The Reaper Chronicles, page 1
THE REAPER CHRONICLES
MAKING OF A WTICH
Lisa Acerbo
Copyright © By Quill and Lantern Publishing 2022 and Lisa Acerbo 2022
Cover Art: Got You Covered
Additional Graphics: Pixabay.com
All Rights Reserved
By Quill and Lantern Publishing
First Edition
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental or used in a fictional manner.
To Dominique and Jess, amazing women who continue to encourage and support me. I don't know where I would be without them.
Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.
Emily Dickinson
Chapter One
A gold filigree amulet on its long chain hangs around my neck. The amber stone sparks and burns bright red, signaling it’s time to begin work. I’m dressed and ready, grab my black leather jacket, and head out the door.
I need a vacation day soon. I haven’t had one since I started this job, but who covers for death? Death personified, that is. Once human, now I collect souls. Maybe I’m more of a deathmonger or the harbinger of death. I might go so far as to say banshee, but I don’t wail—not the sentimental type. Lacking an official title, I call myself Reaper.
What’s on the schedule today? Damn, nineteen souls. Scanning my smartphone, I do the math. That’s less than an hour a soul if I want time to eat and sleep. I’ll be hustling, but my need for a latte is great indeed. Whether or not all the soon-to-be-dead (SOD) are compliant, a coffee run is a priority. After being a SOD, they become a recent-obvious-dead (ROD).
One can only hope things go well. It’s not like my jobs predictable. At the corner, my black hybrid rests. Well, it appears to be a black energy-efficient car to the humans walking down the street, but it’s an undead horse demon, a nuckelavee with fiery eyes, bad breath, and personality to match. I call him Goose, and he’s my ride.
A man rushes by and pushes me into Goose. The nuckelavee snorts and the man’s pants are singed with smoke. “Easy, boy. Don’t obliterate anyone today.” People racing to their jobs or strolling down the already busy sidewalk to find food watch me slide into the car, but in actuality, I climb onto Goose’s back. No saddle needed.
My ankle taps his flanks. “Come on, Big Boy. Get moving.”
If the start of my day isn’t challenging enough, Goose decides he’s not in the mood to move. He’s lazy as shit, but I can’t say this is unexpected for a demon. I love him most days, except when he pulls this crap. Goose snorts and chews a leftover fast-food wrapper in the gutter.
“I don’t have time for this. We’ve got nineteen pickups. I’m coffee-deprived and not getting any younger.”
To the oblivious humans, it appears I start the engine, but it stalls. Really, I kick and kick, smacking the reins against his exposed muscle and skeletal flanks until Goose canters off.
“Good boy,” I croon.
Goose is a smooth ride and fast, managing to get around cars stalled in traffic or stuck at red lights. While he looks skeletal, he sure doesn’t feel it. My nuckelavee rides like a Friesian. I gaze around at the streets filled with business suits, stores, and life and realize it’s all in the way you perceive the world. Freyja on the move. Get ready, SOD. I am death.
If someone saw me on the street and stopped to chat, they’d learn I’m a twenty-eight-year-old college graduate who works as an independent contractor for a marketing firm in New York City. My acquaintances have no idea I collect dying souls to send them to heaven, nirvana, hell. Most people have heard of those, but it could easily be moksha, purgatory, hades, Valhalla, paradise, Summerland.
To be honest, I’m not sure where the souls go. I collect them, but what happens after my deposits is a mystery, and so is my boss. I’ve never met Death, but I’d like to ask how I came to be someday. I only know part of the story.
If the last Reaper had let me die, things might have been different, but he drafted me instead, gifting Goose before explaining his plans to retire in Hawaii. Thanks to him, here I am, bouncing souls out of bodies in New York City. No Hawaii in my near future, even though I’m not the only deathmonger in town. New York City has lots going on and needs a rather large clean-up crew.
Goose gallops to our first stop—a posh residence near Central Park. I park the demon and say hi to the doorman, who seems unconcerned by the entrance of a girl with flaming red hair dressed in a leather jacket, black jeggings, and black t-shirt.
The elevator rumbles on the way up and then dings when it stops at the fifth floor. I step out into an elegant, recently painted hallway imbued with bright abstract art. Some entrances even have welcome mats. A yippy dog makes its presence known behind a door, and I consider how dying humans see me when in work-mode. Am I a scary figure in black robes holding a scythe or an angelic form bringing peace to a person’s final moments? Or do I appear human and all too average, except for long, red hair, abundant freckles, and ample rack?
What can I say: the gods giveth and the gods taketh away. I might never know the truth about my appearance on the job site because whenever I pass a mirror before a reaping, it’s my frowning face returning the scowl. It’s not a common occurrence: standing and staring into mirrors. I have little time to study myself while coercing souls into a bottle.
Oh well, hells bells. I chuckle at my own lame joke—a little business jargon.
