by Bryan Davis
“Phoenix?”
I turned toward the voice. A man in Reaper garb approached on the sidewalk, his gait tenuous, cautious. His hood shadowed his eyes.
“Who are you?” I pushed back my cloak and grasped the hilt of a dagger on my belt. “Show your face.”
He stopped out of reach and lowered his hood, revealing the pockmarked face of a man with dark, shaggy locks and a long scar from ear to chin. I barely recognized Mex. Looking much older than his thirty-three years, he had deteriorated a lot since his banishment. His cloak—ratty, stained, and bearing a roamer’s triangular patch at the end of the right sleeve—shimmered up and down that side from shoulder to knee.
I gave him a casual nod. “What’s up, Mex?”
“Glad you recognized me.” His usual hint of a southern accent gave away his Texas roots, and his voice jittered as he glanced from side to side. “Listen, Phoenix. I’m in trouble. I need one more soul to meet quota. Just one. Age doesn’t matter.”
“Okay.” I stretched out the word. “Just go to the executions and pick one up.”
“It’s not that easy.” He took a step closer. “I’m on the probation list. Suspicion of trafficking souls.”
“Just suspicion, huh?”
“Of course.” He glanced both ways again but said nothing more.
I knew where he was leading, but making him ask would put me on higher ground. “Why are you telling me your sob story?”
“Well, I heard you’re about to hit up Molly, so you’ll have plenty, right? I mean, she’s what? Six years old? She’ll put you way over the top. You can transfer someone to me.”
“My quota is higher than you think.” I looked at my cloak, no longer shimmering. Mex must have seen me before I disconnected the clasp. “Look. Even if she did put me over the top, I don’t have an adapter, and besides, I have to get going—”
“No worries.” From his cloak pocket he withdrew a four-foot-long opaque tube, slightly curled and about the diameter of a garden hose. “You can keep your distance. I’m not crazy about valve locking anyway.”
“I wouldn’t know, but I—”
“Right. Solitary confinement.” Mex laughed. “I don’t envy you district hounds. At least roamers can find a little companionship now and then. No worrying about feeling those nighttime alarms.”
“Don’t rub it in, Mex.” My cheeks grew warm. “If you’re trying to schmooze your way into getting a soul, you’re doing a lousy job. And I don’t have time—”
“You’re right. You’re right. Let’s talk business.” Mex nodded toward Molly’s window. “And don’t fret about Molly. The Fitzpatricks haven’t blown out her candle. You have time.”
I turned that way. A silver taper stood just inside the pane, its wick burning. If I were to rush now, Mex would suspect that I had more in mind than reaping. “Okay. What do you want?”
“A trade.” Mex dug into a cloak pocket, withdrew a gold chain, and let it sway under his fingers. “This’ll fetch a pretty price almost anywhere.”
I cocked my head and eyed it skeptically. “Is that real gold?”
“Fourteen karat.”
“Then why don’t you barter at the shroud? There’s always a bandit or two fencing souls.”
“It’s not that simple. The Resistance has been too active for the Gatekeeper’s liking. There’s a crackdown going on, especially at the shroud.”
I half closed an eye. “What kind of crackdown?”
“Meds and souls. You can hardly trade anything shadowy anymore. Spies are everywhere.”
“That’s not my problem.” I waved him off. “Gold is worthless to me. Around here, if you can’t eat it, keep warm with it, or use it for fuel, it’s useless.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get that.” Mex stuffed the chain into his pocket. “But the crackdown might be your problem soon. Weird stuff is going on. I saw an Owl marching three families with children onto a bus. I don’t like the looks of it.”
“Maybe it’s an isolated incident.” I doubted my own words. Whispers about emptying the corrections camps buzzed among my district dwellers, but their murmurings of mass exterminations didn’t make sense. Every city regularly executed criminals in the crematoriums. Why would they kill the camp dwellers? “If you see anything else like that, let me know.”
