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

by Rhea Watson

  The soul’s song grew louder, fiercer, with every floor I climbed. Not the second level. Not the third either. I bypassed the fourth, then paused on the fifth, ears up, alert, every cell in my body on fire. No. It wasn’t here. I’d gone too far. Snorting, I padded down the steep steps between levels, then sprinted through the next metal door to the fourth floor. A sign over a nearby desk told me all I needed to know: Intensive Care Unit.

  I’d heard that combination of words recently—from the television, in fact, from that doctor program where they seemed to fuck more than they healed.

  A commotion erupted from a room to the far right: beeping, shrieking, shouting. Above it all, the soul.

  I might have been the smallest hellhound of any of my packs, but I was still quite large. Intimidating, most likely, to a recently departed soul. So while I moved with purpose, I also practiced patience. I slowed my approach, padding toward the door with a group of humans crowded in front of it. A woman screamed and wailed into her mate’s chest. He looked on into the room, tears streaking down his cheeks. Humans who smelled like those two, whose presence hummed on a similar frequency, clustered around them—family, perhaps. I threaded through the group and paused in the open doorway.

  Pink curtains over the windows. Drawings on the walls—poorly made, most likely the work of a human child. An enormous stuffed bear on an overturned chair. Flowers in glass containers. Humans in—what were they?—scrubs, hurried but calm. One beating the chest of the small, frail girl in the bed, tubes coming out of her arms. The machine beside the bed had been featured on the television shows; its somber, low-pitch note, no longer beeping in a steady, constant rhythm, always told the viewers that the patient had died, the doctors had failed.

  But still they tried.

  Admirable, these humans.

  And in the end, not my concern.

  For there was her soul, this frail girl with a mane of black curls and sunken cheeks. She sat huddled in a corner in such a tight ball, like she was trying to make herself as small as possible. My heart softened immediately, for I knew that posture well.

  She was frightened.

  Wide eyes gobbled up the scene unfolding, the humans on the mortal plane fighting to save her, not realizing she was already gone. Slowly, that terrified gaze slipped to me and widened farther. She shrunk deeper into the corner with a wail, her little body shimmering—pale with death, but somehow still vibrant, her skin the same light brown as her mortal body, her nails stained with purple polish. She wasn’t wearing the hospital dress anymore, but a beautiful yellow ball gown. She was a lovely thing, and I had but a second to react before I lost her.

  Before I, a creature who had never scared anyone, sent her fleeing across the plane.

  We locked eyes for a moment, our connection tenuous and strained, before I licked my lips and dropped low, backside in the air, tail wagging. My toes spread as I slumped forward, back bowed, the universal posture to invite another hellhound to play. Only Gunnar and Knox had ever taken me up on the offer; all the others used the invitation as an excuse to attack.

  Perhaps the hounds of this realm behaved the same, because the little lost soul blinked back at me, her hands that were once so tightly clutched around her bent knees slowly lowering to the floor. My excited yip had a smile inching across her lips, hesitant, innocent, blossoming when I wagged my tail harder and whined.

  She needed the distraction. I bounced forward a few paces, mouth open, tongue lolling out, then trotted to her side, all the while keeping as low to the ground as I could, not wanting to tower over her unnecessarily.

  Although the little creature remained fixed to the floor, tucked snugly in the corner, at least she didn’t run when I dropped to my belly and scooted to her side. She withdrew her hands, hiding them in the flourish of her yellow gown. Faintly, her old body’s scent permeated the air: decay and vomit and brine. Her soul smelled sweet, like the bluish-purple weeds that dotted the overgrown gardens back at the house. Energy hummed off her, the air thick with it, with a new soul, but I focused on her—the human child in the yellow dress—and not the physical beckoning of her life force.

  Snuffling at her dress, I nuzzled my snout against her leg, her whole being the size of my head and neck. But I made myself small, sidling closer with a low, insistent whine. When I stilled, the girl shifted in place, and suddenly there was a teeny, tiny hand in my fur. She gingerly brushed over the top of my head, and when her knees lowered ever so slightly from her chest, I seized the opportunity to shove what could fit of my head—just my snout, really—into her lap.

