Absently, I trail toward the captain, knowing I should head in the opposite direction. The next man that Rumi stops at reaches for him. I can hear as he tries to speak and blood just gurgles in his throat. Rumi looks down at him tilting his head one way and the other. Then he speaks.
"You will be dead soon. I feel it. Just give into it. The strings to which you hold onto this life with aren't strong enough to hold you."
The dying man turns his head toward the village, his eyes staring off hopelessly. What is he leaving behind? A wife? A child? A friend? Rumi doesn’t squat this time but he still extends his palm and the black ink between the two men comes slower than it had on the others. As he does it the man loses his soul on his last breath.
Rumi is the evil thing in the world. My throat goes dry. I sway on my feet still trying to find logical reasons for everything I've just witnessed. There is none. There is no dog caught up in clothing. No lizard to look like a dragon. There's only me and Rumi.
A new chorus of shouting erupts as a building collapses in upon itself. Smoke and embers dance up toward the sky. Women hug their children. A few men still living cradle their wounds.
Breaking through all that is the panic of one voice. One woman, one mother, held back by the people around her. Rumi looks up at those several yards away from me. He sees me but doesn't acknowledge me as he heads towards the chaos and noise. His steps are hurried, his tan jacket fluttering behind him with the momentum.
The woman screams her voice breaking, "My baby! My daughter! She’s still inside! Let me go! Let me get her!"
Rumi passes me, his skin still faintly glowing. I know I should be afraid of him. I know now whatever magic he holds is real, but I don't have it in me to be scared of him. Or maybe I do, I'm just too stubborn. Or maybe I'm too stupid? It's often that stupidity and stubbornness are closely related.
I pick up my skirt, rushing after him but still keeping my distance. He only stops when he reaches the family and the frantic woman. He looks at the people holding her back, the men next to her, too hurt to do anything.
"Are any of you going to save her then?"
The survivors look back, a few of them shake their heads. He growls under his breath yanking the entirety of his belt, sword and all, off of his hips and he shoves all the metal into the hands of the closest person. He glares at them and wags his finger. “Do not steal these. Do not lose this. And for the love of all things do not tarnish them. I will not be pleased."
As if his pleasure is important to these people.
Then with that, he closes the space between them and the burning building and the mother lets out a long shaky breath as she waits in earnest. He disappears into the smoke and flames and for a minute it looks as if he himself is also caught on fire. Then he's gone.
I gasp, clutching my chest. The selfish part of me worries only because he’s supposed to lead me to my brother and he might not make it from this burning building. The other piece, though however small, knows I’m not done with him. I’m not done learning about him.
A few agonizingly slow minutes come and pass. When Rumi emerges from the smoke, his jacket has been removed and is wrapped around the child that clings to him. Not an inch of him is burned. His clothing isn't even singed.
How? How?
He passes the child to her mother. Together the small family collapses to the ground in a tearful reunion. My heart swells with relief. Whatever dark magic he’s using on everyone else… he didn’t use it on the kid.
Rumi peels his jacket away from her shoving his arms back into it, and snatches his belt from the person who held it carefully as they’d watched. He snaps it back onto his waist and continues back to the arrangement of dead bodies that we’d been at before.
9
After The Deal
Rumi
The moment the weight of the girl leaves my arms, I'm moving again. It was never a secret so I don't know why it feels like I've suddenly ruined everything. If only she'd stayed on the damn boat like I'd asked.
I've never wanted to hide this terrible side of me more than I do with Millicent. It's not that she's different from other women I've met—I’ve dealt with plenty that are hard-headed and uncooperative. Nor is she the prettiest woman either, though I do find her very attractive. Still, there is something about her spirit. She's living in a way that I've only longed for. And when her sentence is up, so is mine. We can leave my soul-eating ship together.
I tighten my belt till it's painful on my hips. It's hard to look at her now. Hard to see that expression of shock, or fear, or hate... it's always one of those. Trying to keep my breathing steady, I head back for the souls that wait.
