The Reaper's Embrace

by Abigail Baker

  He was Stygian.

  More specifically, a Scrivener.

  The kid was enamored with Delia. Big surprise. I did not take it to heart that he didn’t trust me, even though I was Delia’s companion. My dreadlocks were pulled into a bun on the top of my head. I wore black underneath my equally black leather motorcycle jacket because it was easier to hide in the shadows from Brent. My color choice and dreads weren’t off-putting for a teenage kid. My reputation preceded me, however. I was easy to recognize. I was, after all, public enemy number one. And he knew who I was.

  “More coffee, please.” I emphasized “please” to remove his eyes from Delia.

  The boy disappeared behind a counter when Papa, my brawny foster father, and my beloved mutt, Dudley, staggered into the coffee shop looking wearier than the day before. Like Delia and me, Papa wore a camouflage of dark clothing to make it easier to hide in dark corners and alleyways. He collapsed into a metal folding chair at our table. My black and white hound leaped into Papa’s lap and let out a weighted sigh. Papa draped a wool scarf over Dudley’s quivering shoulders as the dog buried his nose underneath Papa’s arm.

  “Where’s Nicodemus?” I asked, because the pair had left together only two hours ago.

  “Where do you think?” Papa groaned. None of us had to answer his question.

  Nicodemus, an ancient Eidolon Reaper who had become a friend and ally, had caught wind of the Denver Library and its collections of rare documents. He had said something about the library holding Stygian documents or that it once had. That’s where he had spent his time since we arrived in Denver. Nicodemus had a reason to be in the library. I trusted that he was searching for a way to help me. I was a little jealous that he was lost in the archives of a library while I was busy trying to outrun my own death.

  “I’ve inspected this area four times over and there’s nothing useful,” Papa said in reference to his reconnaissance. We had been scouting for Xiangu because the last tip we got was that the Master Scrivener had made her home here in Denver. So the Mile High City it was, not that it was proving fruitful.

  We had been in Denver for a week with no luck. Did Xiangu live smack in the middle of downtown and its high-rises? Did she live in a tree-lined neighborhood or somewhere farther from the skyscrapers, like Golden or Boulder?

  I was taken by the size of Denver in comparison to Quebec City, and, though I had visited bigger cities before, I felt uncomfortable here. Too much concrete. Too many humans. Too many ways for Xiangu to blend into the masses or vanish into the nearby mountains, and not enough for me to fade into the background.

  Plus, the altitude was unpleasant. Delia, Papa, Nicodemus, and Dudley didn’t seem to mind. I, on the other hand, felt like I was missing a lung while trying to run a marathon.

  The teenager returned with a fresh pot and an extra cup for Papa. Thoughtful bugger.

  A ribbon of steam curled from the nozzle of the coffee pot. Papa and Delia didn’t delay in taking sips of their drinks. Denver was expectantly cool for mid-December. Quebec City outdid Denver on wintery weather, even if it failed in elevation. The chill didn’t trouble me, though the altitude did.

  Delia was not accustomed to the cold, something she made sure we knew about every single day.

  My attention lingered on the kid, who watched from across the coffee shop. Just as I knew he was a Scrivener, he knew that we weren’t average Stygians.

  Papa leaned his arms on the wooden table, and it creaked from his mass. “We can’t waste any more time here. Brent can’t be far.”

  “I’ve decided that I’m going to trap him.” I waited for Papa’s head to explode. The sudden pop of the vein that ran down the center of his brown forehead was as close as he’d get.

  “Why in the hell would you do something so stupid?” Papa groused.

  “I said the same thing, Papa Bear,” Delia added.

  “It’s simple. If we trap him—”

  “He’s not a feral cat,” Papa said. “He’s Death. Your death.”

  “If we trap him”—I ignored Papa’s words—“we won’t have to run anymore. We’ll have all the time we need to find Xiangu.”

  “You’re going to run straight to your Grim Reaper?” He wasn’t hopping onto Olivia’s boat of desperation yet.

  “Papa, the buffalo runs headlong into the storm instead of wasting energy trying to navigate around it.”

