The Reaper Chronicles, page 10
“Don’t mock. I pulled an almost all-nighter,” I say, and Anthony and I debate our next move over bagels and coffee.
My amulet flares as Anthony’s ring lights up like a firework. The heat and light rising from my necklace are unexpected. My amulet has been unnaturally quiet since I got to Salem. I’m used to the hustle of New York, where people are constantly dying. Salem is more of a slow burn, especially with witchy interference.
“Time for work.” Coffee sloshes when my hip slams into the wood table. I dart out of the chair, grab the grimoire, and shove it into the backpack I picked up at a cute little boutique that was open early this morning.
That’s when I notice the three witches outside the window. When they see us, they scatter. Before my superhero leap from my table, I’d been sitting with Tony and enjoying a second latte. It had been a nice moment, but obviously, I wasn’t allowed those. The witches put a kink in my well-laid plans with their unforeseen, unexpected, and not quite so pleasant appearance.
They must have a soul with them for my amulet to light.
I start chasing Hen, the willowy one. Anthony takes a left turn and follows Bebe. There’s no sign of Lulu. She’s already in the wind.
The excitement of my amulet working drips away, along with the hope I’d be able to rescue the close-to-dead guy we saw yesterday in the farmhouse kitchen. Instead, I’m giving chase and not in a good mood. Witch-hunting is really not my thing.
Hen flies through the narrow streets doing an amazing job of avoiding the tourists, and I cannot help but wonder if she has an athletic trainer. Damn, the girl is fast. Death didn’t provide any extra powers to deal with witches, but I kept up with my fitness goals down under. I’d upped my running time during purgatory. Fitness and loving on Daxon took center stage since there’s not much else to do without Netflix and coffee.
Even so, I’m huffing and puffing chasing Hen. How can she be so fit?
What potions does she imbibe, and where can I get some?
Asphalt turns to cobblestone sidewalks. I run through bustling crowds of tourists. “Out of the way,” I scream and push them non so gently. I hear a lot of less-than-kind words in return.
I repeatedly mumble “sorry” as I sprint along and high step across the grass lawn of the First Baptist Church of Salem. The trees are sheltering, and a blue door beckons me inside. I make myself a promise to return and seek some spiritual guidance, but there’s no stopping now.
Hen beelines to the wharf, and I’m unable to catch her even though I run like demons are on my heels. Thoughts of the witches’ innocent victims who didn’t deserve their unfortunate fates keep me motivated.
She jumps a wall without a smudge on her daffodil-patterned skirt or an ounce of sweat seeping through her blouse. Plodding over the wall, sweat running down my face, I take a leap of faith, speed up, and close in behind her. Hen snags a flowing shirt sleeve on the end of a gate and momentarily slows. Victory is mine when I snare the back end of her luminous skirt and pull. She stumbles, and we both end up a heap of limbs on the ground.
Calling what happens next a girl fight would not be in any way disparaging or understatement. I slap and poke, and when that doesn’t work, pull hair and pinch.
Hen takes her fighting seriously. Her fingernails turn into insta-claws that rake my arm.
“Get a manicure.” The softness of her skin surprises me after such sharp nails, but I shove her away before she can scratch my eyes out. Pulling herself up, she tries to rise and run, but I grab onto her voluminous skirt again and yank it down to her ankles. She trips over the flowing material and ends up on her knees, granny panties exposed. I jump on her like a little kid who wants a piggyback ride.
I’m not heavy, but she’s waif-like. For someone so slight, she’s incredibly resilient and almost throws me off with all the kicking and flailing. Her elbow finds my boob, and I grunt in pain.
Enough.
Fingers curling, I send a right hook into her cheek. It stuns her for a moment. I pull her arms behind her and push her head against the ground. I hope without free hands or a spell book close by, there is little additional damage she can do.
Whispers wash over me, and I see bodies in my peripheral vision. So used to being alone in purgatory, I hadn’t expected a crowd. With my bleeding arm, her bruises, and our grass-stained clothes, our shenanigans demand attention and receive it.
