Shadows and Stars

by Becca Fanning

  “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” Williams looked up at the sky, pleading.

  “Yeah, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but that particular loophole closed when you signed your contract. Article II, subsection B.” Still holding my I.D., more out of habit than the hopes of salvaging this situation, I repeated the contract clauses ad nauseum.

  Williams begged for forgiveness once more before launching himself off the balcony.

  The end result was the same. His contract was binding and the suicide tied any loose ends Williams left behind in a nice little bow. The paperwork it created, however, was a bitch.

  “Not your best work, Angelica,” I murmured. “Although, given the way the day has gone so far, I’m not sure why I’d expected anything else.” With heavy shoulders, I headed back inside the apartment.

  “I have to agree. You’re getting sloppy, Angel.” Lounging like a lazy cat on the sofa, Apollyon popped in like he owned the place.

  Which, I guess he did.

  “Big A!” Caught off guard by his unexpected appearance, I yelped his name and jumped halfway across the room, bumping into a buffet table.

  “Mind the vase. Ming Dynasty. Extremely expensive and impossible to replace.” Apollyon watched me, a smile in his eyes, as I steadied the vase on the table.

  Blond hair, beautiful big blue eyes; it was easy to see he’d been favored at the time of his creation. Too bad it didn’t stay that way. As lovely as he was on the outside, he was equally dark and twisted on the inside.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” The look on my face said being with Big A was anything but.

  “Can’t a man check in on his daughter? Why are you always so suspicious?” He swung his legs around from the arm of the couch, burying his bare feet in the plush carpet.

  “You’re not my father.” Gritting my teeth, I prepared myself for the same argument we’d been having pretty much my entire life.

  “I’m the closest thing to one you’ve ever known. That has to count for something.” Apollyon pulled a few papers from, well, out of thin air, and began scattering them on the coffee table.

  “And you wonder why I have daddy issues?” Moving closer, I leaned in for a better view of the documents he was fanning out on the table. “Spreadsheets? You didn’t come up here for a performance review, did you?”

  “Hardly. Though, if we took this latest collection into account, I think we could both agree on how that would go.” Satisfied he’d positioned them all so they were visible but not obvious, he leaned back into the cushions. “Don’t worry about the paperwork. It’s been filed. This is evidence for the police, who should be here any moment. Neither of us wants to be here when that happens, so I’ll make this quick.”

  Quick was relative when dealing with Big A. We both knew the police wouldn’t be barging into the apartment unless he wanted them to. Time moved according to Apollyon’s mood. Faster or slower depending on the company and situation.

  “Who filed the reports?” Skeptical over his newfound understanding, I waited for him to deliver the catch.

  There was always a catch.

  “One of the interns. It doesn’t matter.” He waved off my suspicions. “Don’t interrupt.” The look he gave me ensured I’d hold all questions until the end. “I heard something that interested me today. One of my informants said you’ve been spending time with a Sin Eater.”

  “Jackson? I’m not spending time with him. He’s been following me around, poaching my collections.” Death stare or not, I wasn’t going to stand there and be accused of hanging out with a Sin Eater.

  There were rules about that sort of thing. Well, one rule. Don’t do it.

  Apollyon had a history with the Sin Eaters. They worked both sides, sort of a neutral party absolving sins and making deals that maintained the balance. A necessary, if not annoying part of the process. Tolerated and occasionally used to our benefit—until one day something changed. I’d never heard the whole story, but from what I’d managed to piece together, a Sin Eater took something from Big A. Something precious. After that, all negotiation channels were closed. Apart from one. Apollyon. Any deals went through him and him alone. Department of Soul Acquisition agents like myself didn’t talk to Sin Eaters.

  Apparently, no one told Jackson Reed. He’d latched himself on to me like a tick on a dog’s ass, and I was left to explain it to Big A.

  “You weren’t with him tonight?” Apollyon stood, looming over me, darkness cracking through his perfect veneer. “I will not have my daughter cavorting with a Sin Eater.”