  The vein in his forehead bulged a little more when he furrowed his brow. “What the fuck do buffalo have to do with Grim Reapers?”

  “Well, I have a suggestion,” Delia interrupted. “Why don’t we find a nice hotel room with mints on the pillows, shower so we don’t smell like wet dog and armpit stink, and talk about our next move that doesn’t involve trying to capture the world’s most powerful Eidolon? I’ll even do your nails, Teacup. You too, Papa Bear.”

  Delia had been vying for luxury accommodations since we had fled Isle of Orleans outside of Quebec City four weeks previous. When all was said and done and my Deathmark was healed, we’d indulge ourselves.

  “We need to catch Brent and find Xiangu before anything else.”

  Before I finished my statement, the teenager returned. His pointed stare made us grow quiet with the word “Xiangu” hanging on the silence. This was his subtle request for payment, but there was something else about his expression that told me that he recognized the name of the Master Scrivener.

  I fingered my trekker backpack sitting between my knees. Miss Piggy, my beloved sawed off shotgun, was inside the cavernous bag, waiting for a showdown. It had been my go-to form of self-defense. But I certainly didn’t need it anymore, at least not with Stygians.

  Papa reached into his pocket and placed a few bills on the table, paying no attention to how much he handed over. When the kid reached for the money, I was on my feet with a hand around his thin wrist.

  He made a peculiar yelp, likely to alert someone in the back of the coffee shop. A middle-aged man hustled from behind a closed door. He could’ve been this boy’s father, but I didn’t spend any time asking questions to find out. I released the boy’s hand, and he raced to the owner’s side, speaking irreverently about us and our foul-smelling mutt.

  “Get out, terrorist! We don’t want trouble,” shouted the man. He pointed angrily at the nearby door. The boy slunk further behind him, peering around the owner’s shoulder.

  Calm as ever, Delia sipped her coffee, scratched Dudley behind his ears, and exhaled like the aristocrat she wished she was. Papa, ever the guardian, stood with his arms folded over his chest. We weren’t afraid. This sort of thing happened more often than not these days.

  “Xiangu,” I said with purpose. “I saw the look you gave me. You recognize the name. Do you know where she is?”

  The man wagged his head. The boy, silent.

  “Where is she?” I restated.

  “Don’t know Xiangu. Now get out, or I’ll call the Watchmen.” He thrust a finger at the door. “Get out!”

  As the man prattled on about threats and Watchmen (Stygian police in black suits), I peeled off my jacket and pulled my right sleeve past the skull tattoo on my inner forearm. My skin radiated red heat. Upon seeing the Deathmark, the boy’s hands turned scarlet. My instincts were right. We were kinsfolk. Allies. Normally, my heart would leap out of my chest at the discovery of another Master, fledgling or full powered. I’d want to ask him questions about his upbringing, his thoughts, and what he felt when he was faced with red, burning hands. But today, as I still fought to save my life, my outward response was dull, almost indifferent.

  See, little one? I thought. You and I are not that different.

  I pointed at my Deathmark. The boy’s eyes grew wide. His reaction meant that he knew the importance of a Deathmark as well as how to identify one. He was still too young to begin his practice. But he knew the ins and outs. He was far more informed than me at his age. After all, my powers didn’t begin to surface until I was in my twenties.

  “I am marked. I must fi
nd Master Scrivener Xiangu,” I said evenly. “Do you know where she is?”

  His attention lingered on my arm. He started to move forward as if to inspect it closer.

  “You’re a Master Scrivener too, huh?” I went on. “You must be training with someone? Who is your mentor?”

  He nodded, winding his reddened fingers together.

  “Please don’t hurt him,” the man mumbled. “Hui is just a child.”

  “Your name is Hui?” I said to the teenager.

  “Yes,” he said in a thin tenor, his head bowed.

  “Well, Hui, pleased to meet you. Mind telling me who’s your mentor?” As I said it, Papa and Delia made their way to my sides. Dudley approached, too, but he was friendlier and began wagging his tail as he danced around Hui’s legs. Hui laughed at this, and it helped with lessening the tension.

  “What’s his name?” Hui asked.