Cold to the touch, the doorknob opens at will. It always does. Everything inside is bright and shiny with white walls and a pristine white carpet that my shoes sink down into. The kitchen is to the right, and three closed doors stand at attention like soldiers. The pull guides me to the correct one. Inside the bedroom, an elderly woman lies in bed, bedspread to her chin, daughter and son by her side.
No one notices me except the dying woman.
“Is it time?” she asks.
I stand at the bottom of the bed. “You betcha.” I clear my throat, realizing that sounds a little callous, a lack of coffee at blame. “Yes, it’s time.”
The words boom from my lips. I almost jump back, concerned at the amplification. After all these years, I still need to learn to control the doomsday, harbinger of death vibe a little better.
“What’s your name?”
“Eliza.” The woman heaves her last breath, and her soul departs.
I collect it in what appears to be a plastic soda bottle. You’d think it would be something a little prettier, maybe blown glass, but plastic is durable. Don’t want to have an accident, break a bottle, and watch a soul float away.
Eliza’s soul shines with iridescence and sparkles in the early morning light. There’s something so beautiful about most of them. Some are murky, less than shiny, and a few fill the bottles with black goo and phlegm, making me want to toss them as soon as inhumanly possible. Those types of truly damaged souls give me the heebie-jeebies and, often, nightmares to follow.
This soul’s good. I place it in my backpack, and I’m out the door before the family sheds their first tears. My day proceeds at a horse race pace. Two more collections before I find time to stop at a local café for a triple shot large latte. Feeling better afterward, I check my phone for the next stop. I can’t keep a customer waiting too long.
Chapter Two
The narrow, lower eastside building of brick is well kept. The flaking paint front door yields to my touch. Once inside the apartment, I notice tasteful decorations, but another feeling washes over me—chocolate chip cookies with ice cream. There’s a crazy, yummy aura of peace and love floating around me, even with death present.
Intriguing.
Most dying people are filled with fear, false hope, pain, and anger. Sure, peace and love have their place, but this is something else—a love fest for death. I want to bask in it. You don’t know how few people appreciate me. It’s hard work taking lives day after day.
Shaking myself back into work-mode, I enter the living room looking for a body. It’s an aneurysm, so the poor man’s likely not going to be resting peacefully in bed. I hate looking into bathrooms. Six out of ten times, the dying person is in the bathroom.
Not in the living room.
For a moment, I ignore the pull. It’s hard to describe, but my work is simplified by the power of life and death. When a person dies and mortality leaves them, they fill with another force. Whether a universal energy slips away or individual vitality fades, I feel in my bones. The pull is strong and often like a tug-of-war because something replaces the life force. For a few individuals, death is a creeping, bleak darkness, others experience a neutral void, and the lucky ones find a restful respite. Whatever enters after the life force ebbs, is my compass and my magnet, guiding me to each new victim.
The couch looks damn comfy and a good place to continue my observations. I sit on it
“Who are you?” the man asks.
“Freyja.” Then I realize my mistake. “Death.”
Lord, he has me flustered.
Even prone on the ground, he’s tall and in his mid-thirties, with olive skin, stunning large, warm brown eyes, and a shaggy beard. His boxer-clad physique is impressive, but there’s something more: goodness, zeal for life, and empathy. It radiates off him in glorious waves I want to soak up for eternity.
I step back in the hopes I’ll be able to think straight. “I’m death. I’m here to collect your soul.”
“I have much more to do. So many people to help.” His voice is weak.
I’ve heard those words often, but for once, I believe it.
“I have to take your soul. You’ll be going on to a new place. Maybe there’s people who need help there too. I am really sorry.” For the first time since starting the job, I mean it.
Kneeling, I do something I’m normally loath to do. I touch his arm, forming a connection so I can bear witness to his life. Too often, I hate to relive the loves and losses of an individual, but curiosity drives me. What my mind’s eye views is surprising. In most every other case, when I’ve been forced to do this, skeletons lurk in the closet—a rough childhood, a hidden fascination with the occult, an obsession with porn. But he’s as close to pure as possible. I’m stunned and a little infatuated.
The metal flask is cold when I pull it from my pocket. I tilt the bottle between my fingers and shake the contents, listening to the swish. I’ve never done this before. My hand tingles while I hold the magic tincture existing for one-time use. The rule book states that if I ever come across a person who needs to remain alive and has more work to do on earth, I should use it.
And here he is.
He’s a physician at a local clinic. If I save his life, he’ll go on to help numerous others. While I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to use the cure because I have a crush on some soon-to-be-dead guy, I can’t resist saving this SOD.
Now or never. It feels right. I’m going with my gut.
“Drink this.” I tip the lid, and blue liquid leaks forth. I pour it into his mouth. “I’m calling 911 for you.” I scan for a landline, but none exists. I check his pockets, find a cell phone, and push the three numbers. Sitting cross-legged next to him, I take his hand in mine, happy to note its warmth.
