Going Rogue
Cheating Death, Volume 1
Ashley Stoyanoff
Published by Ashley Stoyanoff Books, 2018.
Copyright © 2018, Ashley Stoyanoff
Published by Ashley Stoyanoff Books
http://AshleyStoyanoff.com
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.
Going Rogue is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
Also by Ashley Stoyanoff
About the Author
To Brad.
I love the way your mind works.
Never change.
ONE
I DON’T LIKE DEATH.
I don’t think many people do. I realized a long time ago that most people avoid thinking about it until death comes calling.
Before I died, I was one of those people.
But everyone dies. Some sooner than later. It’s inevitable. I just never thought my existence would revolve around it.
Standing in the darkened alleyway, moments away from witnessing yet another murder, that knowledge is the only thing that stops me from interfering. It’s hard though. Instinct fights to take over, and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from screaming out a warning, as two men stumble out the back door of a seedy strip club. I know it won’t do any good anyway. Once Death writes down a name, there is nothing anyone can do to stop it.
Not even me.
“Did you think he wouldn’t find out?” the older of the two men asks, his voice tight with anger. He’s dressed in black. A baggy black hoodie, black jeans, and a ball cap. His hand is steady, holding the gun level.
The other man isn’t nearly as composed. He’s younger by at least ten years, in his early twenties, I think, wearing a blue and white striped button-down shirt, and jeans. He’s fidgety, anxious, pressing his back against the cold brick. Not that I blame him. I’d be nervous too if I had a gun pointed at me.
He says nothing, his gaze fixed on the gun. I wonder if his life is flashing before him the way mine had seconds before the end. Does he see his loved ones in the barrel of that gun? Is he regretting his choices? Wishing for more time?
I wished for more time. Even begged for it.
“Did you think he wouldn’t find out?” the older man questions again, his voice tightening further, barely a whisper over the music from the club. There’s a slight tremble in his hand as he tightens his grip on the gun. I don’t know if it’s from nerves or anger. Probably both.
“I don’t know what you think I did, but it wasn’t me, Sam. You’ve got it wrong.”
The younger man glances around the alley, his anxiety, unmissable, as he searches for an escape. There isn’t one. The back of the alley is fenced in, and the older man blocks the entrance.
His gaze swivels in my direction, and for a heartbeat, he pauses and blinks, his eyes squinting, staring. He can’t see me, though, not under the cloaking spell. Sure, maybe there was a glimmer when he first glanced my way, a slight shimmer of my aura, but that’s it.
He blinks again, and in that blink, something clicks in my mind. I know this man. From where? I don’t have a clue. But he’s familiar. I’ve seen his face recently. He tears his wild eyes away from me, and his pleading gaze slips back to the older man.
The older man—Sam—laughs. It’s a raw sound, so cold an involuntary shiver rushes up my spine. “You’re on the witness list.”
The younger man pales and swallows hard. “I—”
“We’ve been good to you, kid,” Sam says, cutting the younger man off, his voice changing, softening just a bit with a hint of what sounds a heck of a lot like regret. “We gave you a job, paid you good for your work.” He shakes his head. “What the fuck did they offer you?”
“I—”
“No. I don’t want to know,” Sam says, once again cutting off any response. Rage visibly shudders through him, and his jaw clenches tight. “We treated you like family!”
Silence falls. Five, ten, fifteen seconds pass.
The younger man drops his head, and his shoulders slump in defeat. “Mary’s pregnant,” he says after a moment. “This is no life for a baby.”
Sam stiffens. A blast of anger pulses through the air so thick, so pure, it makes me quiver.
I hear a gasp before the gunshot. The bullet hits the younger man right between the eyes. He wobbles for a moment, the brick wall supporting his weight for a beat, then, he slumps, sliding to the ground as blood pools and trails down his face.
Sam watches him fall. Pain, anger, disgust, a swarm of emotion dancing in his eyes. He takes a tentative step toward the dead man as the hand holding the gun drops to his side. Then, he sighs, and with a slight look of remorse, he walks away, climbing into the car waiting at the end of the alley.
I stand still for a moment, squeezing my eyes shut. As murders go, this one wasn’t so bad. Simple, clean, relatively calm. But that doesn’t stop my gut from clenching and turning. I take a breath, willing my insides to relax, then blink, and move towards the victim.
Familiarity strikes me once again as I move through the alley, staring at the dead man. I know him. I’m sure of it. I take in his face, ignoring the blood, and as I reach him, it clicks. Joey Parelli. The lead witness in a murder trial.
Holy hell. What the heck is he doing here?
I shake the question away as soon as it comes. At the moment it’s none of my business, and besides, I’ll get the details tomorrow. But damn, if curiosity isn’t burning a hole in my mind. It’s not every day I recognize a victim. Actually, it rarely ever happens.
