Reaper's Pack (All the Queen's Men Book 1)

by Rhea Watson

  Gunnar and I looked at each other at the same time, and his nostrils twitched like he was breathing me in—not unusual for a creature with an exceptional sense of smell, but I still fidgeted self-consciously, wondering what I, a dead thing reanimated, smelled like to him. His royal blues roved my face briefly, up to my hair, down to my hands, before he faced the piano again with a shake of his head.

  “No,” he remarked as he rolled his shoulders back. My heart plummeted at that one word, only to flutter softly back to life when he copied the chords I’d just played, making a few little errors along the way. Gunnar rested his fingers over the keys when he finished, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. “No, I prefer to teach myself.”

  I battled back a smile. Finally—a rejection that wasn’t about me. I could work with that. “Do you like music, then?”

  “It’s soothing,” the hellhound murmured as he trailed a finger over the keys, not pressing hard enough for any to sing off-key. “Something you can do alone, enjoy alone, but you aren’t really alone.”

  A lovely sentiment, that. Gunnar had always struck me as the hellhound with the sharpest mind, one that raced and worked, always spinning beneath the surface. Here, as I studied his defined profile, those cheekbones begging for my caress, I wondered if music made the waters still—just for a little while. Even if the notes were out of tune, music offered respite to a mind that was always on.

  And that was beautiful.

  He possessed even more depth than I’d thought.

  “I think I have something you might like,” I said after listening to him replay the same few bars I had, this time nearly perfect. “One second.”

  My gifted magic allowed me to teleport anywhere I imagined. It was how reapers whipped across cities to collect new souls, with Death’s somber voice slithering around their skull. He gave a name, a location, a cause. We always knew what we were walking into, and as I gripped my scythe and teleported upstairs to my bedroom, I was suddenly acutely aware of how silent it had been in my head for the last few weeks. Technically I was off duty to train my hellhounds, but I missed Death’s sullen, seductive rumble—because his whisper gave me purpose, set my heart on fire, made me feel alive in the afterlife.

  Anyway. It didn’t matter. I’d hear him again soon like we had never been apart, and I could already envision my pack staring at me like I was insane, listening to the voices in my head.

  Voice. Singular. Perfect in every way.

  But that was an issue for another day. Today, I grabbed my record player, which sat tucked away in its leather case, unused since I had moved into this house. I’d stolen the 1930s phonograph in New York and had lugged it around with me for ten years. Case tucked under my arm, I also nabbed my box of old records, records I had collected—stolen, popping out of the celestial realm in shops and human homes just long enough to take what I wanted and vanish—over the years.

  Hands full, I barely managed to get ahold of my scythe, but when I did, I disappeared from my empty bedroom and materialized in the first-floor sunroom in the time it took to blink. Gunnar jumped this time, my sudden return probably more than a little jarring, and I shot him a grin as I set my scythe against the piano, then dumped the rest on its closed lid.

  “I loved listening to the phonograph when I was alive,” I told him, popping open the case and lifting the needle. “We didn’t have the technology of today. Music wasn’t a given, you know? And I know you can listen to it on the laptop or the tablet, even the TV, but I just think there’s nothing like a record.” With the player set up, I thumbed through the box of vinyl, then plucked one of my favorites from the bunch. “The sound is just… better.”

  Gunnar stood while I slid the disc out of its worn cover, his hands clasped behind his back as he strolled around to the other side of the piano, as if to keep his distance. He watched me almost warily, like he didn’t trust the machine—or, more likely, me—but then I dropped the needle and out purred a young Bob Crosby and the Rhythm Boys, and I had him. The hellhound’s jaw went slack as a jazzy big band tune filled the room, so rich and pure, so extravagant, its sound unlike anything the music industry had to offer today.

  Wanting to let him explore, to sate his curiosity without a reaper over his shoulder, I grabbed my scythe and drifted back. As soon as I left the piano, Gunnar darted around it, his head cocked as he watched the record spin.

