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

by Rhea Watson

  In that moment, as Hazel climbed off me and settled at my side, her head on my chest, she was mine.

  But she wasn’t only mine.

  And while that didn’t frighten me, not an inkling of jealousy in my heart, I feared that the others may not give in to fate as easily as I had. That they would fight it, drag their feet—and in the process, hurt her.

  Lose her.

  That was a thought for another time though, when my mind was more functional and less interested in the way her soft breasts pressed to my sides, over my scars, how her supple figure molded so perfectly to mine…

  How anyone could think with a naked Hazel at their side was beyond me, so why bother trying?

  When she glanced at me, her smile faltering, I sat up and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. Her worries seemed to wash away with the rain, and she nuzzled back into my chest with a sigh, an arm wrapped almost possessively around my scarred torso.

  And there on the beach, basking in a moment that would eventually expire, we held each other as the lightning struck and the thunder cracked, as the storm moved inland and softened, as evening became night…

  Two hearts, beating as one.

  14

  Hazel

  Last night shouldn’t have happened.

  I shouldered my scythe with a sigh, striding across the busiest intersection of downtown Lunadell along the celestial plane, walking through people and the odd leashed dog like a ghost. Try as I might, I hadn’t been able to stop my mind from drifting back to it—to the hammering rain, the booming thunder, Declan’s teeth down my neck, his tongue between my thighs, his hand in my hair. Every fleeting image, flashing through my mind’s eye like a flicker of lightning, set my body on fire at the memory alone. Seeing him this morning had been torture—seeing but not able to touch, forcing myself to be a proper reaper, a woman in control of the situation and not driven by lust.

  But it wasn’t just lust, was it?

  Emotion had played a part in last night. Even in life, I hadn’t been one to take a man to bed unless I truly felt something, and with Declan—with all of them, actually—I felt a little too much these days.

  Still. Regardless of my body’s needs, my heart’s desires—it shouldn’t have happened.

  The end of the human workday made the streets and sidewalks of Lunadell’s financial district a nightmare—had I found myself in the human realm, of course. Here, separate from them yet squarely in the thick of things, I could march through each and every one of them. The odd human might notice, a shiver spider-walking down their spine, but they wouldn’t understand. And that was for the best. No sense in muddying an already complicated world with proof of the supernatural. Sure, it existed, but by and large, the general population hadn’t a clue, carrying on through life like humanity was the planet’s apex predator.

  Chrome skyscrapers soared toward a hazy grey sky all around me, paired with trendy eateries, banks, investment firms—the works. Lunadell, like many major cities, had a substantial homeless population. At least once per block, a human lay on a dingy sleeping bag over a grate or the mouth of the subway entrance, the masses sweeping around them like they didn’t exist. In a few hours, this section of the city would be a ghost town save for the bars, but even they closed early as the overworked humans fled the core for some respite in the suburbs.

  I noticed a man with large hazel eyes in passing—like Declan’s, though they lacked his intensity. And last night, oh, he had been all intensity. So unlike him. So raw and wild, like he just had to have me.

  A man had never had to have me before—that kind of passion was intoxicating.

  And wrong.

  I shook my head as I breezed down another block, barreling through the crowds like they were nothing. It shouldn’t have happened. Declan was in my charge—they all were. I was responsible for the pack’s well-being. I fed them, clothed them, taught them…

  Letting him fuck me into the sand… Wasn’t that somehow taking advantage of him?

  So, why didn’t I feel guilty?

  I knew, deep down, that it was wrong, that it most certainly couldn’t happen again, no matter how desperately my body now craved his touch, and yet guilt was nowhere to be found.

  And that made me feel shitty—that I didn’t feel guilty when I should.

  Shitty and distracted when today was all about focus. I needed to be present, alert. This wouldn’t be a simple reaping, and if I kept drifting back to fantasies about Declan pounding into me, we might fuck it up.

  And I refused to let Gunnar’s first field test be a failure because of me. If he was going to fail—unlikely, given his annoyingly intense intelligence—he could fail all by himself.

