by Keri Arthur
Of course, it was totally possible that I’d gotten the timing of my death wrong. My visions weren’t always as accurate as my mother’s, so maybe the death I’d seen in my future was a whole lot closer than I’d presumed.
And it was also a fact that not all deaths actually happened when they were supposed to. That’s why there were ghosts—they were the souls uncollected by reapers, either because their deaths had come before their allotted time, or because they’d refused the reaper’s guidance. Either way, the end result was the same. The soul was left stranded between this world and the next.
I shoved my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket and walked a little faster. There was no outrunning the reapers—I knew that—but I still couldn’t help the instinctive urge to try.
Around me, the day was only just dawning. Lygon Street gleamed wetly after the night’s rain, and the air was fresh and smelled ever so faintly of spring. The heavy bass beat coming from the nearby wolf clubs overran what little traffic noise there was, and laughter rode the breeze—a happy sound that did little to chase the chill from my flesh.
It wasn’t a chill caused by an icy morning, but rather the ever-growing tide of fear.
Why was the reaper following me?
As I crossed over to Pelham Street, my gaze flicked to the nearby shop windows, searching again for the shadow of death.
Reapers came in all shapes and sizes, often taking the form most likely to be accepted by those they’d come to collect. I’m not sure what it said about me that my reaper was shirtless, tattooed, and appeared to be wearing some sort of sword strapped across his back.
A reaper with a weapon? Now that was something I’d never come across before. But maybe he knew I wasn’t about to go quietly.
I turned into Ormond Place and hurried toward the private parking lot my restaurant shared with several other nearby businesses. There was no sound of steps behind me, no scent of another, yet the reaper’s presence burned all around me—a heat I could feel on my skin and within my mind.
Sometimes being psychic like my mom really sucked.
I wrapped my fingers around my keys and hit the automatic opener. As the old metal gate began to grind and screech its way to one side, I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder.
My gaze met the reaper’s. His face was chiseled, almost classical in its beauty, and yet possessing a hard edge that spoke of a man who’d won more than his fair share of battles. His eyes were blue—one a blue as vivid and as bright as a sapphire, the other almost a navy, and as dark and stormy as the sea.
Awareness flashed through those vivid, turbulent depths—an awareness that seemed to echo right through me. It was also an awareness that seemed to be accompanied, at least on his part, by surprise.
For several heartbeats neither of us moved, and then he simply disappeared. One second he was there, and the next he wasn’t.
I blinked, wondering if it were some sort of trick. Reapers, like the Aedh, could become energy and smoke at will, but—for me, at least—it usually took longer than the blink of an eye to achieve. Of course, I was only half Aedh, so maybe that was the problem.
The reaper didn’t reappear, and the heat of his presence no longer burned through the air or shivered through my mind. He’d gone. Which was totally out of character for a reaper, as far as I knew.
I mean, they were collectors of souls. It was their duty to hang about until said soul was collected. I’ve never known of one to up and disappear the moment he’d been spotted—although given the ability to actually spot them was a rare one, that probably wasn’t an everyday occurrence.
Mom, despite her amazing abilities—abilities that had been sharpened during her creation in a madman’s cloning lab—certainly couldn’t see them. But then, she couldn’t actually see anything. The sight she did have came via a psychic link she shared with a creature known as a Fravardin—a guardian spirit that had been gifted to her by a long dead clone brother.
She was also a full Helki werewolf, not a half-Aedh like me. The Aedh were kin to the reapers, and it was their blood that gave me the ability to see the reapers.
But why did this reaper disappear like that? Had he realized he’d been following the wrong soul, or was something weirder going on?
Frowning, I walked across to my bike and climbed on. The leather seat wrapped around my butt like a glove and I couldn’t help smiling. The Ducati wasn’t new, but she was sharp and clean and comfortable to ride, and even though the hydrogen engine was getting a little old by today’s standards, she still put out a whole lot of power. Maybe not as much as the newer engines, but enough to give a mother gray hair. Or so my mom reckoned, anyway.
As the thought of her ran through my mind again, so did the sudden urge to call her. My frown deepening, I dug my phone out of my pocket and said, “Mom.”
The voice-recognition software clicked into action and the call went through almost instantly.
“Risa,” she said, her luminous blue eyes shining with warmth and amusement. “I was just thinking about you.”
“I figured as much. What’s up?”
She sighed, and I instantly knew what that meant. My stomach twisted and I closed my eyes, wishing away the words I knew were coming.
But it didn’t work. It never worked.
“I have another client who wants your help.” She said it softly, without inflection. She knew how much I hated hospitals.
“Mom—”
“It’s a little girl, Ris. Otherwise I wouldn’t ask you. Not so soon after the last time.”