  Her lips bore a half-smile now, her eyes glossy with tears, her cheeks slick with confusion, with fear. My tail thumped noisily against the wall beside us with every back-and-forth beat, and she exhaled a giggle when her hands found my ears.

  Aren’t they soft, little one? Soft and safe.

  As she rubbed them, explored the tufts of black fur, I closed my eyes. I trusted her to touch me. She could trust me not to hurt her.

  And in that moment, a bond was made.

  The tiny creature beneath me stiffened, and I scented Hazel before I saw her. So near, so suddenly. Fear pounded through me; I had left her side—without permission—and acted impulsively on my own. I had approached a soul, my first soul outside of Hell, without her.

  She must have been furious.

  How would it feel, her rage? Would she use her hands or the blunt end of her scythe to remind me of my place?

  A shuddering whimper from the girl’s soul had me slowly, fearfully looking back to the door. There stood Hazel, robed in black, billowing material, cheeks a dull pink. Beautiful. To a soul destined for Hell, I imagined she was rather terrifying too—a grim reaper in the flesh.

  But she wore a smile now. Slight, subtle, calm. I had tasted anger all my life; it was something every single one of my senses experienced, even at a distance. See the rage in their eyes. Feel the fury rolling off them. Hear the gnashing of teeth. Taste the blood in my mouth as I bit down on my cheeks to stifle my cries.

  There was no anger here.

  Only serenity.

  And with an exhale, I let go, settling my snout back on the girl’s lap and keeping her pinned as Hazel swept across the room. She entered my periphery like a shadow, then floated to her knees like the gentlest falling rain.

  “Hello, Cleo.” Scythe on the floor and just out of reach, Hazel arranged all that black fabric around her, then looked directly into those wide, terrified eyes. “My name is Hazel.” She gestured to me with a slight nod of her chin. “And this is my friend Declan. We’re here for you.”

  The floodgates opened, and little Cleo slumped into the corner, fighting against the weight of me to curl into a ball. Hazel gave her a moment to weep, then gently stroked the golden ruffles along the hem of her gown.

  “Is this Belle’s dress?” she asked, a question that meant nothing to me but something to Cleo, whose sobs softened slightly. Hazel smoothed the skirt out with a laugh like silk, like the flutter of the little winged birds who inhabited our forest. “Is she your favorite princess?” When Cleo nodded mutely, Hazel sat back, her pale hands threaded together on her lap. “Mine too.”

  “W-what’s happening?” Cleo had a sweet voice, just like her scent. Quiet but confident, the odd hiccup and sniffle terribly out of place.

  “Your heart stopped beating, sweetheart.” Hazel picked up her scythe and planted it on the floor beside her. “It’s time to go on.”

  Cleo’s dark brows furrowed as she considered my reaper’s words. Then, with a sniff, she brushed both hands over her cheeks and cleared her throat. “Did I… die?”

  I studied her features intently; how wise beyond her years she appeared in just a matter of seconds. How many souls fought it—their new reality? How long did Hazel spend convincing them that they were, in fact, dead? Minutes? Hours? Days? And in that time, how many other new souls slipped into oblivion?

  “Yes,” Hazel remarked. “You died.”

  I
admired her tone—neither pitying nor patronizing, she spoke with a gentle frankness that seemed to appease a weeping Cleo.

  “We’re here to take you to the other side,” Hazel told her, “so that you don’t get lost along the way. It’s not scary… I promise.”

  Given the child’s age and demeanor, the manner of her death as a withered body in a hospital bed, I had serious doubts she was bound for Hell. Instead, paradise awaited her. The thought that I—a hellhound of no importance, a runt despised by even my own mother—could help her find her way to an eternity of bliss warmed every inch of me.

  “What about my mommy and daddy?” Cleo’s breath hitched as her watery eyes drifted to the doorway. The human healers had stopped pounding her chest now, yet her parents remained outside, the mother’s wails gut-wrenching. “They can’t come, can they?”

  “No, but you’ll see them again,” Hazel said.

  “But they can’t see me now, right?”

  “No, not anymore.”

  “Can I say goodbye?”

  Hazel nodded, white brows twitching up as she murmured, “Of course, sweetheart.”