“If I last long enough.” As Mex glanced around again, his face twisted. With two shaky steps, he closed the gap between us. “Listen. I know I said I don’t envy you district hounds, but that was a lie. Actually, you’ve got it easy—a fertile district, citizens who like you, your own apartment. And me?” He spread out his arms. “I got nothing. I scrounge for meals. I sleep in alleys. I got so desperate once I wheedled a drunk Reaper into giving me a soul, and I’ve been on the run from him ever since. And now I have just one cycle after this one before I can retire from this gig and go home. You gotta help me out.”
I glanced at his gateway valve, barely visible in the glow of the streetlamp. His cloak clasp hung loosely in the keyhole, a sure sign that the valve had not closed properly. Mex was losing energy. Without a recharge at the Gateway, he wouldn’t last much longer. Still, I couldn’t afford to trade a soul for a gold chain, and I had already taken too long. I had to check on Molly.
“It’s not my fault you’re a Jungle roamer. You did that to yourself.”
I turned, but Mex grabbed my arm, spun me back, and jerked me close. “Why can’t you show a little pity?” His bloodshot eyes widened. “Please! I gotta get a recharge! Just one more cycle!”
I knocked his hands away. The sudden shift sent him staggering backwards, and he landed with a thud on the sidewalk. As he sat with his head low, I straightened my cloak. “I saw a level two at the corner of Locust and Mohawk. She’s probably still there. You can pick her up.”
“A level two?” Mex climbed to his feet and stood shakily. “I can’t reap her, not in my condition.”
I looked Mex over. With his lack of confidence, he was probably right. Handling a level two required complete self-assurance. “Then go find her, and I’ll meet you there to help you as soon as I’m done with Molly.”
“Thanks, buddy. You won’t regret it.” A hand covering his valve, Mex skulked into the shadows.
When he faded out of sight, I took a deep breath and tried to settle my thoughts. I had to put his situation out of my mind. I couldn’t trade a soul with just anyone who asked. I would never meet quota and get my own energy recharged. Every Reaper knew this, especially the roamers.
After repositioning my hood over my eyes, I strode up the stairs and knocked on the door. Footsteps pounded, drawing closer. The door flung open with a loud squeak. A dark-haired female, maybe twenty years old, stood in the opening, holding a glowing lantern at face level. Pretty and pale, tear tracks stained her cheeks.
“Oh, Phoenix! You’re finally here!” Her Irish accent rode an unsteady voice. “Come in! Come in!”
Not bothering to ask how she knew my name, I entered the narrow foyer with steady, self-assured steps. The public persona had to continue. A Reaper must never appear flustered by impending death or frantic appeals.
“I’m Colleen.” She gestured with a trembling hand. “Molly is this way.”
I followed the lantern’s glow toward the end of a dark hall. Through a doorway to the left, two redheaded preteen girls sat opposite each other on the floor in a dim room, their eyes wide as I passed.
I knew these girls—Molly’s sisters, Anne and Betsy—but Colleen remained a mystery. Perhaps she was a distant relation who had been called to the family deathwatch. “Did you send a messenger for me?” I asked.
She stopped at a closed door, her eyes filled with the flickering flame. “We sent a neighbor to fetch you an hour ago. Brennan. An older man, maybe sixty-five. Didn’t you see him?”
I shook my head. “He’ll show up. He probably just got lost.” I kept my tone calm. No use scolding them for sending a man of his age out at night. “We’d better see to Molly.”
“Yes…
yes, of course.” Her hand again trembling, Colleen pushed the door open and led the way.
I entered the warm room and stopped just inside. Molly, dressed in a ballet leotard and skirt, lay on her back on a child-sized bed. Wheezing through labored breaths, she kept her eyes closed, her face slack. To the right of the bed, her mother, Fiona, sat on a stool, weeping as she brushed across Molly’s dark hair with a leathery hand.
Lit candles stood in nearly every possible spot—from ivory votives in the tiniest nooks to tall red tapers embedded in rustic candlesticks in larger spaces on shelves. Only the sill in front of an open window leading to the back alley lacked a candle. A light breeze wafted in, carrying the late-night sounds of the city and troubling the tiny flames throughout the room.