Death called me here. Death demands their passage to the Otherworld.
When I pass Millicent, her features are empty of all the terrible things I expect. The wind tousles her dark hair across her forehead and those near black eyes glimmer with something I can't quite put my finger on. I see myself in her dark eyes; not a physical reflection, but the way my power always turns mine dark in the same way. It makes her feel like me. We are not alike. We are opposites. She is good and brave, I could sense that about her the moment I laid eyes on her.
Her pink lips are parted in a perfect O and I have to avert my gaze to stop from thinking about her mouth clasped tightly around my cock. Now isn't the time, I tell my rapid imagination. It's never the time, really.
A couple of heartbeats pass and she hurries forward. I'm still shrugging into my jacket to avoid the stinging of the sun, walking quick enough she'll have to run to catch up. And she does. She scurries along the dirt path between the old burnt town and the docks to where the attack had started.
Millicent only slows when she reaches my side. The sweet scent of honeysuckle follows her, always hanging around her like a cloud. I breathe it in, in slow shallow breaths. She says nothing. So quiet. Always...so quiet.
"Why are you down here? Shouldn't you be on the ship like I asked?"
"You saved her."
I stop and she digs her heels in next to me. "It wasn't her time to go."
"You're glowing."
I curl my fingers into my palms. Inhaling then allowing a slow exhale, I close my eyes. Power thrums through me. It pulses in my veins, demanding I allow the souls to pass through me, but I can also feel the way our souls brush.
Two people, in two different bodies, but somehow ours stretch toward each other. The slightest caress. A whisper of want. Piqued curiosity.
"And you aren't where you are supposed to be." My heart breaks for the slightest bit of innocence she had once had that's now been ripped away from her. She can only hate me more now. Shaking my head, I continue toward the waiting souls. Bodies, so many bodies, still to collect.
"What are you?" It is a whispered demand.
I spin toward her, sending the slightest bit of loose rock skittering around us and off the path. I let the monster in me shine through. "Call me whatever you like. Pick any myth or legend you'd like to believe. That is what I am."
To her credit, she holds her ground. She doesn't so much as flinch as I tower over her. One shaking breath is all I have to tell me that she feels something. "I don't know what you mean."
"They're all real." My voice rises but the people of this nothing town have already forgotten about me, forgotten about Millicent too. "Monsters exist." My chest heaves. "And I'm the worst one of them all."
She lifts her chin, a beckon for me to continue. The soft angle of her jaw, the dip and curve of her neck revealed as a breeze tosses her hair to the side, all of it makes me want to touch her. She looks like silk, as if to touch her would be the finest thing life could offer me. To press my lips there…
"The dead call to me." I make myself say, even if the words feel like daggers stabbing me all along my throat. "They call for the afterlife and I'm the doorway they must walk through."
Recognition passes through her. The legends...the many different names...all of them finally coming to her mind. Grim Reape
r. Four Horsemen. It doesn't matter what she calls me.
I laugh, shrill and bitter. "Have you heard of me?"
"Yes," she breathes.
Is that fear I finally smell on her?
"What did you hear? Tell me."
"You're the devil."
The words fall from her lips and she can't take them back. I'm the worst thing she could come up with. I'm the man who rules the underworld filled with tortured souls. That one statement tells me everything I need to know. In her eyes, I will never have any redeemable qualities. In her head...I am the worst kind of beast.
All I can do is laugh. My body shakes with the feeling that overwhelms me, a sense of hopelessness so strong it tastes like decay on the back of my tongue. I give her my back again, heading away to let the last of the dead cross over. This time she doesn't follow.
Where my heart beats it throbs with pain as if it's been ripped from my chest, stomped into a thousand pieces on the ground, and then put back. I learned years ago that hope only hurts, and yet, I still somehow have it. Every time I hope they'll see me for what I am and they'll still stay. There's no way Millicent will ever stay.