  “Dudley.” My dog rolled onto his back so that Hui could scratch his belly. Hui and Dudley enjoyed each other’s company before I prodded the teenager for information. “Hui, you didn’t answer my question. Who is your mentor?”

  Hui never replied, or if he did, I failed to hear him over high-pitched keening coming from outside. Dudley flipped onto his feet with a spine of raised fur down his back. Papa was the first to run for the door, followed closely by the rest of us. Our differences didn’t matter when we saw what unraveled.

  The sight was nothing new to me. In fact, it was so normal these days, I felt the slightest guilt for not reacting with empathy as I might’ve years ago.

  A motorcyclist had been hit by a car. The victim, unconscious and bleeding profusely from his side, lay undignified in the middle of the city street. Circling the biker were children and adults peering down in gross interest. A few women scurried away, covering their mouths and eyes from shock as others called for help on their cell phones. One or two men shrugged it off and continued with their day, as if death came to this Denver street daily.

  Had a Reaper stepped out of the crowd and ferried this unfortunate biker’s soul, the familiar scene would’ve been made complete. But none appeared eager to do the job. Or none wanted to do the job. I had to believe that his Reaper would be at the hospital. Or, maybe, just maybe, the biker wasn’t going to die today.

  An ambulance flew down the street, sirens wailing, people and cars moving out of its way. It pulled up alongside the man. Two EMTs in dark blue uniforms hopped out to inspect the man’s injuries. As they lifted him into the back of their small vehicle, the man’s arm fell into my line of view.

  “There.” Hui gestured to the tattoo on the man’s arm.

  “A peacock feather, the symbol of immortality,” I said, describing the ink. “Is that your mark?”

  “No,” he said with a head shake. “That’s Master Xiangu’s Deathmark.”

  So, I guess he would die today.

  Chapter Two

  “The enemy is a very good teacher.”

  —Dalai Lama

  Knowing Xiangu’s Deathmark was critical. She would be easier to track.

  And if I found her soon, maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t need to capture Brent after all.

  Hui was a kid of few words, yet he had no problem approaching the paramedics, who deposited the man into the emergency vehicle. One of them climbed inside, telling the boy that they had a life to save and to “get off.” If Hui was willing to help me at all, perhaps he was attempting to get the name of the victim. I couldn’t wait to find out.

  What captured my attention when the emergency personnel tried to shoo Hui away was an attractive, dark-skinned woman staring back at me from across the street. She was partially hidden behind one end of a bus stop shelter. From the heft in her dark-eyed, pointed gaze, she wanted to be seen. Exactly as I had been watching Hui and The Koffee Klatch, she had been watching me.

  Could this woman be Xiangu? She didn’t match the ethnicity—most of the stories about her said she was Chinese, like her name—but anything was possible.

  “Hui.” I tapped the teenager on the shoulder. Distracting him gave the medics a chance to hop into the ambulance and pull away. I pointed over his shoulder at the woman. She didn’t react to my interest—all the more reason we needed to check her out. “Do you recognize her?”

  “Ollie.” Papa gestured off to the opposite side of the street where another person, this one a white male, watched us from afar. He peered out from an alley. Just from a glance, I sensed he wasn’t a Scrivener or Reaper or Eidolon. The only thing he could be was a Trivial, a sociopathic Reaper born without a soul, and he was pale enough to be one. “We’re being watched.”

  The Trivial and the black woman, her identity undetermined, faded into the mass of people who disbursed after the ambulance left the scene. Before we had our chance to make chase, they were gone.

  “Xiangu?” I asked Hui again.

  “They work for her,” he said. “The woman is an Eidolon. They’ve been watching you for days. They told me not to say anything. Guess I have now, though.”

  “Are you going to get into trouble?” I was worried now.

  He shrugged. “Nah. But you might.”

  Shit.

  “Xiangu has lackeys?” Delia pushed between Hui and me, her hands on her hips. Hui was tall enough to meet me face to face, but with Delia, he made eye contact directly with her breasts. Delia didn’t seem to notice this, or if she did, she didn’t care. Hui, on the other hand, cared enough to crack a smile on his otherwise impassive face.

