Rogue Reaper

by Riley Archer

  He stared right at me and wiggled his fingers in farewell. He knew I was following, that weasel. The doors were sliding closed, and I made a run for it.

  Time and space weren’t on my side, but I pushed harder than I ever have. Almost closed. I took it up a notch, and I reached out as if the elevator would obey my silent command.

  There was just enough of an opening to see his hideously lovely mouth stop smiling when the doors malfunctioned.

  Ha. I’d never considered myself lucky, but maybe I’d stepped in a pile of pixie dust in the magical black market.

  A little voice in the back of my head whispered that catching up to a killer was the opposite of luck, but I didn’t have time to deal with her nonsense. This guy had answers, and I’d decide for my louder self if they were attached to any questions that mattered.

  I slinked like a cat through the gap, and he was too busy cursing the fates to decapitate me. Once I was in, the doors dragged closed. No music in this one.

  Damian groaned and thumped his head against the ’70s-inspired wall.

  “Where we goin’?” I eyed the sprawling control center.

  RC elevators, used to move on-duty Collectors, had no buttons; they were rooted in their department and were only used for direct travel between assignments, like a yo-yo on a very long, very controlled leash. Then there were the elevators used by important people like Atlas, which had a fancy keypad for numeric values and passcodes. I really had no idea how these old ones worked. I had been so jaded when Ash mentioned using them that I didn’t bother to think about the specifics.

  I was thinking about them now.

  “Antarctica,” Damian answered flatly.

  Oh, he was funny. But the sliver of possibility that he could be telling the truth sliced right through me. I could be tagging along to his murder lair or to a dungeon for reapers. Someone who dressed like him was probably into some freaky stuff.

  “Eskimo by day, executioner by night?” I quipped to keep myself steady, and he just closed his eyes and shook his head like my presence caused him physical pain.

  Maybe I ran into everything headfirst, as Otto had suggested, but my reaper instincts were bar none. Apart from my overactive mouth, Hailey had been my first hiccup as an RC employee. My instincts told me to follow this guy, so that was what I was going to do.

  “I’m not inviting you in,” Damian said after the elevator transformed into an industrial lift that opened into a dingy loft.

  Huh. So, not a dungeon. The intimate space was monotone and bleak. It was a home that didn’t get a lot of love.

  “Good thing I’m not a vampire and I can walk anywhere I please,” I shot back. Which was what I did.

  I followed him in as he pulled off his coat and tossed it onto a limp brown sofa. He had that lean-muscle thing going on, and he had a single tattoo on his inner elbow. It was some abstract symbol I didn’t get the chance to scrutinize.

  He mussed his hair like he’d had a long day. I supposed murdering took its toll on a person—half-dead or otherwise.

  He looked back, sad to see me still standing there. “What do you want?”

  Good question. What did I hope to accomplish now that I was here? “I want to know who you killed earlier and why. I’m also dying to know why you want to burn Reaper Collective to the ground.”

  “I can help with the dying part.”

  “Ha.” I ran my hand along the counter that led to a tiny kitchen space. “Death jokes aren’t the way to a dead girl’s heart.”

  “You’d be easier to deal with if you were a zombie. But I can get to your heart easily enough.”

  “Don’t tell me zombies—” I started, and then his medieval scythe clinked beside him and shut me right up. For a nanosecond at least. I pointed at the menacing stick. “How do you do that?”

  His smirk was deliciously wicked. “Wouldn’t an RC puppet like to know?”

  I struggled not to grind my teeth together. Instead of gnawing my canines into useless nubs, I was gonna rip a page from Ash and Jose’s little black book of treachery. If Damian was a rogue, it seemed safe to assume RC wasn’t privy to his whereabouts.

  “This RC puppet knows where you live. I wonder if my superiors would be interested in that information.”

  He scowled, twirled his scythe around, and toyed with the sharp tip. “I can end this right here, and we’ll never find out.”

  I was only a little intimidated. “And leave a big mess to clean up? C’mon.”

