The Reaper's Embrace

by Abigail Baker

  Something about my expression must’ve tipped him off to my plan, not that it was the cleverest plan. Anyone who had ever climbed into or out of a hammock knew the perils. He was vulnerable. I had the upper hand.

  Trouble was, Brent was faster and stronger.

  When I put my hands on the edge of his hanging bed, intent on using a little strength and guts to flip him on end, he had me pressed against him, chest to chest, nose to nose. The hammock swung aggressively with the both of us in it. There was a serious possibility that I’d lose my blanace and we’d get ejected from the hammock. While some might find the idea romantic, having the air knocked out of me was not arousing in the least.

  I waited to speak until the hammock’s wild reaction slowed into a steady, gentle rocking. “I’m not sure I’m ready,” I said.

  “Okay.” His breath puffed against my parted lips. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

  I had no idea if he could. Why was I holding onto my fear? Why couldn’t I just melt into his arms? Much of me wanted to. But the other part resisted like he would suddenly change his mind and do away with me after all.

  “The hammock won’t hold us.” The poor thing was already groaning from my added weight.

  “I’ll break your fall.”

  Sure he would.

  There was a part of me that preferred to let him win, and it was slowly winning out to the more practical side that was hell-bent on getting out of here before anyone awoke. But perhaps in this idyllic place, safe from danger, we could take a moment to be together. I would quiet my fear. I would let him prove to me that he was safe again, that my fear was now unfounded.

  Brent’s lips found mine before I fell down the rabbit hole of deep thought. He must’ve sensed that if he didn’t initiate now, he’d lose me entirely to my mind. His tongue moved across my teeth, between them, and met my own tongue. This closeness felt safe, and I began to marvel at how it could be so when hours earlier he was trying to send me to the Afterlife. I had to push through this fear. Maybe I could force it gone.

  He isn’t going to kill me. I’m safe. I’m right where I want to be.

  Another second passed, and I slowly, guardedly unraveled my limbs. My legs became intertwined with his. My arms moved around his thick torso. He felt like the same Reaper I’d enfolded in my arms years ago. Nothing had changed. And I was glad of it.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this,” he whispered against my cheek.

  “Me too.” I began to chuckle. “But do we have to do this in a hammock?”

  Really, wasn’t it impractical? What was he trying to prove by getting dirty in a hammock? Before I bothered to explain why it would be a horrible experience, not at all romantic as some might like to believe, I was lifted out of the swinging death trap. Brent, who had limitless grace, somehow scooped me up after climbing out of the hammock. We were headed to the woods, which were dark and afforded us more privacy.

  I’m still scared but… I quivered from bliss when I thought of being intimate with him. But I want him more now. I need him.

  “I don’t need you ending up with a concussion because I was trying to be adventurous.” His hands moved down my breasts, stopping to give a tiny squeeze, before moving to the button of my jeans. His touch was electrifying. It brought to life all the things I had stamped down over the past few weeks, things I wasn’t entirely sure would resurface again. But they did, like good instincts.

  My fingers pulled at the buttons of his flannel. Each one felt like it took ten minutes to undo. That feeling didn’t thwart me, however. And soon, his flannel and thermal shirt underneath were discarded on the ground next to our feet. My pants had been undone, peeled away, and at a clump at my side.

  When he pushed my back against a large pine tree, I understood why he didn’t remove my shirt and bra. Something needed to serve as a barrier between my skin and the tree’s bark.

  His hand moved across my pelvic bone, teasing at what lay bare just underneath. This was enough for me to reach for his jeans, pulling at the fabric to release him to me. As I did, I smiled upon brushing my hands across his thick, swollen member. He wanted me. I could feel it pressing like rock against my body. When he slipped two fingers inside me in one smooth, effortless move, my body told him that I wanted him, too.

  This was not a time for prolonged lovemaking. We didn’t have all night or even an hour. I wasn’t disappointed about this, either. Sometimes quickies are the most rewarding moments between two lovers. It’s enough to let the other know you love them and want them by taking a breather between all the chaoses of life.