There is still one thing I need to clarify. Whether or not it's for her good or mine, I'm not sure. So I let my voice carry behind me to where she stands, let the information settle between us.
"I make no claim for my father's title."
10
Before The Deal
Rumi
When the entirety of my men—and Jac—move together from the ship to the gangway, and onto the streets of Himond it sounds like a stampede of wild animals. They shout to one another, excited for the small allowance of freedom, or at least some version of it. People part for them without a thought as to why.
I linger behind. Stepping off the ship, I look from boat to boat. Walking backwards, the crowd opens for me just as it did my crew. There is no need for me to look where I'm going. It's just me, my thoughts, and the blue sky above.
Large birds circle at a distance overhead. They cast their shadows over the line of ships. Fluffy white clouds dot the sky sporadically. To my right, men carry large crates and their grunts of effort drown out the cawing of the birds. Dutifully, I ignore them. And they don't see me. Not really. Only those so desperate as to make a deal with a demon ever truly see me.
Arnold is surely long gone. Possibly already headed inland and away from Himond and any other ships that could carry him away. He won't know why he craves the land farthest from the sea, or farthest from me, but he'll go.
I sigh heavily, turning toward the road that leads to the bars. I kick at rocks as wood is replaced by cobblestone. My body heaves to the right. A shoulder collides with my own. There's the slightest slip of hand into the pocket of my jacket where coins rattle against each other. The weight is quickly replaced—a common thieves trick.
"So sorry. I wasn't watching where I was going." A man with dark brown hair, secured in a low ponytail, and a few freckles staining his nose, holds up his hands. My coins jingle in his pocket.
"You're a good thief but not a fantastic one. Give me the coins back." I level him with a dark glare.
His eyes, a vivid shade of green, go wide. Beautiful. This man is so beautiful. He takes a step away, clutching the ends of his jacket, a fine enough suit that the man shouldn't be resorting to stealing...unless he stole the outfit in the first place.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Let's not play games now." Heat starts in my chest, but I let it be seen within the black pools of my gaze. Hellfire glows behind my eyes.
The man's chest rises and falls in a rapid rhythm to match his steady breathing but he doesn't make any move to hand back the coins. He must really, really be desperate for money then. Desperate men are exactly what I'm looking for.
That's the only reason he saw me out of the entirety of the crowd and chose me. He just doesn't know that.
"I'm not a thief nor do I take kindly to be called one."
I chuckle, rubbing at my chin. "Then maybe you and I were just meant to meet. Do you believe in fate?"
He doesn't answer. One hand slides down the front of his jacket, hovering nearest his sword. He's smart to be afraid and incredibly brave for not hardly showing it. More often than not, the hellfire trick makes humans wet themselves.
Throwing my arm over his shoulders, I can feel every muscle tense in his lean body. I could help him with that, but I won't. Maybe I won't need to.
"To apologize for the misunderstanding, could I take you out for a drink?" I ask.
He looks over his shoulder, presumably to his ship. I give him that moment to think, watching as the hand that had fallen onto the hilt of the sword slowly relaxes.
"Yeah." He nods. "I've got time for a drink."
"Perfect."
A grin as dastardly as me darkens my features. The man smiles back. At nearly my height, we could knock heads while we walk if not careful. He doesn't shrug out of my arm as I expect him to, though he is anything but leaning into me. The scent of burning sandalwood lingers on him as well as hints of vodka. It's an almost familiar scent and I find myself shyly breathing it in.
"What's your name?" I say as the bars come into view. A few members of my wayward crew sit outside under the shade of a stretched awning. When they see us strolling forward they begin indecently whispering. One of them stands and briskly walks inside leaving the door swinging behind him. I grab ahold of it, guiding the man in with my hand firmly between his shoulders, and I wait for him to answer me.
"Boston."