  He frowned and then waved a noncommittal hand. “It’s a big world. I can move.”

  “How inconvenient. And this place is so … nice. Why not make things easier for yourself? Answer my questions, and I’ll keep you and your lair to myself.”

  “Threats don’t make friends.”

  He was fiddling with one of the most mystical weapons known to supernatural kind but wanted to get all preachy about threats?

  I inhaled my aggravation and held it in. “That’s fair. But maybe they make partners?”

  “What would you have to offer me? Other than keeping my address to yourself?”

  I crossed my arms. He’d gotten me there. “What do you want?”

  “Something I want you to do other than disappear …”

  Damian dropped into his sofa, and the scythe disappeared. Relief washed through me, but I kept my poker face on.

  He continued, “It can be hard to get things done since I’m recognizable in some circles. I could use a fresh face to be on the lookout for me.”

  That didn’t sound simple. And if we were about to barter for favors, I was going to make myself at home. I sat on the other end of the couch, which was surprisingly comfy, and relished the glower he shot my way. “Be on the lookout for what?”

  “The person in the warehouse—”

  “The headless one?” I butted in for clarification.

  “Yes.” He glowered again. “I believe he was part of a dark arts coven I suspect of kidnapping and killing reapers.”

  “M-kay. Two questions: first, why did you ask him who he worked for if you knew? Second, if you hate RC’s guts, what do you care what happens to reapers?” Just as he was about to say something, I cut back in, “Oh! I lied. I have a third question. Why did you behead him?”

  “Because he had a bad habit of interrupting people,” Damian said without emotion.

  I ran my fingers over my lips like I was zipping them shut.

  Damian exhaled a yielding breath. “I would have preferred not to do that, but he was in the middle of a blood-magic spell. And I said I suspect a coven. I didn’t say I knew which coven. They’re good at covering their tracks, but this guy was a sloppy stalker. And to answer your dumbest question, not all reapers belong to RC. There’s enough that have disbanded for RC to have signed a treaty to leave them alone. Those are the reapers being hunted. This group knows they are more vulnerable.”

  I looked at my nails. I pondered painting them while I ruminated for a moment. “If there’s a treaty, burning RC to the ground seems like a huge violation.”

  “Do you want me to kill you?” he growled.

  I blinked too many times and shook my head, and then he proceeded to tell me about a nightclub he thought the reaper-hunter coven liked to convene at. Apparently, a slightly higher number of rogues went missing in that general area.

  All Damian wanted was for me to hide out a few nights in a row, keep an eye out for suspicious activity, and take snapshots of everyone who walked in. Which sounded like a simple enough request, except …

  “What if they spot me and decide my innards would make a nice side dish?”

  “Win-win for me.” He flashed his teeth. Then he became suddenly serious and leaned in. “With your status, you should be safe. I am certain that someone from Reaper Collective is in on it. How else would the coven know who was active and who had disbanded? Only high-ranking RC employees have access to that database.”

  So, there might have been a reaper out there, moonlighting as a witch
. Or taking bribes from a group of bloodthirsty witches. I couldn’t lie; I was pulled in by the mystery of it. But I was already undercover for RC and now considering spying for this shady dude. The search for my own killer was getting put further and further on the back burner. If I was going to juggle my priorities, it needed to be worth it.

  “It’s still dangerous. You’re kind of asking me to be a double agent.”

  Damian squinted. “You’re about to ask for something. Spit it out.”

  “Show me how to do the appear-disappear thingy.” I tried using my hands to accentuate the point. It ended up looking like I was doing a weird cheer.

  “This?” Damian asked, and his scythe landed perfectly in his palm. It still had dried blood on it.

  “That’s the one.”

  With a smile, Damian pulled a discolored rag from his pocket and wiped off the dark crust. “It’s called a dimensional vault. You have to have a lot of control of realm-breaching to use it. How long have you been a Recruiter?”

  “Zero minutes.”

  “An Enforcer?” Damian cocked his head.