  “I’m not your daughter.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. I’d heard people had filters, something in their brain that prevented them from saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Mine was obviously broken.

  “Not by blood, but by right and that, child, is a stronger bond.” The muscles in his jaw twitched, a telltale sign I’d pushed him too far. “Hear me on this, Angelica. Stay away from the Sin Eater, or you’ll both regret it.”

  “Maybe you should tell him that. I’m not the one…” My argument turned into a frustrated growl when Big A popped out of the apartment.

  Williams’s file was officially closed. On to the next case.

  THREE

  FOR A NIGHT that kicked off with a bang, it kind of fizzled out at the end. I wouldn’t say the rest of my cases were as smooth as silk but as smooth as they can be when you’re calling in a marker on someone’s soul. After working my way through half a dozen more files, I trudged back to my apartment on Broadway and collapsed fully clothed on my couch.

  Before I knew it, the alarm on my cell phone played reveille until I forced my eyes open and the rest of my body into motion. Praising the person who invented the autostart setting on coffee pots, I pulled a mug from the cupboard and poured myself a cup, sans all the fancy fixings. I liked my coffee like my heart: black and bitter.

  Reapers worked nights, which meant mornings were not my favorite time of day. People who are bright eyed and bushy tailed before noon were not to be trusted. Sounds of the city coming to life as people began milling around the different shops and restaurants made their way up to the window of my second-floor apartment, and I found myself grateful once more that my downstairs neighbor ran a tarot shop instead of a bistro or boutique, and the landlord sprung for the double firewall insulation. Both of which helped dull the sensory onslaught of living in the city.

  Or when work occasionally followed me home.

  Hester, or Hetty to family and friends, read more than palms and cards. She read people. Three months into my lease and she’d figured out who and what I was. More than once Hetty’s left a sachet stuffed with sage, frankincense, myrrh and holy grass outside my door. The herbs packed a power-cleansing punch that left me with a headache akin to a bomb going off behind my left eye. But any residual energy was gone, and my apartment remained a demon-free zone.

  So did her shop, which may have been a bigger motivator than our tentative friendship.

  Pouring a small amount of the herbal mix into the ashtray on my table, I set it alight. Grabbing the ibuprofen from the counter, I popped four pills and chased them with a swig of coffee in preparation for an oncoming headache. Something about the previous night’s events left me feeling off.

  Having a clean apartment was a fair trade for a migraine.

  After crossing the few feet that separated my kitchen from my living room, I settled in on my futon and scanned the day’s news on my cell. Perusing the local news sites was part of a daily ritual for any Reaper worth their salt. I’d scored more than one tip on a collection reading the headlines in the financial section. Unfortunately, the breaking news bulletin flashing bright red across my screen caught my attention instead.

  Child predator on the loose. Another victim in Pigtown reported by authorities. Cause of small double puncture wounds on the victims remains a mystery.

  Son of a bitch.

  Phone in one hand and coffee cup
in the other, I headed back to the kitchen to top off my mug before getting dressed. Eyeing the coffee maker, I contemplated forgoing the mug and drinking right from the pot. Adding a trip to the marshes to my agenda meant I’d need all the caffeine I could get.

  Smithie and I were going to be finishing our little talk sooner than I’d expected.

  North Point State Park had a vibrant history filled with trolleys, fountains, amusement parks and sunbathers, dating all the way back to the early nineteen hundreds. At least, according to the Park and Rec website, but North Point had another story to tell, and that was the one I was interested in. The trolleys had long since gone; hiking trails were all that remained to mark the routes to and from the city.

  Black Marsh trail sat off the beaten path, away from the station house converted into party pavilions and the prying eyes of park rangers who worked the newly renovated welcome center. Rare birds and other forms of wildlife flocked to the refuge nestled into the coastline of the bay, which attracted nature lovers—which in turn attracted something else.

  Smithie.

