by H. D. Gordon
“You are right on all accounts, of course. I only wonder why. Why watch over her if when something happens, you have no choice but to stand back and let the chips fall where they may? Would that not be worse than not knowing?”
I find myself answering truthfully, though I’m not sure I should bother. “I like watching her,” I say.
“Who is she?”
Again, I speak truth. Again, I question it. “Rose. My niece.”
I feel Samael’s eyes on me for a moment before they flick back over to the young lady sitting on a blanket by the edge of the lake some twenty yards away. The sun catches in the chocolate of her hair, which hangs in soft ringlets down her back. A book is open on her lap. She looks up from the pages and stares out over the water, none the wiser that two reapers are staring at her.
I am suddenly very aware that I do not like his attention on her; he is too wolfish, too predatory. I do not trust him.
“Why are you here?” I ask, my tone making it clear that I wish he were not.
He shrugs, eyes leaving my niece to settle on me. I am almost as uncomfortable under his gaze as I was when it rested on Rose.
“This is my free time,” he says, throwing my words back at me. “I can do with it what I want.”
“And what you want is to sit here and pester me?”
“Apparently,” he says.
I study him for a moment, though it intimidates me to do so. The knowledge that he could shred me without breaking a sweat makes my heart pick up pace.
Then movement within my peripheral draws my attention back to my niece, and my phantom heart stops dead in my phantom chest.
An hourglass appears over Rose’s head, the kind that only the creature sitting next to me and I can see.
My niece has only twenty-four hours left to live.
4
1:15 p.m.
“Whatever you’re thinking, you should stop thinking it.”
I hear his words, the deep timbre of his voice, the threat in the tone, but I cannot respond. For several moments, I can do nothing at all, as though my own internal hourglass has fallen upon its side, halting the grains in place.
“Cecilia, are you listening to me?”
My name from his lips yanks me out of my stupor. I have every reason to know who he is, as one of the most feared and brutal enforcers among my kind, but he has no reason to know mine.
My back stiffens.
Unless he does.
I turn to him. “What are you doing here?” I ask again, this time with a tone that forbids argument or evasion.
His wide shoulders are not tight, his fine jaw not set, his barbed tail flicking lazily at his side, but I can sense the tension running through him. I can feel the threat.
The reaper nods toward my niece. Toward my little Rose. “The real question is what are you going to do here?” His head tilts, his eyes locked on me as if by target. “The smart answer is nothing. Nothing at all.”
I suddenly realize why he is here, the obvious reason for his presence earlier this morning. He is an Enforcer, after all, one of the few, very powerful reapers who are tasked with keeping the rest of us in line. The police of our world.
Across the way, my niece is standing, gathering her belongings, folding the blanket upon which she’d been sitting. Leaving.
I stand. To follow her.
Samael stands as well. When I go to move, he catches my arm. The contact sends an electric shock through me. It has been so long since I’ve felt the touch of another.
“Don’t,” he says. It is a command. An order.
Though I have been starved of physical sensation these past seven years, I yank out of his grasp, fear of him be damned.
“Leave me alone,” I say, and hate that I sound like a child, especially as that seems to be his favorite title by which to address me.
Vladimir departs from his perch upon the lamppost near the pathway cutting through the green grass. He lands upon my shoulder with a squawk. His beady black eyes watch the senior reaper, his head flicking from side-to-side.
“Leave her alone,” Vlad squawks, echoing my words in his avian oratory.
The reaper only smiles, his teeth straight and white against the darkness that surrounds him, ringing him like an aura.
It is only just then that real fear steals over me, blanketing me, covering the green around me with frost, a chill only I can see.
Rose is all packed up now, slinging a backpack over her shoulders, starting toward the path that leads out of the park. I move to follow, expecting him to stop me again.
But he does not.
In fact, when I finally work up the nerve to glance over my shoulder, I see that he is no longer there.
The sun continues its arch across the sky, following the turning of the earth.
I follow my niece.
Vlad sits on my shoulder. I can feel the tension emanating through him. He snaps his sharp beak, staring at me with those beady, infinite eyes.
“What are you doing?” asks the bird.
I say nothing. Vlad knows damn well what I am doing.
I feel the dig of his talons into the skin of my shoulder, a touch I can feel only because he and I both walk the Realm Between Realms; most commonly referred to by my kind as the Between.
“Let it go,” he says. “You cannot save her. You must not think of it.”
Again, I do not respond. I stride forward, leaving behind my motorcycle to continue my pursuit on-foot. Rosie is heading back to the small bookshop at which she works. Above her head, the grains of her hourglass continue to slip through the neck, a reality of which she is wholly unaware.
Just like the rest of the poor souls.
“For the love of the Fates, child, are you listening to me? Do you think it’s a coincidence that Samael is hanging around you all of a sudden? Are you trying to get shredded?”
That was a long speech for Vladimir. The Crows can speak, but they do not communicate in the same way people do. They had other ways of conveying thoughts and feelings.