  So, I stuffed the memories of last night deep, deep down inside me, wrapping them up in my internal conflict, my emotions, my racing thoughts, and forced myself into the present. As I shifted my scythe to my other shoulder, my black reaper’s robes billowing behind me, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

  The sensation came so suddenly, so sharply, that it ripped a gasp from me. I scratched at the nape of my neck, frowning. Even amidst all the human chaos here, I hadn’t felt a single ripple in the celestial plane today—but now, out of nowhere, it was like someone was watching me.

  Intently.

  The unseen gaze burned into my body, and I stopped suddenly, whirled around, searching for a source.

  But there was nothing.

  Nothing and no one on the celestial plane within sight. No figures on the rooftops, no faces pressed up against tinted windows, no blazing demonic eyes peering through the sewer grates.

  Just me.

  And, well, Gunnar.

  The hellhound had trotted along behind me since we’d left the estate; unlike Declan, he had been waiting for me in the manor’s foyer already shifted, alert and ready, his whole body brimming with a stiff yet jittery energy that had been slightly off-putting when I first experienced it. Since then, he had kept his distance, that lean, muscular body of his seeming to glide, like he floated through the celestial plane, never so close that I felt his breath on my ankles, but never so far back that I panicked.

  He slowed now that I’d stopped, nose going a mile a minute, taking in the hustle and bustle of downtown Lunadell, all of it slightly muted on the celestial plane. His fawny-tan coloring around his snout and up his paws glowed in the late-afternoon light, warmer than the day around us, comforting, in a way, given I’d memorized his every marking. This morning, worry made me paranoid that I would lose him, that he would bolt the second we arrived in the financial district, but here he was, focused, his body faintly aquiver. I had never seen him excited before; perhaps this was it, ears up, body sleek, nose working just as fast as his mind.

  Would he act the same way for our first casual outing this Saturday night? I had something special in mind for him, given his love of music, but his past betrayal threatened to taint it already. After all, not only had he followed me into Lunadell, snuck past my ward, teleported on his own—but he had watched me in my most private, shameful moment, then brought it all back to Knox and Declan, sharing every detail.

  I knew I had to let it go… I should have noticed him following me.

  I shouldn’t go watch school children and cry, but, you know, it happened—and would probably happen again.

  So, for now, I did my best to keep my mind on the moment—again—so that Gunnar could make the most of his first attempt in the field. I’d been one hundred percent there for Declan; it was only fair to give Gunnar that same courtesy.

  The pack’s first individual reapings had been selected from a pool of offerings. I’d asked for someone gentle and soft, easy, for Declan. Gunnar’s first soul, on the other hand, was the polar opposite—and I had asked specifically for that too.

  Just as I turned away from the hellhound, true chaos erupted. Sirens came screaming into the city core from all directions, police vehicles and ambulances charging through the blocked roads, hopping curbs, horns
blaring, and pedestrians scattering. Gunnar padded to my side, his red gaze utterly transfixed as the authorities converged on one location up the street—in an alley, in fact. Seconds later, gunfire erupted like fireworks, rising over the downtown hubbub. Humans shrieked as the shooting echoed through the streets, all of them fleeing, running through Gunnar and me, the block slowly clearing.

  “This man is what they call a serial killer,” I told him, grip tightening around my scythe’s yew staff, the thrill of the impending reap looping in my belly. “He’s killed a lot of people, and he does it because he likes it.”

  A quick glance to the side showed I had Gunnar’s full attention, his bright red eyes pinned squarely on me, his body stiff. His head came up to my chin, a wall of trembling muscle at my disposal. In that moment, the partnership between reaper and hellhound had never felt so necessary.

  “He’s Hell-bound for sure,” I mused, to which Gunnar snorted and nodded, both of us looking back to the gathering of police vehicles ahead. Red and blue lights washed over the surrounding buildings, and a few brave humans had started to gather at the scene, their phones out and recording. I rolled my eyes. “This man… He outsmarted human authorities for a long time. He’s been killing for almost a decade—total narcissist. Psychotic. Thinks he’s always the most brilliant man in the room. His soul won’t be any different.”