  The marshes were his home, Black Marsh a particular favorite for its easy pickings during the peak seasons and the solitude in the off ones. The offseason began with the changing of the clocks—tourists retreating to the warmth of their homes after the sun set a little earlier each day, less likely to be lured away from the shore by the light of Smithie’s smoldering coals.

  Something to be grateful for.

  I had no desire to watch Will the Smith lure an unsuspecting mortal to their demise. There was enough of that in my line of work—and all my collections were aware if not willing.

  “Smithie? You home?” Boots sinking into the mud, I trudged further away from the safety of the shore. Meeting with the blacksmith on his home turf was always a risk. He’d just as soon kill you as talk to you.

  Something stirred in the reeds to my left, an owl hooting his displeasure over the disturbance as I turned to see what it was.

  “Angel baby, been a long time since you visited my neck of the woods.” Despite his size, Smithie moved through the wetland terrain with ease.

  “Damn, Smithie.” Chest heaving, I brought my breathing back under control. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

  “I knew you couldn’t resist the fi-follet.” Amused he’d gotten the drop on me, he smothered his laughter with a cough. “It’s because of the little ones, isn’t it? If this thing fed on crooks or something I don’t think we’d be talking.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Regret that the person who knew me better than most, the closest thing I had to a friend, was Will the Smith filled my voice. “Tell me about our little vampire ghost.” Pulling the clipping from the morning’s paper from the back pocket of my jeans, I unfolded the clipping and handed it to Smithie.

  “I told you, it’s not a vampire.” Scanning the article, he grunted his confirmation that it was, in fact, the fi-follet. “It’s a spirit gone bad, and it’s messing with the balance of things.”

  “So how do I stop it?” Taking the newspaper clipping back from Smithie, I folded it up and tucked it back in my pocket.

  “Yeah, blacksmith. How do we stop it?”

  “Sin Eater.” A look of betrayal crossed Smithie’s face. “You brought him here?”

  “What? No.” My temper flared, fast and hot. Without thinking, I pulled the small revolver tucked in the waistband of my jeans and turned on Jackson Reed. “You have until the count of three to turn around and walk out of here or find yourself facedown in the muck.” It had been a long time since I’d fired my gun, but my hands were rock steady.

  Reapers didn’t need guns to strike fear into the hearts of our prey. Our presence alone was usually enough. But Baltimore was a tough city, and a girl couldn’t be too careful. At least that was what my landlord said when he gave it to me. More for show than shooting, the gun wasn’t fully loaded. Of course, Jackson didn’t know that. Neither did Smithie, which was why I’d decided to bring it with me in the event things went south.

  “We want the same things.” Hands raised, the Sin Eater tried to diffuse the situation.

  “I find that hard to believe.” I flicked the safety off. “One… Son of a bitch.” Lowering the gun, I tucked it back into my waistband when I heard Smithie take off from behind me.

  Turning my back on the Sin Eater, I picked up the smoldering lump of coal, tossing it in my hands. A small smirk crossed my lips at Jackson’s awed expression. Reapers have a high tolerance for heat. One of the few perks that comes with the job.

  “I can help you with this.” Jackson stepped closer, his cologne catching on the wind, momentarily covering the smell of the marsh. “I mean if you’ll give me a chance.”

  “Because you’ve been so helpful thus far?” I waved a hand toward the spot Smithie vacated. “Every time you show up, my best informant takes off. Why is that?”

  “Why does Smithie run at the mere sight of me or why do I keep showing up?” Jackson took the question as an invitation to stay. Moving closer, he reached for the lump of coal still in my hand. When the heat became too much for him, he tossed it back, examining his palm for any sign of blistering.

  “Both.”

  Smithie wasn’t coming back, not this time. I answered his call in the cemetery; he answered mine in the marshes. We’d been interrupted twice. There wouldn’t be a third. Anger warred with frustration as I tossed the lump of coal into the murky water. Bubbles and steam broke the surface for a moment before the water consumed the last of the coal’s heat and the algae slipped back into place.

  “I really can help with this. May I?” Jackson pointed toward the lower half of my body, smirking at my quizzical if not offended expression. “The article.”