“May I kiss you?” he asks.
My mouth gapes open, but no words come forth.
“I want to kiss away death.”
Believe it or not, this is not the first time I’ve heard the request, which rules out that I look like a black-robed scary version of Death when collecting souls. Both men and women have asked for one last kiss, and it’s not always sexual. Many people lacked love in their life and want to feel it before going to the great beyond.
Up to this point, I’ve never acquiesced. Today is the exception. I lean down and push my mouth against his, thinking the kiss will be over quickly, but his lips are soft and inviting. I part mine, and we spend minutes exploring each other. The kisses swirl together like snow in the wind, soft and decadent. There’s a tingle from my nether regions.
Hey, now. That hasn’t happened in a long while.
I want the smooching to go on forever, but that might be impossible. Still, I’d take at least one more make-out session. Maybe three. Hearing sirens on the street, I scurry out of the apartment as if doing the walk of shame.
Throughout the day, one question reverberates. What have I done?
Around every corner, I wait for repercussions, but none arrive. Between my fear of having messed up the balance of the universe and the fact that Aneurysm Guy will not leave my mind, my day is fucked. Even when I return to my regularly scheduled program, drink my coffee, and collect the rest of my souls, depositing them into the Hudson River (River Styx) at the end of the day, something’s different.
It's dark when I park Goose and call it a night. Loopy and discombobulated, I ask myself over and over if I collected all the souls and if I went to the right places. My day’s a blur, and I wonder if it’s nerves from using the serum or something else. Maybe this is how it ends, with my mind and body breaking down. Tomorrow I could be walking the streets, homeless and muttering gibberish.
I sure the hell hope not.
I’ve never disobeyed the code or pulled something like this before. I rationalize that the bottle is there for the exact reason I used it. I’ve read the handbook multiple times. It’s simple. Never tell anyone who I am or what I do, deposit souls daily, and respect the client. Other rules and bylaws exist, such as when to use the tincture. I’m a rule follower. Still, as the hours pass, I wait for hellfire and brimstone to hail down.
I did the right thing for the situation, didn’t I?
When my world doesn’t end, I order a chicken salad for dinner and watch Netflix, heading to bed late, but sleep evades. Sexy dreams that include a certain Boxer-Shorts Aneurysm Guy keep me tossing and turning.
Why didn’t I ask his name?
Chapter Three
Groggy and somewhat irritated with myself the next morning, I check my schedule. There’s a staff meeting at nine in the morning at the diner and then a full day of clients. I make the unwise choice to squeeze in a visit to Boxer-Shorts Aneurysm Guy at the hospital when I realize I’m claiming three souls from there anyway.
Why the heck not!
I head to the Neptune Diner. It’s decorated outside with fishing nets, rafts, and life preservers. Inside, it’s statues of Greek gods and goddesses. I greet the two others there, Becca and Paul, while we wait on two more.
Petite Becca, her tiny frame lost in the overstuffed cushions of the booth, appears larger than life with wild, brown curls that form a halo around her elfin face. Her bright, brown eyes usually take in every detail of a situation, but they are puffy and red this morning.
“You doing okay?” I ask.
“Tough morning. Two clients already. One did not want to go.” Her voice is loud in the hushed murmurs of conversations. She’s one of the deathmongers I love dearly. We’ve been enjoying this gig together for a while now.
Paul is her opposite. An overstuffed teddy bear with meat hooks for hands. If you see him on the street, he’ll make you want to flee the scene unless he smiles. That grin melts girls’ hearts faster than sun on snow.
I make small talk with both and read over the menu. We all wait for the last two latecomers. I fret over pancakes or an egg and cheese sandwich, not that I’m watching my weight. I’ve stopped aging since taking on this lovely occupation. I order the sandwich when the waitress arrives and coffee, lots of coffee.
John and Randy show up together, ten minutes late. Typical.
They remind me of guys who’d roofie girls in a bar because otherwise, they can’t get any. John is tall, skinny, and sports slicked back, dark hair that tends to appear as greasy as his skin. Every time I see him, I wonder what products he uses or fails to use. Randy is most definitely the sidekick. He’s shorter, squatter, and dumber. He’ll follow John off a bridge if asked. I have no idea how the selection process for reapers works, but someone seriously screwed up when appointing those two.
They jostle each other and slide into the rounded booth.
“Now that we’re here, let’s get this show on the road,” John announces.
Randy giggles like it’s the best joke ever told. The hum of conversations swarming around us fill my head like the buzz of bees. I can’t help it; I want to punch one of them, to teach them respect for others. Instead, I slouch in my seat and give them my best death glare.
Before anyone can call the staff meeting to order, John clears his throat and makes a proclamation. “I want to start with a formal grievance against Freyja. She’s been stealing too many of my souls.”