“Nothing to look at here,” I say. “She’s the other woman, and I’m just letting her know he’s married.”
How many more lies will I need to tell to make this stop?
Tourists snap pictures; others exchange whispered words about my methods (they’re rooting for me, but not my tactics). One man offers to help, but I send him away with a gruff, none-to -polite response.
“Freyja?”
I peer into the bright sun, unable to fathom how someone knows my name. Hen squirms under me, but I rock my knees on her back a few times, and she settles. When my eyes adjust to the glare, I see a halo of dark curls.
“Becca?”
“What are you doing here? You disappeared from New York. No one could find you. I was so worried.” Her petite frame looks tall from the ground, but her narrow eyes are sharp and angry.
“It’s a long story. Can I call you later?”
Her mouth is a straight line. For a moment, I think she plans to tell me to F-off, and she has the right. I did abandon her, but Death didn’t give me time to say goodbye or offer cell service in the down under.
“Fine. You better call and explain everything.”
“I will. I promise, and I want to know what you’re doing here in Salem. Same phone number?”
“Yes.” She points a finger at my nose. “You’d better call me today.”
“Promise.”
Finally, people turn away, and I continue to sit on Hen, hand over her mouth until all the curious lurkers leave us. I pull the zip ties out of my pocket and bind her wrists behind her. That’s when the wail of sirens reaches my ears. Someone dialed 911. I pull Hen to stand and drag her to the side of a building under renovation where there are no prying eyes. Scrunched under the scaffolding, I catch my breath. I had planned to interrogate Hen and rescue their captive, but the cops arrive. I don’t think they’d appreciate my interrogation methods, and I really want to avoid the inside of a jail cell.
The door to the building opens to my touch. A small part of me recognizes that I should be cautious but want to avoid open spaces right now. I drag Hen into the cool gloom.
“You’re causing me a lot of problems,” I say. “Can’t we all just get along? By that, I mean can you not end the world?”
She mutters something unintelligible, smiles, and turns her head. Bebe and Lulu enter the room from the depths of the murk. Anthony walks docilely behind like a well-trained dog. My eyes trail him, my stomach clenches, and my jaw drops. My spit dries up, and my throat tightens, not that it matters—words allude me.
Suddenly, I’m unable to move body parts, not an inch. I attempt to snap my finger and blink my eyes. Frustration builds as my body resists even the easiest command. Anthony must be experiencing the same thing because he halts in his tracks when Lulu raises a hand.
Bebe meets my eyes, and I inhale her licorice breath. “Don’t make me kill you because I really don’t want to. You can still have a seat next to us on the throne. But I will destroy you if you push me too far.”
Lulu frees Hen of the zip ties, and the three disappear, blending into the shadows of the building in front of me like Macbeth’s witches into the ground. Silence greets my ears, and it feels like the entire world has been forced into stillness. For a beat, nothing moves. Another beat, and I hear a bird and then grunting. My fingers twitch, and my ears register the clang of falling metal like someone pulled a shelf full of pipes down onto the floor. After a little more crashing around from whatever is in the next room, I can move my entire arm. By the time my feet start shuffling, I’m not sure who's making the echo of feet sliding along the uneven ground.
Turns out it's not Anthony or me. It’s hard to see clearly in the old building, the only light from a small line of dingy windows, but there’s a slow-moving, hulking figure coming our way. The smell of week-old garbage hits first. I recognize the face of the sad man in the kitchen. He smacks sore-ridden lips together, revealing a few teeth. The witches have turned him into another zombie, and he’s here to chomp some brains. Mine are the first in line, with Anthony as a backup.
“We can’t let him get into the crowds,” Anthony’s muffled voice rises from the other end of the room.
My limbs work for the most part, and I peer around for a weapon.
Footsteps stumble closer. What had once been the tall man in a button-down blue shirt and jeans was now a distended corpse, popped buttons above its bloated stomach exposing it for all to see. The man looked bad in the kitchen, but that was nothing. The corpse’s face had shrunken in on itself, a mask adhered to the bones under it, the consistency of a raisin.
Not again.
