The Reaper Chronicles, page 3
I pretend to inspect the place for the first time. “I love your couch.”
“Thanks. Get comfortable.”
I sink into the plush cushions. “Come join me.”
He hands me a glass before he sits. “What exactly do you do as a consultant?”
Not this conversation. Not now. There’s only so much bullshit I can make up about a non-existent job. “This and that. Create campaigns for companies, edit, whatever is needed. Nothing so wonderful as helping people. What do you enjoy most about being a doctor?”
“Helping people obviously, but there’s something so amazing to the human body. Take my case. Miracles exist, and being a doctor, I get to see them.”
If only he knew the reality. “I’m sure you’re brilliant at saving lives.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. It’s sad, though. Doctors can’t save everyone, and dealing with grief-stricken families is hard.”
“Death has a place in life too.”
“I’d love to see it eliminated.”
“Don’t think that’s the way the world works.”
He puts a hand on my knee. “This is not the conversation I wanted for tonight. How’s the wine?”
“Good.” I face him. “Listen, I want you and can’t wait any longer for you to make the first move. You’ve been driving me crazy since the moment we met. Please take me to bed. Love on me.”
His eyes grow large, but he grins boyishly, grabs my hand, and leads me into the small bedroom with a large bed and a chest of drawers.
His hands roam my sides. “I didn’t want to come off aggressive, but all I thought about tonight was ripping that little black dress off.”
“How about you unzip it instead.” I turn my back to him so that he can ease the gold zipper down. I slip the sheath off and face him so he can get a good look at my red bra and matching thong.
“You’re perfect. You look amazing.”
“You’d look better naked. Let me help with that.” I meld us together and reach for his belt buckle.
We kiss, our lips exploring one another. He tastes like wine and wilderness. A pleasurable vibration passes through me. His tongue explores. Cool air caresses my shoulders, but I want his heat.
And heat I get. It lasts all night and into the morning.
Chapter Six
My amulet grows hot against my throat, waking me. While I usually get an official e-mail and backup text in the morning with the names and addresses of my clients, the amulet is old school. It’s for times like this when there is a middle-of-the-night emergency. I haven’t worked the night shift in decades, but someone must be having a problem, and I’m back up. I don’t even have to fathom a guess who that someone is.
I lean over and kiss Daxon on the cheek. “Got to go,” I whisper.
He pulls me close. “No.”
“Yes.” I snort and push away. “Call me in the morning.”
He mumbles a response, but I’m out of bed and dressing.
I’m not all too sure how the amulet works. It just does. You follow it, and it leads to death. I ride the subway towards the problem since Goose isn’t close, not worrying about being attacked or robbed. When on the job, people tend to ignore me and avoid me. It’s as if I put out a warning signal, “Death on the warpath.”
Go figure.
I arrive at the nondescript apartment complex and ride the elevator to the ninth floor. The door opens upon my command, and I step inside. It’s hot as hell—a battle rages. I’m right once again. If an emergency call comes in from my district, it’s probably John.
And there he is, standing at the bedroom door.
Whoever chose him to work for Death has some serious issues. He’s as incompetent as they come, or maybe he just hates this job. John is defined by hard lines and rigid angles from appearance to dress. He stands no taller than my five foot five but doesn’t appear weak in any way. There’s a cruel twist to his lips, and his hands are curling into fists. His eyes, quick and nervous, narrow in his sunbaked face.
He tans way too much.
“What’s the problem?” I ask.
“Same old, same old. He doesn’t want to go.”
“The clients don’t really get a say in this.”
“You think you’re so amazing because souls jump into the bottle for you. It’s not like that for everyone.”
“Don’t get your panties all pinched,” I say. The image of him naked in girl’s panties grosses me out. I want to giggle and heave at the same time.
“Stop saying things like that. You'd know better if you’d ever let me fuck you.”
“What, now? Ease up there. Do you want my help or not?” I’m used to his attitude. He’s a misogynistic pig, and none of that changes on the job. I’ve rebuffed his hook-up offers often enough that our relationship is anything but friendly, but I can’t refuse a call or let a soul suffer in limbo.
“Fine,” he grumbles.
I walk into the bedroom. An old man is shriveled between the sheets, a wheezing last gasp emerging from blue lips. “Time to go.” My voice is firm.
“My family didn’t come.” He doesn’t vocalize the words, but I hear them. “No one made it.”
This is the worst part of my job—the cases when family live far away or don’t care enough to return.
“They will mourn you. It will be okay.”
“They never cared enough.”
I move close. “Sometimes, people can’t show it.” This is never one person’s fault. Life’s an entanglement, but with death, all is forgotten. “It’s your time. Everything is about to change.”
“I can’t,” he says, but the words are weak this time.
I cover his withered, veiny, paper-thin hands with two of my own. “Time to go on to the next adventure.”
“I like you better than the other one.”
I laugh and pull out my soul catcher. “They all do.” With that, it’s done. I stand, turn, and find John glaring. He’s heard it all.