  Gripping her scythe, Hazel rose to her feet, and I followed shortly after. Cleo sat stock-still for a moment, and then her little hand found my side. Fingers worked into my fur, and I barely felt the tug as she used me to haul herself up. Standing beside me, dwarfed by my height and the sheer volume of her princess gown, the child’s soul didn’t let go. She held tight to me, even as she started walking, and I followed at a dreadfully slow pace, one step for every four of hers.

  We stopped in the doorway, Hazel bringing up the rear, and Cleo clung to me with one hand while the other reached out for the man holding her sobbing mother.

  “Daddy?” Her hand slipped right through him, another curse of the celestial plane. Doors and humans, apparently, would never bar us again. Lips trembling, Cleo tried again, abandoning me for her parents. She stumbled through their bodies, then burst out into tears on the other side. I hurried after her, licking her tears and whining.

  “Your parents love you very much, Cleo,” Hazel insisted, seeming to float through the crowd of humans to join us. She crouched in front of the weeping soul, taking a moment to smooth a stray black curl away from Cleo’s tearstained face. “They will miss you for the rest of their lives, but one day, they will stop crying. They’ll remember the good, the sound of your laugh, the way you looked in your flower girl dress and shouted fuck at your aunt’s wedding, in front of the whole church. They will think only of the good times, not the bad. And they will heal. It will take time, but they will. I promise you that too.”

  Behind us, the humans drifted into Cleo’s hospital room, and it was written all over her face—she longed to follow them.

  “I don’t want to go,” the child whispered, staring forlornly at her parents’ retreating forms. Her chin quivered for a moment before she dissolved into a mess of tears again, but before I could lick them away, Hazel planted her scythe firmly to the floor, then swept the soul into a hug. From the way she cradled Cleo’s head, her eyes closed, her brow furrowed, she cared. This wasn’t just about collecting a new soul and taking it to Purgatory for Hazel; any simpleton could see that.

  And it made me feel for her more than I already did.

  Which, if Knox and Gunnar found out, would be a problem.

  For now, I basked in it—the heady affection in my heart, the closeness we shared to soothe a broken girl.

  “You’re so brave, Cleo,” Hazel murmured into her hair, totally focused on the soul, her gaze never once straying to me. “Braver than so many grown-ups out there. And you know who is waiting for you on the other side?” She eased away and wiped the soul’s damp cheeks with her thumbs. “Grandpa’s waiting, and he’ll make sure you find your way too.”

  Cleo managed a sniffle and a nod and nothing more.

  “Would you like me to carry you, sweetheart?” Hazel asked, lightly gripping her scythe. Anticipation prickled through me; I’d never seen Purgatory before, only heard the stories. Normally every new setting scared the absolute shit out of me, but from what others had said, Purgatory was just… nothingness.

  Hard to be terrified of nothingness.

  Cleo shook her head at Hazel’s offer but still said nothing, not even as the reaper stood and adjusted her robes—robes that seemed to billow on their own accord, the air dead around us.

  “Do you want to walk, then?”

  Still nothing.

  A knowing smile touched Hazel’s lips, and she tipped her head toward me. “Would you like to ride on Declan’s back?”

  Cleo shot me a shy glance, and I perked up, tail wagging at the thought. Of course, little one. Of course I’ll carry you.

  Fidgeting with her enormous skirt, Cleo finally managed a slight, blink-and-you-miss-it bob of her head. Hazel scooped her up and set her just below my shoulder blades, and tiny fingers scrambled deep into my fur. She rode me with both legs to one side, neither foot dangling lower than the curve of my rib cage, light as a feather and seated like a true lady.

  Hazel’s touch carried more weight. Clutching her scythe, she dropped to her knees before us, gaze locked on Cleo, then pressed a hand to my side.

  “Close your eyes, sweetheart,” she told her. “We’ll be there soon.”

  Teleportation came easier this time. No longer a bundle of nerves, I was so concerned about Cleo’s experience with it all that when we vanished from the hospital’s intensive care wing and reappeared in what I could only assume was Purgatory, I barely noticed.