Fitting name. Unique. Strong. It feels so fiercely...him.
But I need full names. Only full names have the power to bind them to me.
"What a clever name." I arch a single brow. "Your parents must be creative. Will you tell me it in its entirety?"
And because he knows nothing. Because he is innocent. Or maybe just because he feels bad about stealing my coin and replacing it with the small apple core I have yet to touch, he tells me.
"Boston William Acker."
"William." I stand a little straighter and head for the bar, Boston close behind me. "My middle name is William too. We have so much in common already."
He smiles and even his teeth are just as perfect as he is. I slide my palm across the bar, rings scraping across the counter.
"What do you drink?" I ask.
"Well, I don't usually. My father forbids it."
I laugh. "You smell of vodka."
"Oh." He runs his palms over his shirt as if he can rid himself of the scent. "The men my father employs got a little rowdy when we made it home. They like to celebrate."
"How old are you? Surely, you don't need your father's permission to drink."
I wave my hand and the two men occupying the nearest bar stools stand and walk away. In one fluid movement, I push my coat behind me and slip into the seat, offering the other to Boston. He lowers onto the stool, looking around the room. Perhaps he thinks his father might pop right out of the woodwork and lecture him.
"Twenty-Four. I'll be Twenty-Five in a couple of months."
The bottom of the barstool cries out against the floor as I scoot myself closer to him. I lean in, wishing his presence could fill the gaping hole inside of me. Maybe adding him to my team will make me feel complete. Maybe he'll want to be my friend, genuinely.
He could be the one...
Every new recruit always feels as though they have the potential to be the person that makes me suddenly stop craving to fill my ship with souls just to have someone to be around. In my head, he's already the person that picks me.
"Have you drank before?" I continue.
"Of course!"
"Sneaky devil, you." I snicker, gently pushing at his chest. There's muscle hidden under those fine clothes. "So, what will you be having? Something new? Something you've had before?"
"Just whatever you're getting is fine."
"That's a dangerous game to play, Boston. William. Acker."
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His cheeks flush pink and he smiles at me in challenge. I stand, climbing up my barstool, onto the counter, then jump easily down behind the bar. Boston stands, slamming both palms down.
"What are you doing?" He gasps, looking around the room for someone to stop me.
The bartender hardly notices me. One quick look and he's back to his work. I rummage through the bottles messily stacked together, avoiding the ones with gnats belly up in the liquid. I gather my ingredients, watching Boston slowly lower back into his seat when no one says a word to me. He makes eye contact with me through the mirror and I smile back. With everything in hand, I turn back to him.
Glass smacks against glass, the bottles balanced in my arms until I set them down loudly in front of him. I sing under my breath, pulling two glasses out and holding them up to the light to examine them for cleanliness. Once satisfied, I flip them right side up and begin mixing the concoction together until both glasses are a murky brown.
"I like to call these, Puddle Water," I say proudly, hoisting myself onto the counter and back over—careful not to knock down our drinks.
"They look disgusting," he whispers, more so to himself.
"But they taste good. You'll get drunk on these and not even know it till you stand up and stumble all the way home."
He lifts the glass to his nose and sniffs audibly. "It smells like...pineapple."
"Ah, the secret ingredient." With one finger, I push the glass a little closer to his mouth. "Have a taste. Let me know what you think."
The large Adam's apple in his throat bobs before he finally sets it to his full lips. Brown liquid drains from the cup and into his mouth. One swallow. Two. Three.
Boston pulls the glass away, looking at it again with a fresh perspective. "It's delicious."
Knowingly, I lift my glass to his. Our cups clink together making the drink inside slosh ever so slightly. I take a hefty drink of mine, draining most of the glass when I do.
"Ah," I say mostly satisfied. I set the cup down between us letting our knees brush. Boston tenses slightly next to me but doesn't move. "So, now do you want to tell me why you stole from me?"
Chasing Boston Page 7
