a good ten minutes before I started to shiver.
“Nice and quiet out here,” I observed. “Are you waiting for someone?”
Could be he was loitering (sulking?) outdoors because his date had left him alone as well. Mine, an actuary I’d been chatting up on a dating app for weeks, had bailed on me the moment he’d caught the attention of a brunette dressed as a sexy librarian—a costume I wasn’t sure if I should be offended by since I actually happened to be a librarian.
I stopped next to the enormous looming, dooming Reaper Man, and straightening my spiky crown—spray-painted with love and dunked in gold glitter—I grinned up at him. “It’s obvious who you are. But can you guess what I am?”
He didn’t say anything. He still refused to move, too. But he wasn’t running away from me, so why not continue the one-sided conversation? So far, this interaction was still going better than any of my exchanges with Dale, who had already blocked me on the dating app.
I knew because, while I’d been sitting alone at our table, I’d had plenty of time to check my phone.
Maybe I shouldn’t have quoted Hamlet when he said he didn’t believe in ghosts.
Or maybe I should have worn something saucier.
“I’m sunshine!” I spread my arms. Then I snapped my multicolored spandex belt with my free hand. “And rainbows.”
Next, I lifted the hem of my dress, accented with cotton to simulate clouds, and flashed the rainbow, rhinestone-covered pumps that were officially killing me. “I made and repurposed everything myself. Thanks to my job, I’m pretty crafty. Not to mention thrifty. It was Abigail, one of my regular patrons—I’m a children’s librarian—who suggested this concept. She’s five.” I raised a finger. “And a half. Except, everyone keeps asking me if I’m Belle from Beauty and the Beast.” I shrugged. “But that’s cool, too, so . . . I just say yes.”
I took a big swig of the wine, which, to be fair, I’d already had enough of.
When I went back in, I’d call an Uber and scarf down some cheese puffs and bruschetta to counteract the effects of the adult grape juice. Then I’d go home and do my usual bedtime routine of washing my face, brushing my teeth, and reading about other people falling in love until I fell asleep.
“What do you do?” I asked him, but he kept the stoic shtick going.
Either he was annoyed, or he just wanted to stay in character. Possibly both were true.
*******
“Listen,” I said next, “I’m going to get out of your hair, er, I mean your skull now and head back in. I really do like your costume, and I hope you have a nice night.”
Why did it never fail? Always in these situations—situations with guys—I did something to make a fool of myself. I said too much. I did too much. I was too much.
I drained my wine and, tears already pricking at my eyes, I moved to push off from the banister, mortified. Before I could get my footing, the stone railing supporting my spine cracked and jolted backward, crumbling. I dropped my plastic cup, which bounced away with quiet taps.
Eyes wide, I toppled with a shriek, following after the chunks that broke free, blond curls rushing ahead of me, screening my view of the hooded man who, instinctively, I reached for.
He moved fast—too fast, somehow unfurling into smoke and vapor before rematerializing in front of me to seize the wrist of one outstretched arm with a freezing and literally skeletal hand.
“Omigod!” I gasped as he yanked me to him, the fallen chunks of balcony cracking loud as gunshots on the flagstones below.
My feet under me again, I teetered on my two-dollar Goodwill heels, my free hand going to his chest.
Instead of plastering themselves against a solid pectoral, my fingers dipped into the black fabric, curling around . . . ribs?
I snapped my hand back as if burned, and swiveling me away from the broken balcony, he released me.
Skittering in reverse with a cry of shock, I lost my balance a second time, my heels snagging in the hem of my dress, and I went spilling onto the stone floor.
I landed on my hip, catching myself with my hands, palms seared by the stone, my crown knocking askew, one knee screaming from the jolt.
But then, I wasn’t lying broken and bleeding on the flagstones below, was I?
“H-how?” I managed as I swung my head back toward my rescuer.
Except he was gone. Vanished from the balcony altogether.
Excerpted from A DATE WITH DEATH by Kelly Creagh. Copyright © 2026 by Kelly Creagh. Reprinted by permission of Gallery Books, an Imprint of Simon & Schuster, LLC.
