“I wish I could come with you,” he says.
I resist the urge to ruffle his hair and say there there.
Lane recently discovered he has NRD—Necronitic Regeneration Disorder—like me. As long as his brain isn’t damaged, he can resurrect and heal after dying. Most NRD+ people leave it at the party trick stage. But Lane was recruited by my ex-FBRD handler Brinkley, and now he’s a death replacement agent in training. He has to clock enough shadow hours before he can earn his very own zombie wings. But he won’t be going with us tonight, and I can tell by his face he’s bummed about it.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “You’ll get to have your bits smeared all over the streets of Nashville soon.”
I don’t miss the fact that Ally looks away when we kiss again, and her shoulders are crammed up to her ears.
“Can’t wait.” He hands Ally the other cup of coffee, which she accepts with a polite smile after stuffing her folder back into her work satchel.
Her smile falters after giving me a once over. “Aren’t you going to wear your dog tags?”
I groan. “Nope. They’re stupid. I’m not a soldier.”
“But the tags are supposed to make sure that your body isn’t taken to the morgue accidentally,” she insists.
The dog tag thing started because of a lawsuit launched by the family of a death-replacement agent. An agent was mistakenly taken to the morgue and autopsied per usual. The only problem is that this agent also had a run-in with a bone saw—right to the cranium. NRD+ people can only keep resurrecting if their brains are intact. This agent didn’t survive the run-in with the bone saw. And while they couldn’t bring back their kid, the parents sued for better rights. A law passed, and now I’m supposed to wear these tags that will identify my body in the event someone just finds it lying around. Awkward.
“I managed this long without them. And what are they going to do? Autopsy me again?” I pull down my shirt and point at the top of my scar. “This will stop a coroner better than a dog tag will.”
I was lucky I didn’t meet the bone saw after my first death. The coroner recognized my condition when my heart restarted mid-autopsy. Too bad he didn’t sew me up faster though. It would be nice to go through life without a horrible, disfiguring scar. Guess a girl can’t have everything.
Lane checks his watch. “You’ll be cutting it close to midnight as it is.”
“He’s right.” Ally gives Winston a pat on his head and leaves the room, all her paperwork and her officialness in tow. She can’t seem to get out of here quick enough.
Lane moves out of the door to let her pass, but doesn’t give me the same courtesy.
He’s got the pouty lip out, standing between me and an exciting night of dying. “Are you okay?”
No, I think. I don’t know why the hell I keep doing this gig. So many things can go wrong. Why do I keep doing it even after I know the risk is so high?
But I can’t open this serious reflective conversation with Lane. Not now. Not when we have fifteen minutes to get to the other side of Nashville and a life to save.
So instead I raise my coffee cup as if to make a toast. Or a salute. “Don’t worry about me, gorgeous. This here be the elixir of life.” I take a drink and kiss him goodbye with my coffee-warmed lips. “This will bring anyone back from the dead.”
Lana Harvey
For a death depot, the harbor in Limbo City was full of life. Storks dotted the dock, their bills clattering out an annoying beat that no one could mistake for music. The racket was only slightly drowned out by the giant water wheel at the Three Fates soul recycling factory as it churned the Sea of Eternity, and the glare of the bright sky only seemed to intensify the volume of it all.
A miserably hot and moist breeze coaxed the sluggish tide in to crash against the seawall that lined the coast. I felt it soak through the hem of my robe as I made my way down the main pier, daydreaming about pina coladas. Summer had arrived, but until I caught up on the backlogged souls on my docket, daydreaming was all I’d be doing.
Eliza Lockwood, my newest apprentice in the soul-harvesting trade, was sprawled out in a camping chair with her booted feet kicked up on the railing of my pirate ship. Her nose was tucked in the most recent copy of Limbo’s Laundry.
“Why do you read that trash?” I asked as I stepped off the ramp and onto the deck. I nudged her feet off the railing, more playfully than out of malice, and suppressed a snort when she toppled forward with an umph!