I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. The last time had been a teenager whose bones had pretty much been pulverized in a car accident. He’d been on life support for weeks, with no sign of brain activity, and the doctors had finally advised his parents to turn off the machine and let him pass over. Naturally enough, his parents had been reluctant, clinging to the belief that he was still there, that there was still hope.
Mom couldn’t tell them that. But I could.
Yet it had meant going into the hospital, immersing myself in the dying and the dead and the heat of the reapers. I hated it. It always seemed like I was losing a piece of myself.
But more than that, I hated facing the grief of the parents when—if—I had to tell them that their loved ones were long gone.
“What happened to her?”
If it was an accident, if it was a repeat of the teenager and the parents were looking for a miracle, then I could beg off. It wouldn’t be easy, but neither was walking into that hospital.
“She went in with a fever, fell into a coma, and hasn’t woken up. They have her on life support at the moment.”
“Do they know why?” I asked the question almost desperately, torn between wanting to help a little girl caught in the twilight realms between life and death and the serious need not to go into that place.
“No. She had the flu and was dehydrated, which is why she was originally admitted. The doctors have run every test imaginable and have come up with nothing.” Mom hesitated. “Please, Ris. Her mother is a longtime client.”
My mom knew precisely which buttons to push. I loved her to death, but god, there were some days I wished I could simply ignore her.
“Which hospital is she in?”
“The Children’s.”
I blew out a breath. “I’ll head there now.”
“You can’t. Not until eight,” Mom said heavily. “They’re not allowing anyone but family outside of visiting hours.”
Great. Two hours to wait. Two hours to dread what I was being asked to do.
“Okay. But no more for a while after this. Please?”
“Deal.” There was no pleasure in her voice. No victory. She might push my buttons to get what she wanted, but she also knew how much these trips took out of me. “Come back home afterward and I’ll make you breakfast.”
“I can’t.” I scrubbed my eyes and resisted the sudden impulse to yawn. “I’ve been working at the restaurant all nigh
t and I really need some sleep. Send me the details about her parents and the ward number, and I’ll give you a buzz once I’ve been to see her.”
“Good. Are you still up for our lunch on Thursday?”
I smiled. Thursday lunch had been something of a ritual for my entire life. My mom and Aunt Riley—who wasn’t really an aunt, but a good friend of Mom’s who’d taken me under her wing and basically spoiled me rotten since birth—had been meeting at the same restaurant for more than twenty-five years. They had, in fact, recently purchased it to prevent it from being torn down to make way for apartments. Almost nothing got in the way of their ritual—and certainly not a multimillion dollar investment company.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Good. See you then. Love you.”
I smiled and said, “But not as much as I love you.”
The words had become something of a ritual at the end of our phone calls, but I never took them for granted. I’d seen far too many people over the years trying to get in contact with the departed just so they could say the words they’d never said in life.
I hit the end button then shoved the phone back into my pocket. As I did so, it began to chime the song “Witchy Woman”—an indicator that Mom had already sent the requested information via text. Obviously, she’d had it ready to go. I shook my head and didn’t bother looking at it. I needed to wash the grime of work away and get some sustenance in my belly before I faced dealing with that little girl in the hospital.
Two hours later, I arrived at the hospital. I parked in the nearby underground lot, then checked Mom’s text, grabbing the ward number and the parents’ names before heading inside.
It hit me in the foyer.
The dead, the dying, and the diseased created a veil of misery and pain that permeated not only the air but the very foundations of the building. It felt like a ton of bricks as it settled across my shoulders, and it was a weight that made my back hunch, my knees buckle, and my breath stutter to a momentary halt.
Not that I really wanted to breathe. I didn’t want to take that scent—that wash of despair and loss—into myself. And most especially, I didn’t want to see the reapers and the tiny souls they were carrying away.
I was gripped by the sudden urge to run, and it was so fierce and strong that my whole body shook. I had to clench my fists against it and force my feet onward. I’d promised Mom I’d do this, and I couldn’t go back on my promise. No matter how much I might want to.
I walked into the elevator and punched the floor for intensive care, then watched as the doors closed and the floor numbers slowly rolled by. As the doors opened on my floor, a reaper walked by. She had brown eyes and a face you couldn’t help but trust, and her wings shone white, tipped with gold.
An angel—the sort depicted throughout religion, not those that inhabited the real world. Walking beside her, her tiny hand held within the angel’s, was a child. I briefly closed my eyes against the sting of tears. When I opened them again, the reaper and her soul were gone.
I took the right-hand corridor. A nurse looked up as I approached the desk. “May I help you?”
“I’m here to see Hanna Kingston.”