  Somewhat relieved he wasn’t insinuating something else, I dug into my back pocket to retrieve the newspaper clipping.

  Starting to hand it over, I snatched it back out of reach. “Answer my questions first.”

  For the first time since he turned up uninvited, Jackson Reed had the presence of mind to look flustered, raking his hands through his dark brown hair.

  “First, I don’t have all the details, okay? So, don’t go getting all pissy and accuse me of evading the question or holding out on you. I’ll tell you what I know. That’s the best I can do.” He paused a beat, waiting for some sort of response from me, trudging on when he didn’t get it. “Smithie’s reaction to me isn’t personal. Well, not beyond what I am anyway. He doesn’t care much for Sin Eaters since we denied him all those years ago.”

  “What, he couldn’t afford it? What was the going rate for a Sin Eater back then, anyway?” I held up a hand, half-heartedly apologizing when he glared at me. “Please, continue.”

  “You have to pay to play, right?” Jackson smiled, throwing my words back at me. “I don’t know why. Payment aside, it’s a Sin Eater’s discretion. We’re at least afforded the luxury of deciding which sins we carry for eternity. It doesn’t really matter why. It only matters that he was. He never forgave us for it. Especially after St. Peter sent him back.”

  “Everyone’s entitled to a mistake now and then. Even St. Peter.” I shrugged. There was no point melting my brain from overthinking the Gate Keeper’s decision. Peter was probably just bored.

  Jackson gave me a look as if to imply himself, before continuing. “So yeah, he hates Sin Eaters. As for turning up at your collections?” It was his turn to offer a nonchalant shrug.

  Jackson Reed ran cool and confident where I was hot-tempered and annoyed most of the time. A temperament I experienced with more frequency every time he appeared.

  “At first it was to check out the competition. Get a feel for the new kid.” Eyes roving my body from head to toe, Jackson appraised me once more. The half-century or so that he had on me hardly made me a kid, but he’d been Baltimore’s Sin Eater long before I’d completed my first reaping. Sin Eaters, just like Reapers, had territories. Too bad we’d been assigned to the same one. “After a while you start
ed beating me to the punch, finishing your collections before I had a chance to answer the sinner’s call.”

  “Worried you’ll get reassigned?” The look on his face confirmed I’d hit a little too close to home, erasing the smug smile forming on my face.

  The hierarchy of Sin Eaters and Reapers was surprisingly similar. We all had quotas and people to answer to. I wondered if Jackson had an Apollyon in his life. With a shudder, I shook off the thought, and subsequent goosebumps it inspired, as Big A’s warning about staying away from the Sin Eater came back to haunt me. Slapping the article against his chest and ignoring the hard planes of muscle noticeable through the cotton tee shirt he wore under his jacket, I shoved past him and slogged off toward my car, cursing the whole way about the mud covering my vintage eight-hole Docs.

  Back in the parking lot, I scraped at the mud on my shoes with a stick while I waited for Jackson to catch up. I loved my shoes, but I loved not having to vacuum mud off the floorboards of my car even more. I was still scraping the muck off my boots, slinging it with abandon, when Jackson stepped into my line of fire.

  “Hey, what was that for?” Brushing the mud from his pant leg, he gave me a wary look.

  Big A’s words flashed through my mind again. Worrying at my bottom lip, I wondered if we could actually stop the fi-follet and avoid Apollyon’s wrath. It seemed highly unlikely, and I had a sneaking suspicion who’d take the brunt of Big A’s anger. It wouldn’t be me. Momentarily feeling sorry for Jackson over a fate that had yet to befall us, I ignored the fact that it was an accident and muttered a weak apology.

  “No harm done.” Jackson’s easygoing attitude allowed him to take things in stride. I envied that. “Look, I’m going to offer one more time, and then I’ll leave you alone.” He caught the skepticism in my eyes. “Promise.”

  “Right, like I believe that one.” I chuckled, playing it off. I couldn’t work with him even if I wanted to. Big A would fry us both.