As I kneel beside Joey, I feel the last remnants of life slip away from him, the signal that his soul is ready to be released. Dropping the cloaking spell, I lay my hand on his shoulder and focus all my energy on pulling his soul from his body.
Death’s magic pulses through me, and my body shimmers and shakes as my skin fades and recedes. I can feel it happening. The tingle, the shudder. Moonlight glints off my white, dead bones and magic swirls through the air.
Joey’s soul releases easily, slipping from his body and materializing beside me. It’s nice when that happens, when the victim has already accepted death. Some fight, clutching to their bodies, and it makes my job a hell of a lot harder.
But this man... he lets go in seconds.
He blinks at me, and for a beat, I’m sure he catches a glimpse of my true form—clothing, and bones. Crap. Most Reapers are skilled enough not to let that happen. Some can even hold onto the cloaking spell while using Death’s magic.
Me, though? Not so much. I’m new at this, still learning.
Standing up, I snatch my hand away from his body and quickly turn. As soon as I release him the sensation of Death’s magic once again shudders throug
h me. Muscle and skin stitch over my petite frame, and my slim, lean build returns. Skin, pale white, tans to a deep golden hue, and hair, thick and jet black, grows until it reaches its regular mid-back length.
A moment later, the transformation is complete. I turn back to Joey, relieved that he isn’t freaking out about my skeletal form. But, I don’t think he even noticed it.
“Damn,” he says, shaking his head. His gaze darts from his body to the door, before coming to rest on me. “Do you think you could move my body to somewhere... uh, somewhere not outside a strip club?”
“Sorry, bud,” I say and offer up a helpless little shrug. “I can’t touch anything.”
He lets out a deflating sigh and nods, his eyes falling back to his lifeless body. “Mary is going to be so pissed.”
TWO
THE CAFE IS QUIET THIS early in the morning, the people that typically frequent the establishment, just starting to rise for the day. I sit in my usual seat, sipping my extra hot caramel macchiato. It’s a little after five o’clock in the morning, an ungodly hour after my assignment last night. I haven’t been to bed yet, and doubt I’ll be getting that pleasure anytime soon.
Kristen, my mentor and the closest thing I have to a friend, is unsurprisingly late. I haven’t heard from her since coffee yesterday morning, but I know she’ll show eventually. In the last six months since I became a Grim Reaper, she hasn’t once missed opening our assignments together. It’s our thing, a ritual of sorts.
I take another sip of my coffee, savoring the flavor. It’s rich and creamy, the hints of caramel taking off the bitter edge of the extra espresso shot I always have added.
My assignment sits in the middle of the table, the wax seal unbroken. It seems so archaic, handwritten letters sealed with wax and stamped with a scythe. Reapers haven’t used scythes in decades, but Death... that man isn’t much for change.
“I know. I know. I’m late. Sorry.” I glance over my shoulder at the sound of Kristen’s voice, my eyes widening as they land on her. Her usual brown, curly hair is now ombre. Deep purple roots, brightening into hot pink ends, and its bone straight. She rolls her eyes dramatically, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “I didn’t realize the new hair would take so damn long to style.”
“Oh, my.” I blink at her, not sure what to say. “It’s... um... bright.”
Kristin grins, plopping down onto the bench across from me. She drops her assignment on the table next to mine. “It’s supposed to be. Not all of us love black, babe. We might be dead, but we’re still hanging with the living.”
Rolling my eyes, I take a sip. “It suits you.”
It’s true. She pulls off the look well, even if it’s a bit out there for my tastes. I’m more of the roll out of bed, throw on whatever and blend in kind of girl. Kristen, though, is just one of those girls who can pull off pretty much any look. Tall, perfect hourglass figure, with more confidence than anyone I know. The colors compliment her deeply tanned complexion. Paired with her torn skinny jeans, showing off the fishnets underneath, and black crop top, she completely rocks the look.
“I know, right? But, sadly, I don’t think it’ll last long. Straightening this mess of hair takes forever.” Kristen flags down the waitress and orders her usual: a large black coffee with four sugars. “So how was yesterday?”
“It was okay,” I say. “He wanted me to move his body, though.”
“Move his body,” Kristen repeats and snorts, shaking her head. “They always have a request, don’t they?”
I shrug and take another sip of my drink. I don’t really see what the big deal is with fulfilling a final request. Of course, moving the body is kind of extreme, and has the potential for landing me in the middle of a police investigation when the body is found. Most are simple requests, though, like passing on a message or deleting browser history.
But Death has rules.
A lot of rules.
And breaking those rules would land me a one-way ticket to Purgatory.
The waitress returns with Kristen’s coffee and asks if she can get us anything else, but Kristen waves her off with a bright smile and a warm ‘no, thank you.’
“You ready to find out what’s on the schedule for today?” she asks when the waitress leaves and picks up her envelope.