  “No.” I blinked. “I just came from the High-Risk Department, and they’re testing my suitability for other assignments.”

  Damian didn’t seem to buy it, but I kept my features confident and calm.

  He tucked his blood rag back in his pocket. “Oh jeez. You haven’t touched any ability outside calling the Abyss.”

  I clucked my tongue. “Calling forth passage to the afterlife? Doesn’t seem like something to scoff at.”

  “Please. The Abyss practically comes by itself when a soul is ready to go. You’re a glorified hand-holder.”

  “And you’re a jerk.” I poked him in the chest. I looked up and saw his scythe looming over my head. I coughed and backed up. “So?”

  After the most dramatic eye roll of the century, Damian sighed. “Fine.”

  9

  The Break-In

  Maybe I wasn’t a zombie, but I imagined I looked like one when I stumbled into the apartment.

  Damian might not have wanted to teach me how to create a dimensional vault, but once he’d agreed to it, he became a merciless instructor. Word to the wise: It. Is. Not. Easy.

  It was like meditating and playing mental tug-of-war at the same time. A “vault” meant reaching into the exact same dimensional space every single time, which was equivalent to exhaling and plucking that precise breath out of the air. Damian gave me quarters to practice with, and as a result, he was out about twenty-five dollars. And I was out of energy.

  Ash sashayed out of the master bedroom, wearing my robe. I was too tired to be properly stingy. She held up my neglected iPhone.

  “You have missed messages.” She tossed it to me and crossed her arms.

  I caught it, and she caught a glimpse of my forearm. Damian’s number was scrawled down the side. I was supposed to text the bossy executioner later for instructions.

  “You are a busy, busy girl.”

  I gave her a scowl and checked my messages.

  Rupert Goldberg, 32. Accidental overdose. 224 East 29th St., Apt. D. 2 p.m. Please message confirmation.

  Observer, please confirm receipt.

  Kennicot, you there?

  Peeping Tom?

  “What are you grinning about?” Ash’s warm breath pulled me back to reality.

  I could slap her, but instead, I shoved the phone into my hoodie. “I was thinking about the joys of living solo. Where’s Jose?”

  “Er, the bed.”

  “You two are washing the sheets,” I said as I barged into the bedroom and yanked the shades open.

  Jose groaned and burrowed beneath a pillow. I was more tired than I’d been since my death, which didn’t bode well for him.

  “You are an evil woman!”

  “And a busy one.” Ash poked her head in.

  “Wrong. I’m a vengeful one,” I said and slammed the bathroom door closed behind me. I set Mr. Sparky on the counter.

  Peeping Tom is getting her binoculars ready, I typed and sent quickly.

  My fingers lingered over the keyboard. I decided it was better left at that. I added Damian’s number into a virtual note and jumped in the shower. When I got out, I pondered killing the two loafers and collecting their souls.

  There were no towels, and the robe was last seen draped over Ash. I peeked into the room, and cold air wrapped around my bare, wet limbs. Oh yes, they were double dead.

  My targets were nowhere to be seen. The room was empty, the bed unmade. A few curses curled on my tongue, and I clutched my T-shirt to my chest. I slipped on an overly long button-up and checked the apartment. Nada.

  The brats still needed to go over Illegal Elevator Use for Dummies with me, but I guessed they’d heard the word vengeful and skedaddled. The idea that they saw me as some shade of scary carried me softly into my power nap.

  Leather pants were not comfortable. But paired with my feminine Grim Reaper-esque robe and combat boots, I felt like I could do anything. I could kick some ass or join a biker gang or anything in between. My burner phone buzzed, and the words scrawled across it were a definite mood kill.

  Be at Café Underground before 10. With a camera. Try to keep your innards.

  Try to keep yours, I typed back.

  Ooh, you got me. Idiot.

  I gave the screen a middle finger. Is there some kind of magic that would allow me to punch him through the burner phone?

  The semantics of that very question occupied me until I reached the apartment building. It was 2:05, so I was just a smidgen late.

