Fatal Heir

by L. C. Ireland

  Dust motes floated merrily in the early morning light that shone through the windows of the old cottage where I had grown up. I wondered if my vision had been enhanced when I became a reaper, or if I was just now taking the time to notice the little things like the patterns in the wood grains and the individual shapes of the leaves in the trees.

  My family sat anxiously facing their unexpected visitor. They had only met Rath once before — on the day of my execution. Now, to their eyes, he had returned alone. Tensions were high.

  No one in my family could see me, which I considered a good thing. One could only see a reaper if they were about to die. None of my family members met that criteria. As far as I could tell, they would all live long and happy lives.

  We had had this meeting once before. The previous day, we had met with Shyronn in Lord Brenden’s office.

  “So, he’s never coming back?” Shyronn asked.

  “He isn’t really gone,” Rath said, rubbing his neck. “He’s actually standing right here.” He waved a hand in my direction. Shyronn squinted, but since he was in good health and not due any horrible accidents, he gazed right through me.

  I waved just to be obnoxious. Rath rolled his eyes.

  “This will be hard to explain,” Shyronn said. “He made quite a name for himself at the Battle of the Dead. How am I supposed to explain his disappearance?”

  Rath shrugged. “That’s not my business. You’re the king now.”

  Shyronn looked mystified. “The king.”

  “Yes.”

  “You are certain this is what Izayik wanted?”

  Rath looked at me. “Izzy, is this what you want?”

  “Who else would I leave the kingdom to? My pa?” The war had been won in my name, but I’d technically died without an heir.

  “He says yes,” Rath translated.

  The war had ended while Rath and I were still traveling through the mountains on our way to Hira. It had been a short war, consisting of a single decisive battle. In the chaos of the attacking deadmen, Safford had been killed. Many of the soldiers took my “rescue” as a sign and switched allegiances. Since then, Shyronn had been negotiating with the remainder of the Safford family in an effort to make the overthrow as peaceful as possible. He had done all of this in my name, expecting me to show up at any moment and take the crown.

  Fate had other plans.

  Shyronn conferred with his wife for a long while before finally giving his answer to Rath: he accepted. Now I could focus all of my attention on my new responsibilities as a reaper while Shyronn took over the throne and handled the public.

  Rath looked more nervous addressing my family than he had addressing his old friend. He sat uncomfortably on the stool they had provided. Though Rath could conceal his wings, appearing as if he didn’t have them at all, his back was still sensitive to the pressure of chairs with tall backs. My pa, unable to see his wings, had offered him his big chair as a courteous gesture, but Rath had politely declined and asked for a stool.

  With his ability to conceal his wings, Rath could still travel incognito through most of the country. He even intended to return to his work at the apothecary shop when he wasn’t busy saving the world and stuff.

  What a team we made: a reaper and a seraph. Who could have ever guessed that this would be our fate?

  I was a little upset that I was completely invisible while Rath could go about his normal life, but Rath was more alive than I was. He would grow old and feeble, and I would stay young and handsome, so it all evened out in the end. Not needing to eat was a bummer, though.

  As Rath described the nature of a reaper and what my newfound calling would require of me, I let my mind wander. From my perch on the little counter top where mum chopped vegetables, I had a great view of my family.

  Lily, the eldest, was preparing to wed Jagger, my childhood friend, whom Rath had saved once long ago. The blue fabric for her wedding dress, a gift from Lord Brenden, lay draped across the dining table. It was strange to see that life would go on without me.

  Dove also had some new romance in her life. Gorden, Sem Brench’s son, sat next to her on the floor, holding her hand. They had been friends for a long time, and I had always suspected that he fancied her. He had finally made a move. They were allowed to be somewhat intimate under my parents’ watchful eyes.

  Ken, Marcus, and my pa had been called in from the fields when Rath arrived. They stood by the door so they wouldn’t walk all over my mum’s nice rug in their dirt-caked boots. Marcus had made a full recovery from his injury at the hands of General Canron’s men. The scar on his side was the pride of his young life. Ken, at fifteen winters old, was now the eldest son. He stood so grimly that I wished I could reassure him that all would be well. Unfortunately, I would have to leave the comforting to Rath.