  Gunnar gave a deep bark in response, tapping his front paws like he was winding up for a sprint. I pressed my lips together, fighting back a smile; for all his talk, for the ridiculous way he pressed his shirts, dressing the best out of the pack, using a fork and knife before the others—Gunnar was the yappiest of the three by a mile.

  It was almost endearing.

  “If he gets away, he’ll become a very cruel spirit,” I remarked. Souls had slipped my grasp before in the last ten years, but I had only worked small towns back then, and I could count my lost spirits on both hands. None of them had been as foul as this one, and if he got loose, he would take great pleasure in tormenting the living, just as he had done in life, for the rest of eternity.

  Not on my watch.

  And, apparently, not on Gunnar’s. The hellhound paced forward a few steps, growling low, then looked back to me and barked in a Come on, let’s go! tone that almost made me grin again.

  Then he stilled, head whipping forward, snout pointing in the direction of the newly departed soul. Of course he could sense it. I had been creating soul-scent signatures for over a month now, putting the pack through the ropes so that when they faced a real soul, they would know it in an instant.

  Even if I couldn’t see a soul, I always sensed them. A bright, vibrant, humming energy released into the celestial plane, they were how I imagined stars might feel. Orchid-scented stars. Even now in Lunadell, other souls entered the plane, hundreds dying each day from this or that, but Alexander would see to them with his pack, managing the metropolis until me and my boys were ready to shoulder some of the burden.

  For now, it was Gunnar’s responsibility to focus on only this soul.

  “Let’s get him,” I said. Those three words sent Gunnar into a gallop, and I jogged to keep up with him, sliding through the clustered police vehicles, both of us blitzing through humans in uniform. Already they had erected a barricade at the mouth of the alley, beyond the cars, and a crowd gathered in bolder numbers now, eager to get a look at who had died. Behind me, wheels screeched over the pavement; Kenneth Miller would be on the news this evening. No one needed to ogle his corpse now.

  As we cut through the swath of officers, they parted for someone else: a sobbing woman with a black eye and ripped stockings, led away by two paramedics and men in suits, their copper badges hanging off their necks. Gunnar sniffed at them in passing, but none of the dozens of distractions deterred him. Good. A hellhound needed to act quickly. Not every death took place in a sterile hospital room; scenes of blood and guts and gore could easily distract the best of them.

  Halfway down the alley between two buildings, the gap wide enough for delivery trucks to pass through on a regular day, Kenneth Miller had been gunned down. Knowing what I did about him, his life’s story playing on a loop quietly in the recesses of my reaper mind, I suspected he had forced the officers’ hands—he had chosen this, death by firing squad. Someone got him in the head, blood weeping from a wound in the center of his forehead. His glasses had fallen off, cracked at his side. A jagged hunting knife was in the process of being bagged by a rubber-gloved officer.

  And the soul of a serial killer stood over his body, staring down at it with a cold detachment I so rarely saw in recently departed humans.

  Gunnar paused on the tips of his toes some ten feet from the body, as if to take Kenneth in. Souls were a touch more translucent than their human forms, but otherwise they looked the same. In time, if they remained on Earth, they would rot and become the things of nightmares.

  Kenneth Miller was an average fellow—but his type usually was. Tall, strong but not threatening, sandy-blond hair, and a full broom mustache. Still clothed in the outfit he’d died in, you wouldn’t look twice at him on the street. Jeans. A grey tee. A black hoodie—a bit young for his forty-six years, but certainly not unusual. Worn sneakers.

  A butcher in sheep’s clothing.

  I stopped at Gunnar’s side, scythe prominent, my attire leaving no room for doubt: the grim reaper had come calling. Slowly, the soul lifted his gaze to us, first to me, then the scythe, before creeping over to Gunnar.

  “Kenneth Miller,” I started, my tone calm but assertive—stronger, perhaps, than my stature would suggest. It wouldn’t be the first time a soul, particularly a male soul, didn’t take me seriously because of my appearance. I held out my pale hand, palm up, and arched an eyebrow at him. “It’s time to move on.”