  Some guy walked out, which saved me the pain of having to get myself buzzed in. As I was in the stairwell, making my way up to Apartment D, a faraway siren call went off. It was followed by a gurgling noise that struck my nerves.

  “Mr. Goldberg!” I shouted once I found his door.

  The answer was a panicked groan, a deeper gurgle, and the sound of wood snapping. I kicked the door open and saw a Collector frozen in fear as he was absorbed into the inky mass. His eyes had gone black, fully taken over by the oozy substance. Rupert Glitch convulsed like reaper energy was way tastier than hash browns and mac and cheese combined. The mass glowed and expanded so much that the window behind it shattered.

  Not interfering sounded fantastic right about now, but as I backed up to leave, I saw a little girl sitting outside a neighboring apartment with a doll. She smiled and waved at me. Undeath hadn’t made me heartless, and I wasn’t happy about it.

  “Go home, sweetie,” I told the little girl. She didn’t seem to care, so I said about ten times more firmly, “Go.”

  Her lower lip quivered, and her eyes got watery, but she got up and ran down the hall.

  If a Grim hadn’t shown up yet, I doubted the late Collector had had time to call for one.

  I closed myself inside the apartment and gripped the curved knife holstered at my back. I tossed it and crouched. It sliced through the mass and circled back like a boomerang, but the hole it carved filled back in almost instantly. I had no chance against this thing. I tossed my curved blade again and dived behind an antique chair.

  I hit the call button on Atlas’s name and caught my inadequate weapon. I’d pissed the monster off more than anything. But hey, if it was gonna eat me, at least it didn’t have teeth. It’d simply gum me to death, which sounded better for one stupid moment before I realized how horrific that was. I was so screwed.

  As the thing inched toward me and I considered diving out the window, an angel dressed in black descended from the chalky ceiling. Okay, it wasn’t an angel, but a Grim, but it had Otto’s face, so what was the difference?

  Holy shit. It’s Otto.

  I hung up and tucked myself back beneath the chair while Otto did his swipey business. It sounded like it was going well, and I’d almost convinced myself I wasn’t busted until my phone sang.

  I unclenched one eye and tilted my head up. Otto loomed above, handsome even from this unflattering angle. My heart stuttered. I
wanted to melt. It wasn’t fair.

  I couldn’t believe he was really here.

  He didn’t look nearly as excited to see me. Or surprised even. “Ellis. Were you planning on recruiting the Glitch?”

  “No.” I stood and went to dust myself off. I forgot I was holding a knife and a phone. That could’ve gone badly. I squared my shoulders like the professional I was not. “I was going to recruit Mr. Goldberg. I changed my mind, obviously.”

  We both looked at the destroyed living space. The corduroy sofa had split like a broken jaw, the displaced cushions akin to floppy tongues with no place to go. The shattered window let in a cool draft. A ribbon of steam lingered above the dusty rug—the aftermath of a Glitch being obliterated.

  Otto nodded. “Good call.”

  “Thanks. I thought so too.” I sheathed the knife and tucked the phone away to keep my hands busy. “I … I’m sorry about your Collector.”

  “I appreciate that,” Otto said, as businesslike as ever. “He wasn’t mine.”

  I scratched my head. “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Glitches are everywhere. Grim assistance is first come, first serve at this point.”

  An elevator opened up in the middle of the living space. Otto glanced between it and me, and something churned behind his dark eyes. A question perhaps. I had a hundred of my own. The one tingling on the tip of my tongue was, Why did you recruit me?

  I held it back. “Maybe it’s time they pass out scythes like candy. Probably would’ve done that guy some good.”

  “Maybe it is.” Otto stepped into the elevator. His expression toward me softer than it’d ever been, he said, “It’s good to see you.”

  “It’s—” I extended my hand, but the elevator vanished in thin air. For a silly moment, my breath vanished with it.

  It really had been good to see him. Even if it turned my insides to mush.

  10