“They all do,” he mimics. “You really are a bitch sent from hell. A soul-stealing succubus. You have them all fooled, don’t you, but not me. I know the truth, you sneaky little slut.”
“I helped you out. You think I want to be here in the middle of the night doing your work? Why don’t you try and show a little compassion? That might get you a lot further with the dying.”
“Compassion is for the weak. Death is a god, and gods do what they want when they want.”
I roll my eyes. “That explains a lot of your problem.” I start to trek out of the apartment.
“Give me my soul.”
“I collected it. I’m keeping it.”
“I’m on duty. It’s my soul.”
“Take it.” I’ve trained in all the martial arts. I can make this idiot beg for his mama.
He pulls out a knife. “I will.”
He can’t be serious? “John, what the fuck? We’re on the same team. We work for the same people. The souls go to the same place.”
“Then hand it over.”
“Not at knifepoint. I’m going to report you.”
“Not if you’re dead.” He moves close.
I’m trained in self-defense, but he’s got some pounds on me. He slashes out in the air, and I step back, able to avoid the blade. The soul is in my hand, and I could easily hand it over, but there’s a bigger issue here. You don’t attack your coworkers. It’s a pride and principle thing. Even if I report him, I want him to understand what a dufus he’s being. Unfortunately, I don’t have a weapon on me. Working for Death usually shields us from unexpected human violence.
I grab a book from the shelf and use it as a shield. He jabs through the cover with the knife and pulls it from my hand. I run into the living room and dodge behind the coffee table. John pushes it aside and lunges. I’m able to sidestep and flee into the kitchen, where I start throwing things. There’s a coffee maker, a couple dirty dishes in the sink, and some utensils in a large pottery holder. I aim them all at his head, but only the spatula hits true. He curses, and I throw a whisk, but it’s hard to have an accurate aim when dodging the end of a knife.
The cabinet doors flail open as I pull out a cast-iron frying pan. I wield it as a shield and attempt to make my way to the front door and exit this madhouse. I’m close, fumbling with the doorknob, when the knife rips into my stomach. I drop the bottle at his feet and flee for the front door.
I’m death. Can I die? Pain explodes in my back. The blade of the knife sinks to the left side of my spine. I stagger out the entryway.
The freaking coward knifed me in the back.
The blade slices a third time, and I fall into the hallway. I stumble down the stairs, one hand over the leaking wound. My fingers turn warm and sticky. I make it to the entrance and open the door, leaving behind a trail of red. I launch myself onto the street before I stagger and fall to my knees.
I feel more than I see John standing above me. He shakes the soul in the air above me, bends down, and grabs my phone and wallet before letting out a long, slow whistle and sauntering away.
Who will collect my soul?
I pass out.
Chapter Seven
I wake in the hospital, Daxon standing over me wearing official doctor garb. He’s adorable, but I groan in pain to greet him.
“You had me so worried.” He sits down in a chair next to the bed, fingers stroking my arm where the IV is attached. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. Is there anyone you want me to call? I don’t know your family and friends.”
My mouth feels like brittle briars. “Water.” He puts a straw in the cup and brings it to my lips. I take a long drink. “What happened?”
“You were stabbed.”
It all comes back to me with another wave of pain. I suck in a breath. “Right.”
“Do you need more morphine?”
“No.” I scan the room, my bedside table, the open closet door. All empty. “Where’s my phone.”
Death must have the cure.
“You didn’t have anything on you when the ambulance brought you to the hospital. No purse, no phone.”
“That’s not good.” The words come out in a whisper.
“Do you remember anything you could tell the police?”
Now is not the time for the truth with Daxon. “I was jumped.”
“The police will be back when you’re ready. They interviewed the couple that found you on the street and called the ambulance. What’s weird is that you were far from your apartment. Do you know how you got there?”
“Tired.” I don’t want to lie anymore.
“Rest now. I’ll check on you later. We need to talk, both about your condition and what happened last night.”
With my eyes closed, I listen to him rise from the chair and leave the room. Once he’s departed, I struggle to sit up and peer at the bandage on my stomach. Something’s wrong. As Death’s employee and not quite mortal anymore, I have the power to heal. But I’m not getting better. The pain from all three wounds is intense even with the drugs administered.
Only one thing to do. I rip back the bandage.
My mouth drops. The wound is raw, oozing pus and turning black. John must have somehow found and used a magic knife. If it’s the weapon I’m thinking of, I’ll be dead in less than a day without help. Real help from Death, but I’m not even sure I can do what I need to do alone. Would fellow deathmonger Becca come to my aid if it means putting her life in jeopardy, or do I put my trust in Daxon?
I decide to find a phone. I rise from the bed and wobble like a broken toy car with three wheels. I’m able to drag my IV along with me. I use the last of my strength to cloak myself in the hallway, so the nurses don’t stop me. I sneak into the next room. An old man sleeps as the conservative news channel on the television screams death and destruction to come. For once, I might agree with them. I search the man’s belongings, but no cell phone. There is no one sharing the room with him.