Molly’s father stood to the bed’s left, shifting from foot to foot as he stared at me from under bushy eyebrows and balding head. Although only five-foot-six, his stocky build gave him a formidable stature.
“Colm,” I said, nodding, “do you want your other children to witness the reaping?” I already knew the answer, but tradition demanded that I ask.
He gestured with his head toward the house’s front room. “Her sisters said their good-byes.” His brogue was thicker than usual. “They will stay where they are.”
“A wise choice.” I opened my hand. “Do you have the passage key?”
Colm extended a photo stick. His arm shook as if he were giving me a pen to sign Molly’s death warrant. “This is…” He cleared his throat and blinked away tears. “This is all we could find.”
I took the stick and wrapped my hand around it. As it warmed, azure light flowed between my fingers and down to the floor. The radiance collected in an animated hologram—Molly dancing in her ballerina outfit. Although her gap-toothed smile displayed joy as she pretended to dance under stage lights, her awkward steps and near spills reflected her lack of lessons. Even the tattered tutu was an apt sign that no one in this neighborhood could afford such luxuries.
Since this stick didn’t have the expensive audio option, I imagined a tune from a music box guiding her movements and off-key notes accompanying her stumbles. Although she was likely a beautiful ballerina to her parents, to me she was a symbol of the city’s futility—another hope-filled flower, now wilted and ready to be uprooted, an unkept promise.
When I opened my hand, the image disappeared. “This will do fine. Molly will dance with the stars for all eternity.”
Her mother looked up. “Then is there really no hope for my little angel?” Her voice cracked. “If she dies, I’ll… I’ll…” She buried her face in her hands and wept.
Colm circled to Fiona’s side of the bed and rubbed her back. “There, there, dearest. Remember you said you would be brave. You promised me and the children.”
“I know. I know.” Her hands muffled her voice. “But I can’t believe there’s really no hope.”
I touched the pill-bottle pocket again. This could be the opening I was looking for. “There is always hope for the faithful.” I gave Colleen a glance, hoping Colm would notice my concern. She gazed with teary eyes at Molly, seemingly void of any suspicion as she held the quivering lantern.
“You are among friends,” Colm said. “Colleen knows about your, shall we say, unofficial profession. In our home, those who applaud death are the enemy, and those who cherish life are our friends. You are free to ply your trade.”
“Very good.” Trying to keep my hands steady, I slid the photo stick into my pocket and fished out the pill bottle. “Let’s see what we can do for Molly.”
Chapter Two
I shook the bottle, making it rattle. “Only two pills left. If they don’t help, I brought something injectable, but it’s way past expired so it has to be a last resort.”
“We believe in you, Phoenix,” Colm said. “You will make the right choice.”
“Let’s just hope a DEO doesn’t show up, or all choices are out the door. Word on the street says that Molly’s critical, so an officer might get wind of it.”
“I have only the clothes on my back to barter with.” Colm touched his shirt collar. “But I will gladly give them. Of course, if the worst happens, you can have Molly’s shoes.”
A pair of little-girl canvas shoes sat in a wall alcove. If Molly were to die, those shoes would likely mean the world to Colm and Fiona, though not much to me. “There’s no need to discuss a Reaper payment now.”
Something scuffled beyond the window leading to the backyard, a sound barely loud enough for my trained ears to pick up. Someone was listening, maybe a DEO agent.
I cupped the pill bottle in my hand and backed toward the window. “Molly will need water.”
“I’ll fetch it.” Colleen set the lantern on the floor and rushed out of the room.
From the window, moonlight provided a good view of the backyard—a fenced square lot four paces wide that housed low-cut shrubs and sparse grass. Nothing stirred. Maybe a rat or a raccoon had made the noise.
I walked to Fiona and pressed the pill bottle into her damp palm. Leaning close, I whispered, “Be discreet. Unfriendly ears might be listening.”
She nodded and pried the lid from the bottle, her hands hiding every motion. After dumping two orange pills into her hand, she passed the empty bottle to Colm and crouched at the bedside.
When Colleen returned with a mug, she, Colm, and Fiona worked together to force-feed the pills, coaxing Molly with hushed voices while I edged closer to the window again.