  He put one forearm underneath the back of my knee and lifted it up, exposing everything to his desire. It was in this move that I undid his jeans and let them fall around his knees. His erection sprung out and pressed against my mound that was slick with want.

  Brent’s glowing gold eyes met mine before he pressed into me with one, strong force of his hips. A mix of pain and pleasure moved through me. My hands found his flexed biceps first, seeking something to hold onto as he began to rock the both of us with his need. When my fingers landed on the thick muscle around his neck, I found my grip. And he found his rhythm.

  The tree we used as support rocked as he thrust into me, forcing himself deeper and deeper as I opened fully to his erection.

  Just as I began to let out a little moan of pleasure, my eyes met his again.

  “I love you, darlin’,” he said in a whisper.

  Fear still moved within me, but I tamped it down every time it got too close to wrenching me from this moment. Feeling him this close, feeling the way love and safety surrounded me in this private corner of the woods, made me want to scream with happiness instead. What was so wrong with that? It seemed nice enough to tell the world that we loved each other unconditionally, that we had overcome challenges the size of the tallest mountains. And here we were, sharing in this moment that was meant between two physical beings. In a way, it felt almost too small to be making love to him here. I wanted to scream it at the world. “We did it! We survived, and now we’re just lovers!” Just lovers. It was a beautiful idea. Lovers slept in, shared breakfast, went on walks together, then curled up after a long day in each other’s arms. Then, they did it again the next day and the day after that. That was what lovers did.

  We could do it, too. We could have the quiet, simple life. And right now, I tasted it. My body felt it as it moved in time with Brent’s. I wanted more of it. I wanted nothing more and nothing less.

  As he continued to rock our bodies, sending us careening toward that pinnacle every lover wished to share with their partner, I threw my head against his chest. I kissed the muscles as he flexed hard against me. My teeth left marks against his flesh. My fingernails dug into his shoulders.

  Brent moved faster and harder as he came to his climax. As he stroked my insides with more and more verve, he brought me along for the ride. My body rippled with electricity. It began first in my core where he rubbed me hard and fast. It grew stronger. It felt like I was about to fall through the earth and into Elysia, which would’ve been fine with me. But I held on tightly to his body. And then I exploded with passion at the moment he did. We came together like a perfectly orchestrated climax of a symphony.

  It was the little instant as we came down from our high that I began to feel everything with more intensity. The tree cut into my back. My leg that was lifted around his arm had fallen asleep. I didn’t care one bit. I just smiled at the Reaper and reminded myself that the humdrum life of lovers was within reach. We could have it if we wanted it.

  Then why, deep down, was I still scared of him?

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Dogs are better than human beings because they know but do not tell.”

  —Emily Dickinson

  I was pleased to find that the motorbike I had left discarded on the mountainside when we entered Xiangu’s territory was still there, covered in road dust and pine needles. I was even happier not to see Trivials congrega
ted around it, waiting to give us trouble once we emerged. But where were they? Did they live nearby? Were they camping? They had seemed hell-bent on keeping a close eye on us that their absence now was odd. Surely one of them would’ve been waiting to alert the others if we came out of hiding.

  There wasn’t time to worry, however. Wherever they were, they weren’t here, getting in our way.

  “Ready to ride with me?” After I secured Dudley into the tank bag, I patted the backseat of my two-wheeled steed, wearing a deliberately crooked smile. Brent’s disgust with having to drive that unsavory Mary Kay pink Porsche back in Quebec was at the forefront of my mind. He would prove to be a changed Reaper if he hopped on the back of my ride without complaint. But he would ride on the back. We wouldn’t leave until he agreed to it.

  Brent was stubborn, but I was the true mule in this relationship.

  “My ass won’t fit on that little seat,” he said, giving the backseat unwarranted scorn. “But your cute one will.”

  As he tried to pilfer my bike, intent on my backside riding on the rear as he maneuvered it through the mountain passes, I stopped him.