  Head cocked, the man’s soul studied us both intently for a moment, his mouth in a tight line, his forehead crinkled—and then he was off. A runner. Of course.

  My heart skipped a beat, the chase always a little adrenaline-inducing, but Kenneth sodding Miller managed to actually surprise me. Rather than bolting down the alley away from us, he darted left, then crab-walked up the side of the building, screaming bloody murder the whole way, and somehow managed to twist his head fully upside-down like a demented owl.

  So soon after death and well on his way to poltergeist territory, eh? Definitely damned.

  I gritted my teeth as Kenneth went up and over the rooftop, disappearing, and then exhaled sharply, already annoyed with the stunt.

  “Up,” I ordered, striding over to touch Gunnar so that he could teleport with me—only he acted before I had the chance. The hellhound vanished before my eyes, so swift and fluid like he had done it a hundred times before, and for a brief second, my heart plummeted into my gut and out the other side.

  Because what if this was it? What if this was his chance to flee, in the middle of chaos and turmoil, a soul on the loose?

  Barking erupted from the roof—more like snarling, really, a gruff, harsh sound that resonated through the celestial plane. I leaned heavily on my scythe for a beat, relief making my knees weak, before teleporting up to the rooftop myself.

  Gunnar had figured out teleportation before the rest of them. While I had no clue what other magic hellhounds had at their disposal, all the power denied to them and suppressed by their demon masters, I knew for a fact that Gunnar would discover—and conquer—it first.

  I materialized on the roof’s edge, taking a moment to assess the situation as it unfolded. Ahead, Kenneth Miller had broken off in a full-tilt sprint, blitzing across the flat, dusty surface, skirting air-conditioning units, and leaping from this building to the next.

  And right on his heels, Gunnar, his body sleek and elegant, lean muscles rippling, charging after the wayward soul like a missile.

  Impressive.

  Beautiful, actually.

  Gunnar needed a challenge. He needed mental stimulation just as much as the physical, and I had rightly guessed that selecting a s
oul who thought he was better than all of us would tickle his fancy.

  Nothing like another giant ego to really spur a perfectionist genius into action.

  Yet despite this being his first field test, Gunnar and I were still a team; he needed to experience how we would work together after we—hopefully—passed the trials at the end of October. So, anticipating Kenneth’s continued blitz across the various midrise buildings, I teleported once more.

  And arrived just ahead of him, catching him off guard four buildings over, my heels on the precarious side of the building, scythe aimed at his throat. The soul’s mad eyes widened, and he reared back, my scythe’s blade just missing his shoulder as he pivoted and beelined for the nearby service door into the tower. Gunnar turned on a dime and barreled through the grungy, locked metal door after his quarry.

  Shouldering my scythe, I jogged after them, then paused in the dimly lit stairwell, cataloguing the scuffling of feet, the sudden collision of knees on stairs, the grunt of Kenneth Miller when he undoubtedly ate it—and Gunnar’s ferocious snarls bouncing off the walls.

  A small smile played across my lips.

  Good.

  Excellent—just as I thought he’d be. I’d requested these souls for my boys because I wanted them to succeed.

  They needed to know they were good at something, that they were worthy, that they had value.

  That they could do something I couldn’t.

  And that I needed them.

  After all, had I been by myself, I could have caught Kenneth’s psychotic soul, but in a city the size of Lunadell, without a pack corralling souls while I was off escorting someone else to Purgatory, we could have had another brutal poltergeist on our hands.

  I found the pair five floors down on one of the dark stairwell landings, Kenneth on the ground and backed into a corner by a rather imposing Gunnar.

  While the whole pack seemed to take a nod from their alpha’s subdued attitude, Gunnar was without a doubt the most composed in a snarky, lazy sort of way. Although he had gone through the training motions over the last month, he struck me as a hellhound who did what he wanted, when he wanted, at the pace he wanted—unless Knox ordered otherwise. Seeing him now, in all his glory, cowing a rogue soul with every tool at his disposal…