  Six-winters-old Ginger weaved amongst the rest of the family, offering drinks of water to anyone who would listen. She had recently been taught to work the well and was pleased to have the opportunity to show it off. My youngest sibling, darling little Lark, was Ginger’s constant shadow, just as Tan had once been for me.

  I looked around at my family and considered how different they were from the family I had been born into. Was this what the world without deadmen would be like? My gaze rested on Lark, who now sat in Dove’s lap. Maybe in several winters, when Lark was a mother, her children would live in a world where deadmen were only memories.

  To prove the truth of our story, Rath carried with him a pan full of sand. He set it on the floor before my family. This was my cue.

  I hopped from my seat and stepped around Rath. Kneeling over the pan, I pressed my hand into the sand. My family gasped in wonder and delight at the appearance of my hand print. Ginger tried to touch me, but her arm just sort of whooshed through my shoulder, making me shudder. I retreated behind Rath. A brief touch wouldn’t hurt her, but delayed contact might make her sick.

  When it appeared that my family could not possibly handle any more information, Rath excused himself. He stood to leave, offering my family the best regards. Lily fetched his crutch and held it to him. I chuckled to think that he would carry that crutch with him the rest of his life even though he could fly, just to keep up appearances. He swore that the crutch made it easier to maneuver in smaller places, but I believed instead that he had grown rather attached to it — like I had to my pitchfork, which, even in semi-death, I still carried with me.

  “Sem Rath,” Dove asked, “what about Mel?”

  Rath hesitated and glanced at me. We hadn’t rehearsed this part. In truth, we didn’t really know what Mel’s fate would be. She was alive, sort of, but no longer in a normal human body. She was a golem now. She wouldn’t age, wouldn’t grow. I didn’t know how long she would last in this new state.

  “Mel is,” Rath cleared his throat, “currently indisposed. I wouldn’t say that she is beyond hope, but I also wouldn’t expect her as a guest at the wedding.” He gestured to the beginnings of the wedding gown.

  My sisters’ expressions fell. I knew they were imagining the worst.

  “Is she in pain?” Lily asked.

  Again, Rath looked at me. I opened my mouth and then closed it again. I actually wasn’t certain. I didn’t know if golems could even feel pain.

  “No,” Rath decided.

  “I so wanted Don to marry her,” Dove sighed.

  “I so wanted Don to marry her, too,” I said.

  Rath didn’t translate this for my family. Instead, he explained to them that seraphim and reapers didn’t marry. They couldn’t reproduce. Yadda, yadda. I had heard this all before from Banash, and it still made me mad. It was a real shame that I would never be able to pass on my good looks. I would never have a family of my own. I would never have a cottage full of children.

  But if Mel couldn’t share it with me, I didn’t want it all anyway.

  I got one more good look at my family and turned to follow Rath out the door. At the last moment, I knelt again over the pan of sand. None of
my siblings could read, so there was no point in writing words. Instead, I drew the promise symbol as a vote of confidence for Lily’s marriage. Next to it, I drew a crude version of myself with a big smile, wings and all. I was pretty proud of the wings.

  Lark watched with huge eyes as the images appeared in the sand. Then she giggled and pulled on Ginger’s arm, saying, “Look look look!” until she noticed the drawing.

  “You forgot something,” Ginger said. She drew the pitchfork in my hand. I made Sand Me’s smile even bigger. Lark grinned and blew a kiss in my direction.

  For the first time, I was glad I was invisible. The most unimpressive tears had escaped my eyes and made a mess of my face.

  “Are you alright?” Rath asked when I finally emerged from the cottage. I blinked in the bright sunlight.

  “I’m fine,” I said, wiping my face on my sleeve.

  “Maybe it’s a good thing that you’re invisible now,” Rath said. “No one will see you cry like an infant at Lily’s wedding.”