“Anything in the book?” Anthony yells in my direction.
The undead turns, staggering toward him. It trips over work tools on the floor and stops to sniff the air as if savoring its next meal, which just happens to be my sidekick and me.
“I didn’t see any zombies-be-gone spells. Sorry.”
“Do what you did last time, and let the book pick a spell for you. I’ll be the distraction.” Anthony searches the debris in a garbage can and jerks a discarded piece of pipe into a batting pose.
My backpack has stayed attached through the entire run and girl fight. In all honesty, I had forgotten the book until Anthony reminded me. I’m not used to being a reaper-witch or witch-reaper, not even sure of the correct order. Grabbing a strap, I pull the pack from my back, unclasp the hooks, and release the grimoire.
The corpse points its chin to the sky and inhales through already decaying nostrils. With a mewl, it lumbers at Anthony. “Hurry,” he shouts.
With unblinking eyes, the undead closes the distance.
“Help me, oh wise book.” I open the cover.
The monster stumbles over a garbage can in its path. Moving close, it reaches out to grab Anthony.
He ducks, swinging low and hard. “God, it reeks. Those witches did this poor guy wrong.”
“The pages aren’t moving.” The book remains still and heavy in my hands. “Want some help bashing it?”
The zombie growls as if in answer and stretches a mottled, sore-ridden arm to grab Anthony.
“I’m a fine distraction. Keep looking.” Anthony kicks out and connects with the creature’s stomach. There’s a soft pop, and then green and yellow goo as thick as honey leaks from its belly button. “This is disgusting. Hurry up, please.”
“The smell is just as strong over here.” Stepping back doesn’t alleviate the odor, and I fan my hand in front of my nose. “Levitation, guiding, light show. None of these are helpful.”
The corpse staggers back but then surges forward again
“Come here, big boy,” Anthony takes a step away from the pile of rubble in the middle of the room. The risen dead trails him, its once tight jeans sagging to reveal a whole lot of ass crack.
“That’s something no girl ever wants to see.” I return my gaze to the unhelpful grimoire. “Come on, all-mighty book. Do your stuff. Rescue us.”
“Focus on finding a spell, please.” Anthony swings out. The pipe connects with the zombie’s head. The loud crack bounces off the empty walls. The creature’s entire body twitches, head lobbing to the left. After a second, it shrugs off the blow, mewls, and takes two steps closer to its prey.
Dead fingers grab Anthony’s shirt, pulling it from his chiseled stomach and tearing it away.
“That’s all you got for me?” Anthony steps forward, hoists the pipe, and whips it at the undead. This time the pipe slams into the side of the zombie’s face, taking out an eye. Anthony steps back, but the corpse, unconcerned with the lack of vision, closes in for the kill.
“Did I mention you should try to speed things up?” Anthony dodges the lumbering monster. “This thing doesn’t want to die.”
“Help me out here. Please.” I beg the book. The pages flutter, turn, and still on a spell called liquesco.
Anthony skids to my side, pipe slashing like a sword side to side, holding the creature at bay. “Why won’t it die?”
“Maybe you have bad aim,” I say. “Or it could be that the corpse is already dead. I found a spell. I think the book wanted me to be polite and say ‘please.’”
Anthony frowns. “I have great aim, and not only when fighting zombies.”
“Rude.”
“I’m rude? The book demanded you be nice when the creature is trying to eat us alive. Do you really want to discuss who is being rude?”
I wave him away. “Take care of the zombie. Let me concentrate. I have to start reading the spell from the beginning again.”
Anthony moves behind the writhing creature, and the monster spins to face him with soulless, staring eyes. Huffing out a breath, Tony jumps back. “It seems to like me, but I’m not in the mood to date or die at the moment.”
“Solid no more. No wood, rock, a barrier be. Liquid it should free.” The last lines are in another language. I hope my pronunciation is correct as I haltingly pronounce each word. I read the spell.” I raise my voice over the corpse’s whine. “Now what?”