Eliza blinked up at me, annoyance creasing her forehead. Then she fingered her short afro, as if making sure the jolting maneuver hadn’t mussed it. “I like the pictures,” she said, closing the magazine. “The journalists—if you can call them that—are terrible, but they have great photographers.”
I crinkled my nose. “Yeah right, and guys only read smut mags for the recipes.”
“What are smut mags?” Eliza asked.
“Erm, eh—that’s a question for Kevin.” I wondered if I was ever so innocent.
My three hundred plus years of memory were a bit fuzzy, though that was probably for the best. The seventeen hundreds left a lot to be desired—like modern plumbing and deodorant, which weren’t invented any sooner on this side of the grave than on the mortal side.
Speaking of stenches, something rank filled my nostrils as Kevin, my senior apprentice, and his pair of helljacks, offspring of one of my hellhound’s and one of Anubis’s jackals, rounded the hatch platform. All three looked like they’d taken a dip in a septic tank, and they smelled even worse.
“Good god,” I hissed and threw an arm up to cough into the bend of my elbow.
“I know, I know.” Kevin ran a hand through his mop of dark curls. It came away sticky, trailing strings of some tar-like muck. “I ran into a hellcat on that last harvest,” he said, concern marring his features.
“A hellcat? On the mortal side?” That wasn’t an everyday occurrence. The creature had likely been set loose by some spurned, refugee rebel with nothing better to do now that the Second War of Eternity was officially over.
Kevin smeared his sticky hand down the front of his robe. “I used that Latin fire blast you taught me to take it out… and it sort of... exploded.”
“I see that.” I made a face and pinched my nose. “You’re going to have to file a report with Regina.”
Kevin gave me a pleading look and held his arms out before glancing down at himself. “Don’t you think I’ve been through enough for one day?”
The new secretary of Reapers Inc. hadn’t endeared herself to anyone. A few botched soul dockets could really spike CNH—Currently Not Harvestable—numbers, and no one wanted one of those on their record. Her obliviously cheerful demeanor tended to rub nerves raw as well.
I sighed at Kevin and put a hand on my hip. “I suppose it can wait until morning. You got the soul at least, right?”
Kevin nodded. “Already dropped it off at the ferry headed for the Isles of Eternity.”
“Good. It’s past lunchtime as it is. Go clean yourself up. I’ll take in one last harvest while Eliza grabs us something to eat.”
“I’m sitting out on another reap?” Eliza balked.
“That last one was a high-risk soul. You’re not cleared for those yet—”
“I could have observed.” She huffed and leaned back in her camping chair.
“It was in a cramped ski lift. I barely had enough standing room for the few minutes I had to wait for my catch to croak.”
Eliza turned her nose up and away from me, refusing to reply.
“And this one is a repeat CNH that’s more than likely a glitch in the system. The name has come up so many times that it’s barely a footnote on my docket today. Trust me. Your time is better spent picking out pizza toppings.”
“I get to pick?” she asked, giving me a sidelong glance.
I fished a coin out of my pocket and tossed it to her. “Anything you like.” I was probably going to regret this.
Kevin made a beeline for his cabin
, the stinky helljacks hot on his heels. I tried to ignore the drippy paw prints they were leaving all over the polished deck floor. Maybe he’d have it cleaned up before I made it back. I’d save my bitching for then, I decided on my way down the ship’s ramp and back to the dock pier where coin travel was unrestricted.
A crisp wind pushed through my curls. Several other reapers materialized further up the pier, likely knocking off for lunch. My stomach growled, and I thought of the pizza I’d be coming back to. Soon.
The notes in my file only requested that I confirm the soul in question was still in a living body. Jesse Sullivan, the name on my docket, was a young woman from Nashville. She’d been reported dead over fifty times, though whenever a reaper showed to pick up her soul, she was either MIA or found alive and well. She wasn’t the first, but the Fates had yet to determine the source of the glitch. I wasn’t entirely sure it was a glitch.