She hesitated, looking me up and down. “Are you family?”
“No, but her parents asked me to come. I’m Risa Jones.”
“Oh,” she said, then her eyes widened slightly as the name registered. “The daughter of Dia Jones?”
I nodded. People might not know me, but thanks to the fact that many of her clients were celebrities, they sure knew Mom. “Mrs. Kingston is a client. She asked for me specifically.”
“I’m sorry, but I’ll have to check.”
I nodded again, watching as she rose and walked through the door that separated the reception area from the intensive care wards. Down that bright hall, a shrouded gray figure waited. Another reaper. Another soul about to pass.
I closed my eyes again and took a long, slow breath. I could do this.
I could.
The nurse came back with another woman. She was small and dark haired, her sharp features and brown eyes drawn and tired-looking.
“Risa,” she said, offering me her hand. “Fay Kingston. I’m so glad you were able to come.”
I shook her hand briefly. Her grief seemed to crawl from her flesh, and it made my heart ache. I pulled my hand gently from hers and flexed my fingers. The grief still clung to them, stinging lightly. “There’s no guarantee I can help you. She might have already made her decision.”
The woman licked her lips and nodded, but the brightness in her eyes suggested she wasn’t ready to believe it. But then, what mother would?
“We just need to know—” She stopped, tears gathering in her eyes. She took a deep breath, then gave me a bright, false smile. “This way.”
I washed my hands, then followed her through the secure door and down the bright hall, the echo of our footsteps like a strong, steady heartbeat. The shrouded reaper didn’t look our way—his concentration was on his soul. I glanced into the room as we passed him. It was a boy of about eight years old. There were machines and doctors clustered all around him, working frantically. There’s no hope, I wanted to say. Let him go in peace.
But I’d been wrong before. Maybe I’d be wrong again.
Three doorways down from the reaper, Mrs. Kingston swung left into a room and walked across to a dark-haired man sitting near the bed. I stopped in the doorway, barely even registering his presence as my gaze was drawn to the small form on the bed.
She was a dark-haired bundle of bones that seemed lost amid the stark whiteness of the hospital room. Machines surrounded her, doing the work of her body, keeping her alive. Her face was drawn, gaunt, and there were dark circles under her closed eyes.
I couldn’t feel her. But I couldn’t feel the presence of a reaper, either, and that surely had to be a good sign.
“Do you think you can help her?” a deep voice asked.
I jumped, and my gaze flew to the father. Before I could answer, Fay said, “This is my husband, Steven.”
I nodded. I didn’t need to know his name to understand he was Hanna’s father. The utter despair in his eyes was enough. I swallowed heavily and somehow said, “I honestly don’t know if I can help her, Mr. Kingston. But I can try.”
He nodded, his gaze drifting back to his baby girl. “Then try. Either way, we need to know what to do next.”
I took a deep, somewhat shuddering breath, and blinked away the tears stinging my eyes once more.
I could do this. For her sake—for their sake—I could do this. If she was in there, if she was trapped between this world and the next, then she needed someone to talk to. Someone who could help her make a decision. That someone had to be me. There was no one else.
I forced my feet forward. The closer I got, the more I could feel … well, the oddness.
Pain and fear and hunger swirled around her tiny body like a storm, but there was no spark, no glimmer of consciousness—nothing to indicate that life had ever existed within her flesh.
It shouldn’t have felt like that. And if death was her destiny, then there would have been a reaper here waiting. But there wasn’t, so either the time for her decision had not arrived or she was slated to live.
So why couldn’t I feel her?
Frowning, I sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up her hand. Her flesh was warm, though why that surprised me I wasn’t entirely sure.
I took a deep breath and slowly released it. As I did, I released the awareness of everything and everyone else, concentrating on little Hanna, reaching for her not physically, but psychically. The world around me faded until the only thing existing on this plane was me and her. Warmth throbbed at my neck—Ilianna’s magic at work, protecting me as my psyche, my soul, or whatever else people liked to call it, pulled away from the constraints of my flesh and stepped gently into the gray fields that were neither life nor death.
Only it felt like I’d stepped into the middle
of a battleground.
And it was a battle that had gone very, very badly.
Fear and pain became physical things that battered at me with terrible force, tearing at my heart and ripping through my soul. My chest burned, breathing became painful, and all I could feel was fear. My fear, her fear, all twisted into one stinking mess that made my stomach roil and my flesh crawl.
And then there was the screaming. Unvoiced, unheard by anyone but me, it reverberated through the emptiness of her flesh—echoes of agony in the bloody, battered shell that had once held a little girl.
Her soul wasn’t here, but it hadn’t moved on.
Someone—something—had come into the hospital and ripped it from her flesh.