  “I need to get started on lunch,” I told him, not wanting to delay this afternoon’s retrieval training because of this—bonding over music. Gunnar ignored me, utterly transfixed on the record player, and I nodded. Right. Back to silence. But at least this wasn’t a purposeful silence. He hadn’t called me inconsequential. I headed for the door, already working through the recipe for today’s midday meal, when suddenly—

  “Hazel.”

  He said my name.

  I stilled. Death always set my heart on fire, sure, but that flame paled in comparison to the inferno that erupted when Gunnar said my name.

  “You’re right,” he said, his hushed voice barely rising over the music. When I glanced over my shoulder, I found his hands pressed together and steepled fingers to his lips. Gunnar’s head bobbed ever so slightly to the music, that dark blue gaze still completely trained on the record player as he added, “It really does sound better.”

  Grinning, I left without a word, inconsequential the furthest thing from my mind at last.

  9

  Declan

  “Are you ready?”

  “Absolutely.” I’d never been so ready for anything in my whole life. Every inch of me hummed with a quivering energy that made me antsy, maybe even a little distracted. After all, it was an honor to be the first of my pack chosen for some solo training outside of the ward. Standing next to Hazel at the far reaches of the property, magic shimmering before us, moonlight slanting through the trees all around us, every damn emotion struck me—all of them fleeting, one not overpowering the other. Fear. Excitement. Anxiety. Dread. Elation.

  One month ago, we had arrived in crates. The last time anyone had ever put their hands on me in anger, with malice in their eyes and cruelty in their hearts, had been thirty long days ago, and under Hazel’s care, I felt like a completely different hellhound. I moved with a new confidence, never cowering, never whimpering, never hiding behind Knox as I’d done from the moment I first joined this pack. Our routine gave all of us structure, a sense of purpose. The others still refused to bow to our reaper’s commands, but they went through the motions during the day with Gunnar sniffing around the ward at night, searching for an out.

  Yet shortly I would be out. Hazel, dressed in a flowing black robe, her hair free and dancing beneath an unseen hand as we stood on the celestial plane, had chosen me. Before Knox. Before Gunnar. I would be the first to reap, a thought that both deeply thrilled and greatly worried me.

  Because what if I came back tonight and the others despised me. They had congratulated me halfheartedly when she’d shared the news over this morning’s breakfast, but what if jealousy had sunk its ugly claws in deeper and deeper as the day went on?

  What if they kicked me out afterward, attacked me just like every other hellhound?

  Beyond all that, what if I failed her?

  What if I couldn’t reap?

  What if I lost a soul?

  Her cool hand found my forearm, startling me from all those intrusive, pesky thoughts. She squeezed, smiling warmly up, and the thoughts evaporated, leaving a strange but welcome calm in their absence.

  “One soul tonight,” she told me, her skim luminescent under the moon’s glow, her eyes more gold than brown. “We’ll collect her, take her to Purgatory, and see that she walks through the gates. That’s it.”

  “Simple,” I said with a forced chuckle, my attempt to sound totally chill—as the humans say—a complete failure. Hazel gave my arm another squeeze, and when she released me, her touch lingered, my skin prickling where her fingers had once been, where her palm had pressed.


  “You’re ready for this, Declan,” Hazel insisted, brows twitching up when our eyes met. “Trust me… You’re going to be great.”

  No one had ever anticipated greatness from me before. They predicted miserable failure no matter what I tried, and as Hazel sliced a thin opening into the ward with her scythe, I struggled to accept her optimism.

  “Come through,” she beckoned, stepping into the opening, crossing the ward as it billowed like curtains around her—curtains made of the strongest magic, a shimmering forcefield. Given the difference in our heights, I had to duck to pass through the tear she made in the protective boundary. The forest on the other side was much the same as it was in our territory: cedar trees and uneven earth and rocks and dirt and reaching roots. Hands in my pockets, I watched her reseal the ward; her scythe could destroy, but it could also mend.

  The others feared it.

  I respected it.