  Until the cold hand of nothingness crept over me. I blinked, wincing when Cleo ripped at my fur, her breath quickening. Grey fog shrouded the realm in perpetual shadow. Beneath my paws, a pebbled path stretched out ahead and way behind, probably to the horizon and beyond. Lampposts dotted the walkway, tall and metallic with a great white orb at their peak. The air smelled of gravel and smoke, silent as the grave until Hazel took her first step.

  Her robes fluttered around her as she strolled forward, slicing through the fog, her scythe catching the lamplight and looking like the star from which it was born. Rock and dirt crunched with each of the reaper’s steps, and I followed, paws quiet over the cruel earth, my pads absorbing the bite of the pebbles. Cleo wrapped her arms around my neck as best she could, hugging tight, and then buried her face in my fur. I stood straighter, walked faster, eager to get her out of here.

  A short while later, great golden gates silhouetted through the mist, slowly coming into focus. They stretched up for what seemed like miles, their spired tops lost in the grey sheen. I snorted the damp earth smell out of my nose, which had Cleo looking up briefly. While the gate was intimidating for what it represented, the figure looming before it was enough to send any soul fleeing.

  Or so I thought—until the fog cleared, a temporary respite inside a perfect sphere in front of the gates. As soon as we crossed into the circle, I stopped, stunned, to find myself face-to-face with an angel.

  He was lovely. Tall. Olive-skinned and green-eyed, white wings that could withstand an attack from any weapon save the might of Heaven. Dressed in a white robe that mirrored Hazel’s black attire, he clasped his hands together as his supple lips stretched into a warm smile.

  “Hello, Cleo Avante. Welcome.”

  “Cleo, this is Peter.” Hazel helped the soul from my back, and instead of shrinking away again, Cleo seemed instantly infatuated with the angel, her eyes wide with wonder now, her cheeks dry, her tread confident as Hazel led her to him. My reaper crouched down beside her, likely for the last time, and pushed her curls over her shoulder. “He’s going to take you inside.”

  A part of me didn’t want to let her go, but I did nothing as Hazel slipped Cleo’s hand into Peter’s. The angel radiated warmth, kindness, something reserved for the souls headed upward, surely. Damned souls deserved a colder reception.

  The golden gate opened on its own, swiftly and soundlessly, and Cleo paused at its threshold to glance over her should
er at us. Scythe held loosely at her side, Hazel waved. I offered a low whine and a tail wag, which made the child giggle. Peter unfurled his feathery wings to their full width, sweeping Cleo under them, and the pair disappeared into the white mist on the other side of the gate. Even if I couldn’t see her anymore, I watched, squinting, trying my damnedest to peer into the ether—to make sure she was safe. But before I could ask, Hazel stroked a hand down my back, the world went black, and we reappeared in the moonlit forest where all this had started.

  “Oh my god, Declan!” Hazel leapt away as I muddled through the teleportation aftershock, clarity coming for me hard and fast when I spotted her throw her hands up, scythe and all, and spin in place with a whooping cry. Somewhere nearby, birds chattered indignantly back, the morning young, the forest at rest—and interrupted, now, by a cheering reaper.

  Giddiness frolicked about in my belly, and I hastily shifted from beast to man, naked and sweaty, content to watch her spin and dance forever.

  Until she found her way into my arms quite unexpectedly. I caught her with a grunt, her body flush with mine, her arms around my neck, her scythe’s staff pressed straight down my spine. Startled, mind abuzz with the sensory overload of her, I stumbled back a few paces before drawing Hazel closer, welcoming her soft curves home, my nose in the nape of her neck.

  “You were amazing,” she squealed, her head thrown back, her voice echoing through the trees. While I couldn’t see, I imagined moonlight glinting in her eyes, every part of her a thousand times more exquisite than that angel. Gone was her mask of calm neutrality, replaced with a girlish glee that made me want to spin too, twirl her around so that she giggled and held tighter. Her reaper façade was so painfully obvious now; here, her voice pitched higher, lovelier, and as I clutched her, felt her hair whisper across my bare arms, I swore that she was trembling.

  “I’m so proud of you,” she whispered, praise that seared straight to my marrow, words I would remember for as long as I lived. “You were incredible. I knew you would be. I chose her for you, and you… you were perfect.”