“Sure,” I mumble, eyeing my envelope before reluctantly picking it up. Before becoming a Grim Reaper, I lived a pretty normal life. I was a nurse. I worked in an emergency room. I helped save people.
And then, I was killed.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but I have to admit my life was kind of boring and things have indeed become a heck of a lot more interesting since that day.
Dying came with a few perks. I got a new identity. A new look. A new job. At age twenty-two, I got a complete do-over. Well, except for the whole being alive part.
But I miss being a nurse. I miss helping people heal. And I don’t think I’ll ever get used to watching them die.
I guess I’m still helping people—kind of. If it weren’t for Grim Reapers, those poor souls would be trapped inside their bodies, reliving their deaths over and over. But still...
We work in the violent deaths sector, Kristen and I. Murders, specifically. And Redport has no shortage of murders.
Death figured I’d excel in this area since I was murdered and all. He thought I’d want to help the souls who suffered the same fate as me. Personally, I think I’m more suited to helping those passing on from natural causes. Maybe that’s selfish of me, but at least my conscience wouldn’t be in a constant state of torment.
I’m still staring at the seal when Kristen clears her throat, drawing my attention. I glance across the table and watch her lips drawdown with a frown as she searches my face. “What we do is important,” she says after a moment.
“I know,” I respond, slipping my finger under the edge of the envelope, popping the seal. I offer up a forced smile and pull out my letter. “I’m just tired. Haven’t managed to sleep yet.”
The assignment doesn’t contain much information. They never do. Date, time, location... that’s it. Less chance of the victims being tipped off or their fate being changed that way. But there is something about the limited information that has my back snapping straight and a chill rushing down my spine. It’s all too familiar. The time... The date...
Three-thirty in the morning.
October twenty-third.
My heart quickens, and unease unravels in my belly. I drop the letter onto the table, squeezing my eyes shut. Huge mistake. Huge. As soon as my eyelids close I see the clown mask. It’s demented. Teeth, big and sharp. Wild eyes. A plastic Halloween mask that I was hoping I’d never see again.
“So...” Kristen says hesitantly. “What did you get?”
I open my eyes, meeting Kristen’s. “I think I’m dealing with a serial killer.
“Really?” Her brows furrow. “You sure?”
I nod, and my stomach knots further. “Yeah. Pretty sure. I think it’s The Clown Maker. It’s at the same time. The date falls on a three just like the other two did. Same basic area...” I pause, hesitating for a beat. “It’s three victims before a killer becomes a serial killer, right?
“Sure is,” Kristen says and shakes her head. “Damn, you always get the good ones.”
I blink at her, not sure how to respond to that. The good ones? Last time I checked no murder was considered good.
“Nothing we get is good.” I give her a look. “God, Kristen, violent deaths are not good.”
“They’re exciting.”
“They’re terrifying.”
“Terrifying?” She snorts. “Babe, sorry to break it to you, but you’re dead. You’ve got nothing to be scared of.”
I roll my eyes. I may not be able to die again, but the things I’ve seen in the last six months... I shudder as another chill spreads across my back.
Kristen was made to be a Reaper. I think it’s all those violent slasher movies she watches. They’ve numbed her to the h
arshness of life and the horrors that we deal with. But then, I’ve only been at this whole Grim Reaper thing for six months; a pittance compared to her. It’s entirely possible I’ll become numb, too, in time.
I glance back at the assignment.
I should do something.
No. Scratch that.
I need to do something.
I may not be able to save tonight’s victim; that’s entirely against the rules. Once you’re on Death’s list, that’s it. It’s done. Game over. Your fate is sealed.
But The Clown Maker... He’s a damned psychopath. I’ve seen it in his cold, dead eyes. I’ve heard it in his bone-chilling laugh. Monsters like him shouldn’t be free to roam the earth, picking off good people for their own sick and twisted pleasures.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Kristen nods, but it’s forced. She doesn’t really want me to ask. Actually, I think she’s nervous to find out what I want to know.
“Would it really be so bad if I used my knowledge to make sure this psycho doesn’t add another victim to the list? I know there’s nothing I can do for this person. I know I can’t interfere. But what about the next? Would it be so bad if I found a way to stop him from having a next?”
My question causes her brow to crease. For a minute or two, she doesn’t speak. She seems to be thinking hard about something or maybe remembering something. It’s hard to say. Her expression is both pained and curious. I sit quietly, sipping my coffee, waiting for her to answer.
“In some cases, yes,” she says, eventually. “Some of these victims aren’t good people. Some of them...” she stalls, squeezing her eyes shut for a beat. “You don’t know who they are, Alexa. You don’t know what they’ll become. Sometimes an early death is exactly what’s needed.”
I’m shaking my head no, even though my brain tells me she has a valid point. My gut though... my gut is saying that the maybe answer she just gave isn’t good enough.
“Why are you smiling?” she asks.
Going Rogue Page 1