  “I’m counting on that,” I said.

  Rath looked up at the sky. He did this often. I always imagined him having a secret conversation with the sun.

  The epoch attached to my belt began to glow. I held up the chain to get a better look. All of the golden sand was spinning furiously in the bottom bulb. A troubled spirit was nearby.

  “Looks like I’ve got some work to do,” I said. I bid Rath goodbye, spread my big black wings, and leapt into the air.

  The deadman stood dormant among the trees, for the moment unexcited by the usual blood lust. There was nothing living nearby for it to destroy, so it stood still as a statue, occasionally groaning or grunting. It didn’t even breathe.

  Deadmen were fairly stupid copies of the vibrant, intelligent souls trapped inside them. I merely had to lurk in the shadows wearing a mask made of bone for it to consider me one of its own kind. As long as I didn’t look or sound human, it really couldn’t tell.

  Reaching into the darkness, I felt around until my fingers bumped the handle of my pitchfork. I summoned it from the shadows. This was a handy little trick I had discovered not long after my Ascendance. Storing items in pockets of shadow allowed me to carry much heavier items without loading myself down. Unfortunately, I could only access the stored items in the deepest shadows, which made hunting during the day a nightmare.

  It was midday, now, but I would have to take my chances. I had searched for this specific deadman for quite a while now. I wasn’t about to let it linger simply because the sun was out.

  I shadow-stepped closer and struck quickly. I punctured the deadman once with the tines of the pitchfork. That was all that I needed. The body collapsed, and a spirit rose from within it.

  She was missing some of her features in the dappled light from above, but it was still so incredibly her that I couldn’t help smiling.

  Zarra.

  She blinked and swayed in confusion. It would have been a while, now, since her mind was completely clear. This first moment of freedom was often overwhelming to spirits so immersed in their wretched existence as deadmen.

  At last, Zarra was able to focus. When she saw me, she started with surprise. “Highness?”

  It was so good to hear her voice again.

  “Hello,” I said, lifting my mask from my face. I was a little self-conscious. I didn’t usually find spirits who had known me in life.

  “What’s … what’s happening?”

  I braced myself. This part could be difficult sometimes.

  “Zarra,” I began, “your life’s path has come to an end. But your journey—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” she said with a dismissive wave. “I’m dead.” She patted her middle. “I got stabbed. I was there, remember? What I don’t understand is you. What are you doing here? Why do you have wings? Are you dead, too?”

  “Well, yes and no. It’s complicated.” I spun in a circle so she could get a better look at me. “I’m a Spirit Guide.”

  “A what?”

  My lips vibrated against themselves as I exhaled. “A reaper.”

  Zarra gasped and jerked her sword from its sheath. The sword was nothing more than concentrated memories, a trick of the eyes, but I stepped back anyway.

  “Are you going to eat me?” she demanded.

  I laughed. “No. That’s a myth. Reapers don’t eat spirits. We save them from junky secondhand bodies and guide them to the Gates.”

  “You can take me to the Gates?”

  I always loved this part. There was nothing quite as wonderful as seeing hope flare in someone’s eyes. It was like seeing the sunrise after a long, cold night. The trip to the Gates was a grueling and emotional journey. My responsibility wasn’t simply to guide lost souls to the Gates and leave them there. I had to prepare them for the world beyond and help them come to terms with the world they were leaving behind.

  Zarra had always trusted me with unfailing confidence. At last, I had the chance to repay all of the times she had rescued me.

  I held out my hand. When she touched me, we stepped together into her past and began our journey to the Gates of Heaven.

  Guide me, guide me

  Guide me to the Gates.

  My soul is weary, and

  Paradise awaits.

  Take my hand,

  Kind Stranger, and

  Guide me to the Gates.

  BONUS! Chapter 1 of Book 2: FATAL COURT

  Fatal Court: Chapter 1

  I am very excited to announce the upcoming release of Fatal Heir’s sequel this Christmas! It will be available Dec. 24th, 2017! Don’t forget to preorder soon! There is special bonus content only available for those who preorder!