  “My bike. My rules.” I gripped the handlebars. In case he needed more to show that this was non-negotiable, I swung my left leg over the seat and settled into the rider’s position. I gave Dudley a scratch on the head. “Dudley never argues about his position on the bike.”

  “Dudley eats poop.” He folded his arms across his chest.

  “He does not!”

  “I saw him do it. Must be like little donuts to him.”

  “You’re telling lies.”

  “Why would I lie about your dog eating poop?”

  As an Eidolon nearly a foot taller than me, Brent might have coerced me into giving in to him in years past. Not today.

  I patted the backseat and grinned. “Hop on. I promise I won’t go too fast.”

  He groaned, but the important thing was that he climbed onto the bike and slipped his arms around my waist for security. Having Brent curled around me like a koala bear latched to a tree trunk, I couldn’t help but be happy. I could get used to having him this close as I guided us into unknown places. There were so many secret, less-traveled roads in the remote places of the world that deserved exploring. How nice it would’ve been to discover them on two wheels and leather and all with him. Well, and Dudley, the dung eater.

  “Did you really see Duds eat poop?” I had to know. Was this a habit I’d need to correct?

  “I might’ve.”

  So he is going to be coy now, eh?

  “Oh, for Hades’ sake, Ollie,” Brent grumbled when I handed him a black helmet that hung from the handlebars.

  “Safety first.” I pulled on my own helmet. The visor was down, chin strap locked.

  “I’m a Reaper. Don’t I decide what’s safe and what isn’t?”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  I rolled on the throttle and peeled off with Brent, Dudley, a few items of necessity, and a firm determination to get Styx back on track. We had a couple thousands of miles to ride. There was no guarantee that Delia, Papa, and Nicodemus wouldn’t be in Quebec City when we arrived.

  Time was limited. Haste was vital.

  We had covered a few hundred miles by dawn. The white-knuckle, steep Rocky Mountain roads gave way to the city of Denver and then after its metropolitan expanse, quaint high plains towns dotted the long, lonely eastbound highway. Brent gripped me tighter like he was holding onto me for fear that I’d somehow escape him again. Having spent so long away from him, yet yearning for his closeness, I grew dizzy with bliss, eager to fold into him and live there for the rest of my life. Would it have been so hard to give up now and let the rest of Styx handle this mess while Brent and I lived our perfect happily-ever-after? Was it so wrong to ask that of Styx? There had to be a limit to how much one Stygian was asked to give to the greater good. Maybe if we weren’t always running, always in danger, if we surrounded ourselves instead with the mundanely sweet, I’d be able to shake the foreboding I felt around him.

  “We need to stop by my family’s homestead in Kentucky on our way back north,” he said during a pit stop as he pumped gasoline into the motorcycle. I was bent forward, fingertips pressed to the ground, head hanging as I stretched my hamstrings and lower back. His taped hiking boots were all I could see of him.

  Dudley sat next to me. I watched the dog keenly in case he spotted something unsavory on the ground to eat.

  “You think they’re still there?” I stood up and the blood from my head poured like melted butter down my neck and shoulders.

  “I don’t know for certain.” He put the gas nozzle back. “But I have to find out. I want to get them involved in our plans. They can help us. And they can alert other rebel cells to begin heading back to Quebec.” He paused. “I need to know my family is okay.”

  I watched him screw the cap on the motorbike’s tank. He turned it a little too far, but the cap didn’t crack. But he clutched the gas cap like it would fly away. The veins in his hand popped like small mountain ridges.

  “What is it?” I placed my hand over his and felt his anxiety.

  His face darkened. “Corrupt Stygians have been strategizing their moves to take over as Head Reaper,” he said. “We know that because who else would set up those broadcasts to fool everyone into thinking Marin is still alive? You’re about to announce to all of Styx that Marin is gone. That’s going to set fire to this powder keg. Trivials are going to run amok, too. I’m worried what they’ll do or what they’ve already done.”

  I understood. I had thought of that myself, though I hadn’t shared it with anyone.