  “The Eidolon is not to be messed with,” he said directly into Delia’s well-endowed rack. “She directly guards Xiangu. If she is here, she knows what you’re up to.”

  Great. A Trivial and an Eidolon who shouldn’t be messed with.

  “They won’t let you near her,” Hui added as he began a calculated retreat to the door of The Koffee Klatch. The coffee shop owner had already withdrawn inside after the ambulance left.

  I tried to follow Hui to get more information from him, but he had too much of a head start. The door slammed shut, locked, and the shades zipped down.

  Papa pounded on the door. He could have easily punched through the barrier and entered, but the point wasn’t to be bullish.

  “Papa, let’s not draw more attention to ourselves.” My point was made clearer when he turned around to find everyone on the busy Denver street staring. It wasn’t every day that a six-foot hulk with a voice as powerful as a small intercom system roamed their boulevards, demanding entry into a closed shop.

  Papa gave in when he realized he’d created a scene.

  “We’ve dealt with worse,” Delia said, and it was very clear to Papa and me that she didn’t think two steps ahead. Delia wasn’t dense, though. Like the rest of us, she was exhausted, and from that came silly comments and decisions—neither of which we could afford today.

  “Delia,” I said, “if Xiangu Matches with that Eidolon, we’re…screwed. I’d be hard-pressed to take on that challenge.” A Master Scrivener and Eidolon have the ability to come together into one lethal being—a process called Matching. In addition to having peculiar talents, when they come together into one being, they are virtually unstoppable. I know—I’ve Matched with a few Eidolons, and that makes me the expert in our small group.

  One curved red eyebrow rose. “It’s simple, Teacup. Let’s not forget that Nicodemus is an Eidolon, too. You two can Match and shut that woman down.”

  “Nah. Nic isn’t a good candidate. He’s buried up to his asshole in library books,” grumbled Papa.

  Nicodemus probably was not up for the challenge of Matching anyway. His desperation to help by scanning books was all the evidence I needed. I would not ask him to join a physical battle, at least, not at this point in our hunt for Xiangu. We did not need to fight. We would remain peaceful at all costs.

  “What is it?” I said when horror washed over Delia and Papa’s faces.

  She grabbed my hand, pulling me into a sprint. Papa and Dudley were close behind. This run-and-
ask-questions-later had become commonplace after a few weeks of avoiding Brent. Whoever saw him first didn’t bother with an explanation. Too much time was wasted on shouting “run” when Death was on our trail.

  There would be no fighting if possible. As for running? Well, we had that down to an art.

  It was conceivable that Delia and Papa didn’t see Brent and that pulling me through the streets was just for giggles. But I knew that wasn’t likely. They didn’t appear to be getting their kicks by pounding pavement as we dodged people, dog walkers, bicyclists, and cars.

  I looked over my shoulder even though I knew I shouldn’t. Seeing the Stygian I loved coming at me like a serial killer closing in on his prey, devoid of compassion because the Deathmark on my arm called to him like a homing beacon, sent my heart into my throat. I might’ve appeared fearless to some. Right now, I was anything but.

  Quite simply, my beloved had gone savage.

  He was set on one thing: ripping the remainder of my soul out of my body. Deep underneath his instincts was the Eidolon I loved. But there was no time for me to beg him for mercy, not when a predator overrode all else.

  What I kept telling myself was that I had to be strong to survive. But I also had to be smart, which meant continuing to look back to see the blue eyes and brown beard of my killer was a practice I had to stop because the desire to halt, turn on my heels, and run into his arms could quickly overcome me. Brent had been there whenever I needed him—in Quebec City, California, and in between. He had stopped Watchmen from cornering me in Kentucky. He had drained the life out of an Eidolon called Gizmo who had nearly destroyed me in the bloody battle at Wrightwick. And he had stood before the Head Reaper and all of Styx and promised me that he’d “never take a penny from me” before he ferried half of my soul into his own body to protect me from our fascist leader and death.

  “We need to split up,” Papa shouted. We were easily spotted as a group. Going solo meant there were more places to hide and more nooks and crannies to protect us. Well, me, really.