  “Okay, so, take your clothes off and shift for me,” Hazel instructed, her tone—sweeter and gentler than usual—a welcome tonic for my nerves. Clearing my throat, I dragged my soft grey tee over my head and handed it off to her, trying not to focus on the fact that when she folded my clothes, her scent intermingled with mine, the combination heady, distracting. Trousers came next, leaving me naked in the early-morning shadows.

  Hazel glanced down briefly, her gaze trailing across my body, then looked very far up, lush lips pressed together as she held out a hand expectantly for the rest of my clothing. Her cheeks colored like they always did at our nudity, and the same pleasurable thrill vibrated through me, my cock swelling somewhat with interest. The sensation would undoubtedly ripple through the pack bond, my feelings broadcasted to Knox and Gunnar no matter the distance.

  Although I could have ogled her blushes for hours, I shifted as quickly as I could—for her sake, not necessarily mine. Down on four paws, I inhaled the forest, filling my lungs with cedar pine and cool, damp earth. Hazel set my clothes in a neat pile next to the ward, then crouched, not needing to bend all that much given my hellhound form stood nearly as tall as her.

  “Come here, Declan,” she urged, scythe in one hand, the other outstretched toward me. I padded over without hesitation, my slowly wagging tail a dead giveaway for how she made me feel, whipping even harder when we touched.

  Her scent dominated all others around me, made stronger when she ruffled her hand through my fur. Given this was the first time she had been physical with my hellhound form, it was a wonder I stayed standing. But I managed, stiff and enamored, allowing her to stroke my snout, trace my ears, scratch down my back. When she finished her slow, deliberate exploration, she stooped before me, our eyes locked, and smiled.

  “Now, let’s collect this wayward soul, shall we?” She licked her lips, her smile blooming at my low whine of agreement. “Yeah… She deserves peace.”

  The reaper drifted closer, her hand finding a place on my back again—and then the world went black.

  Despite the constant pressure between my shoulder blades, her hand never once abandoning its post, panic sliced through me. While the darkness came and went in a matter of seconds, it felt like an eternity, a trudge through the deepest pits of Hell—pits I’d been dragged down a few times in my life, collared and leashed, sneering demon trainers at my heels and unimpressed former packmates always a breath away from snapping at me.

  As quickly as the black took hold, it vanished. The world came back into startling focus, a little too bright, a little too sharp on the celestial plane. A looming grey building replaced familiar cedar trees, a dozen new scents assaulting me at once. We stood on uncomfortably hard ground now—cement, concrete, something. A fountain occupied the center of the courtyard, a handful of humans loitering around it, cast in both shadow and light, cloaked in night, illuminated by the trio of white lights atop metal poles.

  Trembling, I looked up, and huge green letters blazed back.

  St. Bartholomew’s Children’s Hospital

  Right. Hazel had said… She had told me…

  I couldn’t remember. Couldn’t think. Sirens wailed in the distance. Human chatter and night creatures and rubber squealing over roadways and the hum of a dozen nearby lights, all varying in intensity, paired with cigarette smoke and body odor and unnatural smells—

  “It’s overwhelming,” Hazel murmured, and once more she calmed me. Her hand massaged the thick base of my neck, and her voice washed over me with the firm constancy of a rushing river. I nosed at the unwelcoming ground, hard like the front steps of our home, and then looked back at her—for support, for guidance, for reassurance that unlike every fucking scenario I’d faced in the past, there wasn’t an enemy just waiting to jump out of the shadows and tear into me.

  She shuffled closer, scratching behind my ears. “Take a minute and calm down. The human world is… a lot. Lunadell is big, and big cities are busy. Sensory overload. I get it. We’ll go when you’re ready.”

  The only figure in my life who had ever successfully calmed my frayed nerves with a firm touch and a few softly murmured words was Knox.

  And now Hazel.

  Focusing on the lines of her porcelain face, somehow both soft and sharp, a dichotomy of clashing beauty, settled my thundering heart. Examining the streaks of gold in her eyes, twinkling in a sea of warm brown, stilled my racing mind. Her hand on my back, her touch gentle and constant, grounded me in the moment. Slowly, our surroundings became clearer, and the storm of noise dimmed.