“I haven’t a clue.” Anthony continues to brandish the pipe. His muscles bulge under his shirt, a determined gleam brightens his brown eyes, and his lush lips are set in a firm line. This isn’t the time, but I admit he looks like a Grecian statue. With death so close, one small part of me wonders what it might be like to see the rest of him without clothes.
The zombie swivels, and reality returns. I brandish the grimoire as a weapon. “Stay back, or I’ll use this book. I mean, I have used the book, but it’s heavy and will hurt if I swing it. Why is the spell taking so long?”
“Are you sure you said it correctly?” His words make the undead pivot back around. “Time to put you out of your misery.” Taking a step closer, the pipe at the ready, Anthony bashes its skull. The force of the pipe swing tips the living corpse’s head to the side, its cheek lodging against its shoulder.
Anthony pounds into the monster’s skull using the pipe as a baton. This time, his hand sinks into the soft remains of brain matter. Suddenly, skin, bone, and brain start to liquefy. Like wax dripping down the side of a long candle, the zombie’s head decomposes in front of my eyes and slides down its torso and to its feet. The rest of the body follows. Minutes pass, and all that is left on the ground is a puddle, albeit a putrid one, but a puddle nonetheless.
“That was a fun morning.” Stepping back from the pool of remains, I sink to my knees, bone-weary.
“Thank God for that grimoire.” Anthony drops the pipe.
The loud clang reminds me of church bells and the fact that we’re squatting in an abandoned building. “You were doing fine.” I stand.
“I was concerned for you, not for myself.”
“People might show up at any moment. I’m surprised no one’s here doing work.”
“I’m sure the witches spelled the place.”
“I need a shower.” I peer down at my grass-stained, less than fresh self. “Let’s go back to the hotel and regroup there.”
Anthony puts a hand to his forehead only to withdraw it quickly. “Normally, the thought of a woman in the shower might tempt me to comment, but after what I witnessed, I don’t want to see a naked human body for a long time. I have some errands to run after I clean up. Let’s meet for dinner.”
“Fine by me. You smell worse than I do. Let’s take the side streets and try and avoid the crowds.”
Chapter Twenty
Phoning Daxon, I fill him in on my day and then call Becca, explaining the whole crazy situation. I invite her to dinner so she can explain why Death moved her from New York City to Salem, Massachusetts.
Tony arrives a little before six. He’s clean and handsome in his tight white t-shirt and jeans. I can even forgive the gold chain around his neck because it highlights his tan. He holds a pizza box and two swords.
“What’s with the swords?”
“One’s yours. It’s for protection. We don’t seem to be doing too well in that area without a weapon.”
I take the sword from him. “Good idea, but we need a real plan.”
“That’s what the pizza is for.”
“Pizza and a plan. Sounds like a fun night. At least the hotel has great cable channels. I’m catching up on all my favorite shows.”
“You really were deprived down under.” He smirks. “Poor baby.”
“Now I remember why I don’t like you.”
The knock on the door is loud. Tony frowns, but when I let Becca in, his eyes light. Her masses of dark curls fall from a high ponytail. For someone chasing souls all day, she is surprisingly comfortable walking around in three-inch heels.
“This is Becca. I worked with her in New York. I’d love to tell you more, but I have no idea why she’s in Salem.”
Becca smiles at Tony and then turns away, flushed. “Death called me up one day and said that the Salem reapers were disappearing, and he needed help in the area. He thought because of my years of service and my stellar track record, I might be able to help him figure out what was going on.”
“Reapers disappearing?” My mouth drops open. “I’ve never heard of that happening.”
“Scary, right? I couldn’t refuse the transfer to Salem. No one refuses Death.”
“Have you found anything weird?” Anthony asks.
“My pendant has lit up a couple times and then petered out. It’s like souls disappear before I could even get on the road to collect them. Other than that, I haven’t seen anything too strange.”
“We have.” I grab a piece of pizza. “Let me fill you in, but not before you tell me more about New York after I left. How’s Paul? Do you keep in touch?”
Becca plays with a long curl that escaped her ponytail. “He’s good. We talk on the phone every so often, but you know the job. It keeps you busy.”