His claws dig a bit deeper into my shoulder. I scoot around the mortals on the sidewalk, though there is no reason not to walk through them other than it feels a little weird. Rosie’s dark hair bobs twenty feet ahead.
“Fates be damned!” squawks the bird. He takes flight, the flap of his wings stirring my hair. “It’s your soul that risks being shredded. If you don’t care, why should I?”
As Rose rounds the corner, I slip between a mailbox and a biker pedaling down the sidewalk. I watch her reach The Little Book Shop, hear the chime above the door, see her disappear inside.
I am just about to slip through the door myself when I all but collide with a chest as hard and real as the world around me—that which I can only peer into, but never touch.
I stumble back with the impact, having not made physical contact with another being other than Vladimir in over seven years.
I am going to hit the ground, but strong hands catch me, steady me, place me back on my feet.
The senior reaper meets my gaze, holds it along with my body for a few heartbeats. His hands are cold, his eyes even colder.
“Cecilia,” he says, speaking the name as though it is a prayer, voice deep and low and threatening. The power of it makes me pause.
“If you go in there, you are going to set off a chain of events. Once that happens, there will be no hope in saving you.”
Fear rolls over me, but I glance around his broad shoulders and catch sight of my niece beyond the glass door. She smiles as she carefully places a book onto a shelf.
I meet the reaper’s eyes. “I don’t need to be saved,” I say as I push past him.
This time, he does not stop me.
5
2:00 p.m.
I perch at the end of the counter, my legs crossed beneath me, chin resting in my hands.
Rosie rings up another customer less than five feet away from me. Neither of them are aware of my presence. I am a ghost even among ghosts.
>
But my niece’s smile is like sunlight, warming whatever it touches.
“Thank you so much for your help,” says the woman making the purchase. “My daughter loves to read, but I can never seem to pick things she likes. But she absolutely loved the last series you recommended. She didn’t lift her nose from those books for days.”
This makes both of them smile wider. The interaction is so simple, so sweet, so beautiful, especially from the perspective of someone who can no longer interact with other souls, save for to reap them.
“I’m glad I could help,” says Rose. “It’s what I’m here for.”
They wish each other a good day and the woman departs with her book haul. Rose’s smile lingers a bit after she is gone. She loves this job, and what’s not to love?
The bell above the shop chimes again, and the smile on Rose’s face turns into a jubilant grin. She sweeps out from behind the counter, dark hair drifting over her shoulders, big eyes gleaming with love.
Kai Chang has entered the bookstore, and the look on his face matches that of my niece. I sigh at the sight of it, hardly aware of doing so. In moments like these, all the things I’ve done over the last seven years, the choice I made that fateful night, seem so obviously worth it.
They come together as though tugged by an internal gravity. Since they met a year ago, one of my few pleasures has been watching them orbit each other in the same way. They are young and in love. Watching them, I know that I left the living realm too early to have ever truly known the feeling. It is a good thing my existence does not depend upon the ticking of my heart. It would be too broken to beat.
“Good afternoon, my love,” Rose says to Kai.
Kai tugs her closer at the waist, buries his nose in her neck, breathes deeply, then pulls back so that he can look at her. “Good afternoon, my dear,” Kai says.
They kiss. It is sweet and gentle, as innocent as their love.
I watch from my perch. A fuckin’ creeper move if there ever was one, but I cannot help myself. Rose’s happiness is often the only reason I have to go on, the only reason this existence is preferable to being shredded.
I turn from that thought quickly.
Kai lifts my niece’s left hand. The one on which he placed a ring only three weeks ago. It had marked one of the best moments of my life.
Or afterlife.
Whatever.
He kisses her fingers. She runs hers through his jet-black hair.
“I have something to tell you,” Rose says.
Kai tucks a piece of her dark hair behind her ear, listens.
Rose takes his hand and places it over her lower belly. It takes a moment to sink in, but the look that floods his face is both heartbreaking and heart-healing in one shot. The cold place where my own heart rests clenches, aches. I place a hand there, though I’m not entirely aware of doing so.
“Truly?” Kai asks, wonder ringing the words.
Rose grins, full pink lips parting as she tips back her head to better see him, to capture the look in his eyes. She nods.
“We’re going to have a baby, Kai.”
Kai lifts her into his arms, spins her in a circle. He carries her around the book shop, in a world all their own for this fleeting moment, laughing and kissing. Their happiness is enough to alter the colors of the skies.
All the while, I watch the sand slip through the neck of the hourglass hanging over Rose’s head.
I should not be here, but here I am.
The sentiment sounds an awful lot like the one Samael tried to offer.
“If you go in there, you are going to set off a chain of events... Once that happens, there will be no hope in saving you.”
I kill the engine of my motorcycle and dismount. I’ve barely both feet on the ground when Vladimir lights on my shoulder.
“Still on a suicide mission, I see,” says the bird.
“I thought you gave up on me.”