  Fatal Court can be preordered HERE!

  Fatal Court

  Chapter 1: The Landing

  There are legends about Izayik Delaren. They call him the Fatal Heir.

  The last of the Delaren line, the young Prince Izayik spent most of his life in obscurity in the outlands until the fateful day when he discovered who he truly was.

  Izayik was special. He toiled in the fields despite his royal blood. And when the time came, he took up his pitchfork and took on the world. The kingdom of Aldrin would never be the same. Izayik was the face of a generation exhausted by constant fear and angered by loss. He was the catalyst of a revolution. He was a hero. He was a villain.

  They say Izayik could commune with the dead and walk through the memories of the deceased. They say he faced an army of the undead and, with a single command, brought them to their knees. Exhausted from the effort, Izayik withdrew into the mountains bordering Aldrin and disappeared.

  He was never seen again.

  Some say the Fatal Heir’s otherworldly powers consumed him. Some say his mortal body could no longer handle the powers it manifested. Some say he lost his mind and took his own life. Others say he was killed. Still others say he was translated to a higher plane, deified by the great Seraphim of old.

  And some say that Izayik is still out there somewhere, like a true hero of legend, waiting to return when the world needs him again.

  Those are the legends. And all of them are true.

  My pa always said that fear was the savior of mankind. He said this so often that fear became a part of who I was. Until I realized everything was a lie. Fate had other plans for my humble life. When I was thrust onto the stage, I had no choice but to reject my pa’s teaching and embrace a life of courage.

  I chose to be brave. And then I died.

  So I guess Pa was right.

  I wondered sometimes what life would be like had I never learned I was the prince. I would have lived a simple life, as safe as I could ever hope to be in a world overrun by deadmen. I would have become a man working the fields instead of fighting for my life. I would have married Mel, my sweetheart. We would have had a family.

  But all of that potential was behind me now. In the end, I had sacrificed my life to save humanity.

  I could have no regrets.

  No
regrets, I thought as I dragged an unwilling spirit along the Path.

  “Where are we going?!” the ornery lady demanded.

  “Home,” I said.

  “This is the wrong way!” She attempted to tug her hand out of mine.

  I tightened my grip on her, lest she slip out of my hold and fall to the Landing beneath us. She was weightless now, but flight was my power, not hers. While spirits could hover, they couldn’t fly. Not like I could, with the help of my big black wings. If I let her go, she would plummet to the ground beneath us where she would quickly discover that spirits could indeed feel pain. We hadn’t reached the Gates of Heaven. She wasn’t safe yet.

  “I don’t live here!” the woman wailed.

  “You don’t live anywhere. You’re dead.” I had reminded her of this fact a hundred times. But this particular spirit was in such denial I was actually impressed. She was hurtling through the clouds, led by an actual Spirit Guide, and she still insisted that she was alive. Sometimes not even seeing could make people believe.

  But whether or not a spirit believed wasn’t my concern. My job was to get her to the Gates so she could move on to whatever was on the other side. Once she passed through the Gates, she was no longer my problem.

  Just get her to the Gates.

  “Release me at once, you horrible brute!”

  Brute? I was no brute. I was the savior of the world, for crying out loud! I had sacrificed my life to save dimwits like her from an eternity of rot and despair. A little thanks every now and then would be great. But no. I always got stuck with the stubborn, nasty ones. The ones who thought I was kidnapping them instead of saving their souls.

  I was tempted to dump her and go find a spirit that would be more inclined to cherish my existence. But we were already too far along the Path. If I let her go at this point, she would get lost and become corrupt. Then it would be too late to help her.

  I spun in the air, flapping my wings once to keep me afloat. Facing the spirit, I pulled her closer to me. “Look, Alana. Look at me. Listen. Do you see those clouds?” I pointed to the dark purple clouds rolling across the sky in the direction we were supposed to be headed. “That is a storm. If we don’t make it past those clouds before the storm breaks, we’ll be stuck here. Is that what you want?”