Ms. Sullivan and the other mortals in question were a rare new variety of CNH souls. Off the books, they were referred to as Limbo’s Most Wanted. Everyone on the mortal side dies eventually, so it was just a matter of time before one of their reported deaths panned out and they could finally be collected. The prospect had been built up to something of a lottery win for reapers. I wasn’t holding my breath for today.
A quick peek in the hospital morgue, and then pizza back at the ship. It was a blissfully mundane agenda. For the average reaper anyway.
I reached into the pocket of my robe and quickly came to the realization that I only had one coin left. I hesitated. The last time I’d run a harvest with a single coin, I was forced to walk several miles through snow with Gabriel howling Christmas carols in my ear. That had been a high-risk assignment though. It was unlikely I’d even see a soul on this run, let alone the elusive one I was looking for. I could wait until after lunch to drop by the bank and refill my pockets.
I rolled my coin, and the ship and harbor faded from sight as I was pulled to the mortal side, the soulful twang of Nashville replacing the slap of the sea against the ship’s hull and the clatter of stork bills.
Jesse Sullivan
We roll up five minutes until midnight, the usual time a death replacement shadow begins. Only, I’m expecting a dark house. Maybe one light on. You’d be surprised how often people go to bed even on their death day and we’re left outside banging on the door. Of course, the neurotics sit up late, pacing in front of the window until we arrive.
But it isn’t some anxious cat lady with a baseball bat waiting for us. It’s an entire house. A stone mansion lit up, music blaring through open windows and a constant thump thump thump of bass striking me in the chest. Giant Greek letters sit illuminated above the door.
“Are we rushing?” I look at Ally. “Because I think you have to be a student to do that.”
“This appears to be a frat party,” she says, frowning. She looks as excited as a woman ready to get her annual lady-parts exam.
But I can’t help but bounce on my toes. A frat party? No way! It’ll be my first.
“Are there going to be strippers? And chocolate? Chocolate-covered strippers! Okay, I’ll go in with you, but don’t tell Lane. He’s the jealous type. And if we get caught, I’m telling him you brought me here.”
Ally frowns at the top page of her file. “This is the listed address for Jonathan Omar. He’s twenty, so…”
“Shadowing a frat boy. Got it.” Maybe there will still be chocolate and strippers. I’m hopeful. Not a bad way to die. Unless of course this is one of those tragic overdrinking deaths. I don’t want to see any vomit tonight, thanks.
“I believe his parents facilitated the replacement,” Ally says, a finger sliding down her notes which she’s illuminated with the flashlight on her phone.
“Okay, well let’s find him before he dies in a raging beer pong game.” I march up the charming cobblestone sidewalk to the front door. “And before all the chocolate strippers are gone.”
The house is open. Bodies are crammed along the walls in clusters in the living area where we enter. Most of the eyes are glassy and unfocused. Some of the kids are pretty drunk, obviously, but I smell pot too. So I don’t think everyone is riding the same train here. And one guy is wearing a full Roman getup, complete with shiny breastplate, red cape, and a spear.
I grab a scruffy kid passing by and whirl him to face me. “Jonathan Omar?”
“He’s in the basement. By the bar.” The kid sips his drink and smacks his lips. “Hey, are you in my Chem 202 class?”
“Nope.” I toss the kid away and start looking for the basement stairs. Ally is on my heels. She’s drawing attention, and not the good kind, and then I realize why. It’s her clothes. They’re too professional. She looks like someone’s mom. I’m practically grubby by comparison with my sneakers and hoodie. Emphasis on grubby, because dying usually destroys my clothes. So this is not the time to be looking like a cover model.
I pause at the top of the stairs. “You should take off your shirt.”
She blinks at me.
“You need to look like a native, and right now you look like a snitch. Or maybe a parole officer.”
I start to undress her. She grabs my hands and angles her head with wide eyes. “No.”
“Come on, I’ll be quick.” She doesn’t have a chance to argue, because I’m already pulling her hair out of its ponytail and untucking her shirt. I start on the top button of her blouse.
“Jesse, I’m not taking my clothes off.”