His velvety feathers ruffle, head cocking this way and that, beady eyes staring. “You’re the one who has given up,” he squawks.
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” I reply, even as I stride toward the building at which I have zero business being. “I haven’t broken any rules.”
Not yet, anyway.
Vlad snaps his beak at my neck, a sensation I can actually feel, as the raven and I share a plane. It stings, but I nearly sigh against it. When you’ve gone seven years without feeling so much as the wind upon your face, even pain can be pleasurable.
“Father damn it, Cici, it’s not too late to stop this madness!” Vlad says. He pecks at me again.
I brush him off my shoulder with a flick of my hand. His wings slap me as they flare and he takes flight. He circles around my head a while before drifting away. I allow myself a ghost of a smile as I know he was considering whether or not to drop a little present upon my head. He’s certainly threatened the action before.
I know Vlad is trying to look out for me. A small, distant voice inside me whispers that he is not the only one. I dismiss that thought without further examination.
Philadelphia’s City Hall is two blocks away, and 12th Street is busy at this time of day. In front of me stands a squat brown building near the center of the city. On the wall of the building the words Reading Terminal Market glow in red.
I skirt around the corner to the secret entrance to the other Market—the one only supernaturals know about. A werewolf in his human form stands guard. Under normal circumstances, he would not even be aware of my presence, just like most other supernaturals, save for those with unique abilities, like necromancers.
But these are not normal circumstances, and this is no normal market.
A magical barrier controlled by the local witch Coven surrounds the place, and magic also grants the bouncer the rare ability of Full Sight.
“Hmm,” he says as I approach. He strokes his chin. “A reaper.” He shifts uncomfortably. He is such a large person that it is almost amusing to see him squirm. “I hope you ain’t here for me,” he adds with a nervous chuckle.
“Not this time, Jerald,” I say, speaking his name only to be a little bit of a dick. I don’t know him, but being a reaper comes with certain abilities.
The thick hair on his thicker arms bristles. “I guess you want to go in, then?”
I nod. “I do.”
Jerald tilts his head, chuckles again. “I suppose it’d be a mistake to deny a reaper.” He steps to the side as the stones of the building shift and slide, creating an entrance that was not there a moment before.
As I step through, Jerald says, “Like my great grandfather used to say, only fools fuck with Fate.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, but for all other appearances, I am cool as a cucumber. “Sounds like he was a smart man,” I reply.
Another nervous chuckle from Jerald. “Well, he wasn’t stupid,” he says as he lets the hidden entrance close behind me.
6
3:00 p.m.
You know what I miss even more than sex?
Food.
I miss eating food the way a lover misses her beau, the way a child misses a mother’s bosom, the way billionaires would miss tax cuts if America could ever get her shit together.
But I digress.
As I step into the magical Market, I feel my stomach seize with pangs of hunger that is wholly imagined.
The sights are as enticing as the smells. The market is vast, spreading as far as the eye can see, the ancient magic ensuring the peace between patrons.
Colorful tents and booths hung with all manner of item spread before me in every direction. Shadows hug the edges and corners, the only light provided by the flickering of flames from various sources. Cats dart here and there, climbing and slinking about. I can’t be sure, but I think the little beasts can see my kind. In true cat fashion, however, they don’t seem to care about my existence one way or the other.
The place is packed, as per usual, but the unwitting crowd moves around me the way a r
iver bends around a rock. Though they are mostly supernaturals, many of them do not possess the True Sight, as had Jerald. But even those who cannot see me avoid the space I occupy, anyway.
I pass a genie swallowing flames and luring young people with false promises of happiness. I tell myself not to linger at a cart pushing mammoth meat and fried dough sprinkled with fairy sugar. A band of trolls pluck out a peppy tune as passers drop coins in their upturned hats. There is so much to look at, so much to distract the senses, but there is no item here that can offer what I need.
I must find the Abbah. And hope to the Gods that she can help me.
Her tent moves, and there is no guarantee that she will be here, but I will know it if I see it. At least, that’s what they say.
Someone bumps into my shoulder, and the contact shocks me out of focus.
“Oh, sorry,” says a female with big brown eyes and dark skin.
I blink as I look at her, captivated. She cannot be older than thirty, but there is a depth to her gaze that makes me think her soul has known more than a few cycles. She stares back at me, eyes unblinking, seemingly captivated in the same manner as am I.
“Reaper,” she says.
Yes, a reaper. That is all and exactly what I am.
My head tilts. She is human, but her Sight is clearer than any magic could grant. It runs through her blood.
“Necromancer,” I reply.
We are still staring at each other like weirdos.
“This is a dangerous place for a human,” I tell her, keeping my voice low. “Especially a young female.”
Why I should care to tell her this, I do not know. Why I should care to stop at all is further confounding.
“Where in the world is not a dangerous place for a young female?” she asks.
I decide I like her.
“Why are you here?” Again, not sure why I care.
“I would ask you the same.”
“To save someone I love,” I answer truthfully.