I peeked out. A cloaked shadow glided from one side of the yard to the other—sleek and lithe. No DEO could move with such agility. Sing, maybe? If so, why would she be here? This wasn’t her district.
Molly choked on the pills and coughed them up. Her body stiffened, and she let out a moan. While the three patted her hands and stroked her head in futility, I swallowed hard. Even after more than three years as a Reaper, the sight of a dying child still tore a hole in my heart.
My cloak vibrated, sending hot prickles across my arms. The end was near. Only one hope remained—the syringe.
As I reached into my pocket, the rusty hinges at the front door squeaked. Everyone froze. Fiona whispered, “I heard no knock.”
Colm shoved the pill bottle into his pocket. Fiona and Colleen rose and backed away from the bed, their eyes wide with fear. Molly’s body loosened, and she breathed in gasping spasms.
The bedroom door swung open. A tall woman dressed in black leather stepped in and scanned the room. Piercing gray eyes set beneath a somber brow gave her the aspect of a bird of prey searching for a victim. With youthful face, trim body, and blonde hair draped over her shoulders, she looked nothing like the steroid-jacked male officer who normally patrolled at night. Yet, the leather pants and jacket with a Gateway insignia on the left breast pocket confirmed her status as a death officer of some kind.
Her shifting gaze halted at Molly. “A young one,” she said in a low monotone. “My condolences.”
I withdrew my hand from my pocket and, forcing an emotionally detached countenance, crouched next to the bed. “She’s still alive, though the end is near.”
“Quite near.” The officer sat on the bed and stroked Molly’s hair. Her hand trembled as her fingers passed over the little girl’s locks again and again. “Such a beautiful princess. She will be a glittering star in the heavens. I am looking forward to seeing her drawn away from this broken shell so she can be set free to brighten the skies.”
The family’s terrified expressions shouted urgency. Somehow I had to get rid of this officer so we could try to save Molly.
I touched the officer’s arm. “Because of this child’s age and the high potential for extraction pangs, the reaping will cause an emotional upheaval, so if you wouldn’t mind sitting in the front room, I will withdraw her soul in private and call you when—”
“Heightened emotions are normal and expected.” She unzipped her jacket, revealing a form-fitting white T-shirt and a gun in a shoulder holster. “Pain is normal. Weeping
is a necessary catharsis.”
I drew back. “I suppose that’s true, but—”
“My name is Alex.” She extended her hand, though her expression remained stern. “And you’re Phoenix.”
“That’s right.” I shook her hand, again not bothering to ask how a stranger knew my name. “I guess you’re not familiar with customary reaping procedures. Since the family requests privacy…”
“Familiar?” Anger flickered in her eyes. “I attended reapings before you were born, and I have followed your career ever since—” Her brow furrowing, she picked up a pill from the mattress. “What is this?”
“Candy,” I said without hesitating. “I always bring some when a dying child has siblings. Molly has two sisters.”
“Is that so?” She extended her hand, her voice calm, even in the midst of Molly’s continuing gasps for breath. “May I see your supply?”
I rose and patted my cloak, trying to ignore Molly’s travail and her family’s looks of desperation. “I gave them all away.”
“You are kind to give so much to the grieving siblings.” She sniffed the pill, then wrinkled her nose. “Or perhaps not so kind.” Pinching the pill at arm’s length, she scanned the room again, her eyes shifting from the night table to Molly to the family trio as they stood stock-still. Finally, she nodded at Colm and spoke with tightened lips. “Empty your pockets onto the bed.”
After a quick glance at me, Colm dug into his pocket, pulled out the pill bottle, and dropped it to the mattress.
Alex picked up the bottle. “An odd candy container, don’t you think?” Her tone carried only the slightest hint of sarcasm.
I focused on her gun, still visible inside her open jacket, likely a sonic gun—short-ranged, but deadly. Trying to disarm her meant I would have to kill her if I succeeded, or face execution if I failed. There had to be another way. “The pill bottle is mine. I traded for it at the shroud. I hoped to help Molly.”