“Just the top two buttons.”
A boy who’s trying to leave the basement has stopped and is grinning at us. I wave him on. “Get out of here, Tom.”
“Lesbians are cool.”
“Your mom is cool,” I say. “Go on, you perv.”
He reluctantly slides past us.
Now, you might think that I just wanted an excuse to undress one of the sexiest people on the planet, and you’d be right. But really, it’s also important for the replacement. Things need to be as normal as possible in a death replacement. Our very presence can change the course of a death. So we have to blend into the course of the day as much as possible, or the events of the night might change. And if the events change, the death reading changes and my job gets a whole lot harder.
I give Ally a once-over and smile. “You look great.”
She rolls her eyes and does up one of her buttons. Oh well. I tried.
We do find Jonathan in the basement. After I push through the crowd of sweaty bodies writhing to an auto-tuned, pixie voice in bass-heavy speakers, I come upon him standing behind a bar, an actual wooden bar, pouring soda into a line of red solo cups. A wave of brown foam spills over the red lips. He mops this up with a wad of paper towels.
“Jonathan Omar?” I ask, because when someone pays you $50,000 to keep them alive, you’ve got to be sure about these things.
He looks up through thick lashes. “Yeah, what’s up?”
“Hi, I’m Jesse Sullivan. I’m your death replacement agent today. We’re going to just hangout. Cool?”
He frowns at me, his eyes searching my face as if trying to recognize me. “Naw.”
“Yaw,” I mimic, and then Ally is beside me, looking at the file in her hand. “Genevieve Omar paid for the replacement. It says here she’s your mother. She didn’t tell you?”
“Oh, she told me,” he says, laughing. “But she’s cray. I’m not gonna die. Look at me.”
He stands back from the bar and grins, arms open. His bare chest gleams with a slight sheen of sweat. The backwards cap on his head is black with a red logo I can’t see. And his boxers show across the top of his pants. I’m not impressed. Where are my strippers? Hell, where is the chocolate?
Jonathan notices my pout and flexes his muscles for good measure.
“Okay, Superman,” I say. I don’t want this to escalate. “If it’s all the same to you, we’re just going to follow you around for the next 24 hours, okay?” Even if he says no, I’m doing it anyway.
“Whatever
rocks you.” He shrugs and begins pouring soda into the next solo cup.
This is where I learn exactly how dangerous frat parties are.
Not only are ping pong balls flying around at reckless speeds, as I imagined, but it seems that the words “End of Semester Bash” are code for “let’s try to murder ourselves in as many creative ways as possible.” They’re like a flock of drunk dodo birds with a moderate interest in cliff diving.
I watch one kid set his own hair on fire. Another skateboards off the roof into a light pole. Then, someone gets the awesome idea to drag mattresses from the bedrooms and stack them in a pile beneath a window. Most of the guys, and two brave (or very drunk) girls, proceed to leap from the window above onto the pile of mattresses. One guy panics and grabs the window at the last moment, so he dangles, screaming until his laughing friends pry his fingers off the window sill. Some friends!
He screams the whole way down.
This says nothing about the dangers of landing. Every person who hits the mattress flies off it. The spectators seem as oblivious to the danger as the daredevils. The bystanders watching the mattress tricks don’t clear the area until one guy slams into a bike rack. When it’s Jonathan’s turn, I stand beneath the window with bated breath. I don’t have that bad feeling yet, that tug I get which I consider my five-second warning before a death. He leaps through the window, and I move forward in case I have to catch his ass. It won’t be the first time. I’ve caught falling men before.
He bounces off the mattresses like everyone else and hits the grass, skidding across the patch before rolling into the side of the deck, which stops him. He gets up holding his ass.
He spots me and jogs over grinning. He points out the rough scratches all down his side.
“See,” he says, flexing again. “Indestructible.”
“I lost my whole leg once,” I say. There’s something about this atmosphere that provokes my one-upmanship. “And then it got ran over.”
Limbo City Lights (Lana Harvey, Reapers Inc.) Page 9