I stumble as I exit and have to focus on keeping my presence hidden. A sheen of perspiration lines my forehead. There’s a younger woman in the next room, and her cell phone sits on the tray next to her uneaten food. I grab it and head back to my bed. I dial a number I’ve called many times before.
Three hours later, I push the covers back and rip out the IV.
I can’t wait any longer. You promised to come? Where are you, Becca?
Someone, I assume Daxon, left clothes by my bed. I pull on the oversized long-sleeve shirt and sweatpants. I’ll say thanks if I survive. Now all I have to do is make it out of the hospital without getting caught, Uber to my apartment, find my backup phone and explain to Death what happened. While I was able to call Becca from the stolen phone, Death does not answer. I guess the phones that come with the job are different, and I need to make it back to my apartment and retrieve mine since it seems like Becca is delayed.
I should have told her the whole story instead of just asking her to meet me at the hospital, but I didn’t want to alarm her. I call her one last time, but it goes straight to voice mail.
I’m taking that moron John out of the game for good. What the fuck was he thinking when he stabbed me?
I can always sign myself out, but I want to avoid that hassle if possible. I inch to the door, biting my lip to avoid crying out with each step. Peering into the hallway, I notice through the window it’s midday, but in the corridor, all is quiet. I hug the wall, taking one gut-wrenching step at a time.
I make it to the elevator when I hear his voice.
“What are you doing?” Daxon’s shock echoes down the hall.
“I’m leaving.” My voice is calm, even as my heart accelerates.
“That’s crazy. You’re not well. Your wounds are fresh.”
“You must have seen them. Something weird is going on. They’re septic. I know someone who can keep me from dying.”
“You’re delirious. Come back to bed.” His hand covers my arm, and he tries to make me pivot.
“No. Do you want me dead?”
“This is a hospital. We’re going to help you heal.”
“You can’t. I’ll be in a body bag by morning.”
“Don’t say that. You can’t leave. They have you on high doses of antibiotics. That’s what will cure you.”
“The drugs won’t do anything.” I’m fucking on death’s door.
“Of course, it will.” He moves close, protective.
It’s time, I think. It’s taken stab wounds to find some clarity. I love this man even though it has only been six weeks. Such a short time in my long life, but I have to tell him who I really am.
Damn the consequences. He has to understand human drugs cannot cure me. I’ll be dead without contacting the true Death. But the real reason I want to show him is more obscure, rooted in the fact that I need him to love all of me. “Come with me.”
“I’m working, and you should be in bed.”
“Get on the elevator. I need to show you something. After you see it, if you want me back in bed, I’ll go, but I think you’ll change your mind.” I step inside when the elevator arrives and pull him with me. The door closes, and I press the bottom floor.
Pulling him close, our lips meet. His are soft and supple and tastes of mint tea and honey. I drink him in. Damn, I can never get enough of these kisses and stop the elevator mid-floor to have a few extra minutes. This exchange might be our last.
When I finally pull away, I concentrate. After collecting souls for so long, I’m unsure where my human form ends and the deathmonger begins. But I need to conjure her up and show him. I use every ounce of dwindling strength to focus on her. Death arrives, my true form.
The shiny reflective elevator walls scream back at me. While not skull and crossbones terrifying, my image is something to behold. My red hair becomes a halo of flames around my face, and my hazel eyes turn into endless pools of inky darkness, a reflection of the eternal struggle. I’m a presence to behold. While I don’t feel taller, my image fills the small space, yet I’m not all hell fire and damnation. The smell of honeysuckle and new cut grass fills the elevator. I am equal parts love and hate, redemption and damnation.
He turns white and sags against the elevator wall.
I guess I can be a scary bitch when I want. I tone it down and return to human form. “I’m death.”
He stares.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“No,” he mumbles, wide-eyed.
“I let you live when you had the aneurysm.”
“I’m having another one. This is all a hallucination.”
“It’s not.”
“What are you? An angel? A demon?”
“I’m not really sure. I collect souls.”
“You’re Death?”
“Not really. There are those above or below me. I don’t know what to call them or how to describe them.” I shrug. “Their names all depend on your religion.”
“This can’t be real.”
Nerves getting the better of me, I ramble. "There are many characters in folklore associated with death. Various death-announcers and death-dealers, but they aren’t actually Death. I’m a death-dealer. A Reaper.”
“We’re both sick and need to get treatment.”
“I need to find the cure, but it’s not here. I have to get my cell phone. Do you believe me?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to show you again?”
Daxon takes a step away from me. “That’s really okay. I prefer this version of you.”
I shrug. “I’m not too scary for you, am I?”
It’s his turn to shrug. “I don’t know.”
There’s nothing more I can do to convince him now, and I have to find a cure before my Reaper days are over. “I have to get my cell phone and call my boss.”
“Cell phone?” He shakes his head to clear it. “I can loan you mine.”
“This one has a direct line to Death.”
“Then you better go get it. I’ll even play along, hallucination or not. Let me come with you.”
“No. Finish your shift. I’ll meet you at your apartment tonight.” The elevator dings and I step out.