  Brent went on after a pause, “We might be wading into an ocean of shit by trying to set things right.”

  “You don’t think that any rebel is qualified for the Head Reaper job?”

  “No.” A second passed as if he thought about it, and he grabbed my hand, lacing his fingers with mine. The feel of my hand dwarfed by his was easily comforting. At least that much was still true between us. I had been forced into being strong for myself for so long that melting into another’s strength—albeit physical—was alluring.

  “Who is good for the job of Head Reaper?” I nudged.

  “Not me. I have no interest in that job.”

  “You’d be perfect for it.”

  “No, I wouldn’t, darlin’.” His reply was stated with such finality that I dared not to push the subject further. But I did wonder who he thought would be a just replacement for Marin because it was a very real concern.

  “Then who do you see in the fancy-pants role?”

  “I see a group of people. A council. An honest, transparent democracy.” He pointed to Dudley, who was sniffing a discarded candy wrapper next to the gas pump.

  “Come on, Duds.” I scooped up my dog before he could ingest the chocolate-smeared wrapper and placed him in his spot in the tank bag. “Maybe Dudley should lead Styx.”

  “Well, he’d do a better job at it than Marin.”

  After that, very little was said for the remainder of our journey back east. I preferred to ponder the idea of a council and not one leader. History had proven that communal leadership is safer than a singular person. Had Marin had others to keep him in check, Styx would be a very different place today.

  But would it be so easy to implement a council after everything?

  I chose to linger silent for hours, knowing that I was in no place to make such a decision. I may have been part of the reason Styx had a new chance, but I was by no means a leader or of the level of expertise to suggest who should or shouldn’t or how they should or shouldn’t lead.

  And, to be honest, like Brent, I wanted nothing to do with it after making sure that whatever was put into place was for the betterment of Styx.

  When we reached the Kentucky state line after more than a dozen hours crammed together on my motorbike, I was compelled to pull over, fall to the ground, and kiss it because we were close to our fi
rst—our penultimate— destination. Riding with a six-foot tall Eidolon was no different than riding with a six-foot tall man. Both are heavy. Both taxed the engine of the motorbike.

  No matter how badly I wanted to stop riding, I couldn’t. Brent’s anxiety grew as we approached Kentucky, and it nearly became unbearable as we wound our way through tree-covered country roads. Beattyville was the town. Home of the Woolly Worm Stampede. The town center was as I remembered it—small, old brick buildings with good ol’ Southern folk strolling the sidewalks. This visit, however, was not in the beginning of spring, but the beginning of winter. The world had lost its color. Everything—trees, buildings, people—had faded into shades of brown.

  I couldn’t explain why, but this observation sent chills through my limbs.

  Brent instructed me as to where to turn as we got closer to his family’s homestead. Some parts of the journey looked familiar, and others did not. But the left turn onto the bumpy, unpaved road was strikingly familiar. My motorbike groaned as if it knew the road would not be kind.

  I put both feet down and killed the bike’s engine.

  “We walk from here,” I said through my helmet, already unbuckling Dudley from his restraints.

  Brent popped the shield of his own helmet up and gave the road a discerning glare. He remained silent, which, from my memory, was exactly as he had been the first time we came upon this road. I waited for him to point out one of the many forgotten ghosts hiding in the woods, but there was nothing to see. The expanse of brown trees and dead leaves gave no hint of the forest of spirits that had been here during our first visit two years earlier. Brent’s sister-in-law had somehow harnessed them as protection around her homestead. Brent had sent the group of wayward souls to Lethe by luring them into the sky through the smoke of the burning barn.

  This time, Dudley and I stayed right on Brent’s heels. We hiked for what felt like miles before we spotted something between the trees. Two and a half years earlier, there had been a two-story log cabin with floral curtains blowing in the open windows and little Reaper children playing in the yard. There had been Stygian rebels and Brent’s family, the Grim Reaper leaders of the rebel cell. The homestead had been active with life and hope for a better world.