  Finally, I could see Lunadell for what it was—chaos, sure, even in the dead of night, but organized in its own way. Towers soared all around the hospital, the lights muted, the stars hidden. The figures smoking by the fountain appeared half-dead, staring blankly, the lone coupled pair muttering to each other in strained whispers.

  “Are you ready?”

  Her voice was the sweetest music, yet it possessed an edge here. Reaping was her life now—her duty. From all I’d seen and heard, she took said duty very seriously; yet another trait I admired in her. I glanced her way, then managed a gentle woof to let her know I was, in fact, ready for this. Her smile sent a rush of heat from my heart to my belly, threatening to drift lower the longer she touched me.

  “Good.” My reaper stood and pointed her scythe toward the main doors. “Let’s go collect our soul, then. She’s just passed on.”

  The differences between the celestial plane and the mortal realm were few and far between, subtle in their own ways. Besides the fact that we could walk amongst humans totally invisible while on the celestial plane, one key variant was the doors. All doors were open to us here. Walls and other structures held their integrity. We were still forced to climb stairs, but whether a door was open or closed, bolted shut with every imaginable lock, it didn’t matter.

  Hazel and I passed through the revolving main door of the children’s hospital without the panels so much as shuttering. Inside stretched a long corridor, freshly brewed coffee in the air from a nearby vendor, the overhead lights whiter than reaper’s flesh. We bypassed a desk for inquiries, the woman behind it in all pink reading a worn paperback. Shops stood empty to the left, one filled with books and plush toys, another with snacks and clothes. Not a human in sight, though I could sense them throughout the five stories of the massive, albeit drab, building.

  On the celestial plane, humans had a strange vibration. Almost that of a soul, but much duller.

  Hazel stopped just before we reached a blue metal door, upon which was plastered a sign with black stairs and a strange humanoid figure walking up them. Her thin brows furrowed, body tensing, and I stiffened when her delicate fingers coiled tighter around her scythe’s staff. Another soft, inquiring woof had her shaking her head, and she strode back down the hall, her little heels clicking with every hasty step.

  “I just… I felt something,” she said distractedly, scanning the corridor with a frown. “Like a ripple in the plane. I… I’ve never felt it before. Did you…?” The reaper glanced back at me, her confidence noticeably shaken. “
Did you feel something?”

  I felt everything here, but probably nothing unusual for my first time out of our secluded territory. So, I shook my head, and she turned away with a curt exhale, then marched back down the corridor like she was searching for something. I padded after her—then stopped, dead still, heart in my throat, when I heard it.

  The wretched wail of a newly departed soul.

  Every muscle froze as the sound skittered across my body. It settled between my ears, in my heart, calling me home with a stronger pull than Hazel’s training orbs ever had. A newly exposed soul vibrated with the intensity of the sun, crashing over me, dragging me into its orbit so that I couldn’t ignore it even if I tried. It shuddered and shook, the air alive and crackling all around us, an explosion of sweetness ripening in the air. Orchids, Hazel had said. New souls smelled like orchids.

  My reaper still seemed distracted with whatever had caught her attention; a new soul must have been old news for her by now anyway.

  But to me…

  It was brilliant and potent, crying out to me despite the fact I couldn’t see it anywhere nearby.

  She had done an exceptional job training us, our reaper. Over these last weeks, Hazel had produced orbs for us to hunt and track and corral. In the here and now, instinct took over. I knew what I was supposed to do: hunt, track, and corral.

  But Hazel was distracted with something concerning enough that it still bothered her. I should probably follow, stay at her heels, assist in any way possible.

  Only I couldn’t tear myself away from the soul’s cry. Both soundless and deafening, it swelled and swelled and swelled, threatening to burst inside me if I didn’t do something.

  So I did.

  I charged through the blue metal door and took the stairs four at a time, my paws seldom on the tiled ground for long. A part of me hated to leave her, but she had stressed the importance of catching and keeping all departed souls. We couldn’t lose them—not one. Not if we could help it. And while she was otherwise occupied, I could help it, and so I would.