The Reaper's Embrace

by Abigail Baker

  Dudley trotted to her side and sat down. He knew that sometimes Scriveners needed encouragement. Plus, Delia kept a drawer full of dog treats at her workstation. He was a cunning little guy. He knew how to get what he wanted, which explained why he had put on a few pounds. If I was going to help in building Delia’s confidence as a Scrivener, she was going to help in fixing Dudley’s portliness with daily walks.

  She put the toe of her cherry red Louboutin pump on the tattoo machine’s pedal. The sound of vibrating needles filled the parlor with my favorite buzz. The man did not flinch when she began her magic. Of course, he was unaware of what Delia was determined to do for him. He came to her to ask for a tattoo of “hope,” but Delia would provide the hope. Her work would help heal his cancer. He wouldn’t know why the tumor in his lungs would shrink. Neither would his doctors. They’d chalk it up to a miracle, never knowing that it was a Scrivener from Styx who’d given him extra time with his family.

  We still tattooed Deathmarks, however, but balancing those with the practice of healing humans made them tolerable. Delia and I could stomach the sadness of putting a Deathmark on someone as long as we could save a few souls along the way.

  After all, Marin preached balance of life, and it was the only stance of his I could get behind. Earth couldn’t handle too many humans. But it certainly had room for those fortunate few who stumbled into my shop looking for meaning in their skin art.

  “When’s your next appointment?” Delia asked as she wiped away blood from the “H” in hope.

  I closed my computer where I was reading the details on the election. Thus far, everything had gone smoothly. Every candidate was qualified for the job, which was a relief. I knew it was possible for some or all of them to be corrupted, but I believed more in the goodness of Stygians these days.

  Nicodemus was running for the position of Head Reaper. He was a favorite to win. I liked the idea of Nicodemus sitting in that large circular room in Lethe helping the souls of humans and Stygians cross over into a better world, although he promised he would not live in the bowels of Le Château Frontenac for very long. Nicodemus insisted that Styx’s leaders go out into the world and meet fellow Stygians. He would be a Reaper of the People. Thus far, he had already gone to several countries. China. Morocco. Sweden. Iceland. Mexico. Chile. Every so often, I received little gifts in the mail from each of the countries he visited. Now, whenever the mailman came to my shop, I prickled with excitement. What had Nicodemus sent me now? What would it tell me about his adventures and the Stygians he’d met in faraway lands?

  It had been Brent, Neema, and Nicodemus who stayed back in Quebec to take on the burden of crossing over the millions, if not billions, of souls waiting for redemption. That job took precedence over anything else. When Brent had told me he would have to stay in Quebec, asking me to join him, he had known what my response would be. I couldn’t. I wanted to be with him. Quebec, however, was not my home anymore. It was the center of Styx’s government. I had done my part to help my world. Now it was time for me to settle back into normal life and do what I knew was right—mentor other Scriveners.

  Brent and I had spent enough time apart that it wasn’t difficult to say good-bye on that cold December morning. Every so often, I would get letters in the mail from him, written in his messy script, telling me about his work, the various souls he had met, and the details of rebuilding a world from the ashes of chaos.

  I had asked Brent to send me emails and text messages, perhaps even call, but he preferred the old-fashioned method of remaining in touch. I had always wondered why. Skype wasn’t difficult to use. Neither was a cell phone. But as with everything with Brent, I knew he had a reason I hadn’t yet uncovered.

  Before glancing at my appointment book to answer Delia’s question, I gave Mama’s gold wedding band a spin around my middle finger. I hadn’t taken it off since the day Clover gave it to me. The ring served as a reminder of them, their love for me, and that they were somewhere together, hand in hand, happy as the stars are bright. I still grieved their absence. I still, in some selfish way, wanted them here with me. But the truth was, we couldn’t keep our loved ones forever. Change was the only promise, a lesson that I learned from reading Buddhist texts these past few months. The little Buddha I kept on my workstation, the very same one I had picked up in Denver, reminded me daily to keep up on my readings.

  Change is good, painful, magical, and horrifying, but in the end, we all bounce back just a little stronger and more confident.

  “I’ve got a…” I inspected the strange message on my appointment book. “Delia, did you write in this appointment?”

  She paused and looked over her shoulder at me. There was something like a cheeky smile on her red lips. Then, as if she had a secret, she turned back to her client and began working on the “O.”

  The handwriting wasn’t Delia’s. Rather, it was her failed attempt at someone else’s handwriting. Messy. Nearly illegible. Spidery, almost.

  It was 5:04 in the evening. The shop would be open another three hours. My client was scheduled to arrive at 5:05pm, so it said on the appointment book.

  “I don’t remember taking this appointment,” I said.

  “Well, whoever it is, I’m sure you’ll know what to do when they get here.” Delia’s client jolted from her work on the curve of the “P.” She stopped and put her free hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

  “Fine, ma’am.” He was trying to remain calm and strong for her. People did that around Delia. It was as if being tattooed by a beautiful woman was more of a challenge than being tattooed at all. The industry was a strange business of old-school customs and new, feminine blood. I liked to watch it change for the better, with artists more diverse than before.

  The rumble of a motorcycle on the highway outside of the shop pulled me from my confusion over the appointment book. It grew louder and louder. Usually motorcycles blew past the shop on their way to the winding roads of Glacier National Park. But this one didn’t. The motorcycle pulled into the parking lot of the strip mall where my shop was located. I waited for the engine to die before I got up from my chair and snuck to the window.

  Delia stopped her work to watch me with a knowing look on her face. Even her client turned around to watch, so I suspected she must have told him whatever she knew that I obviously didn’t. Or maybe I was reading too much into this after so many years of living on the run and fearful of what was around the corner.

  But something compelled me to slide out the door of the shop to see this motorcycle and the person riding it. He was clad in black leather. A full-face black helmet disguised his face, so I couldn’t immediately identify the person, not until he turned toward me, and I spotted two red eyes gleaming through his smoky visor.

  He pulled off his helmet. There, before me, was Brent. His beard was a little thicker, hair a little longer. Running into each other’s arms felt silly. We both seemed to agree on that.

  “You’re late,” I said as my stomach did flips in anticipation of pulling him close, sniffing his scent. “It’s 5:06.”

  “There was a cow on the road back there. Slowed me down.” He hung his helmet from one side of the handlebars before he began a slow, deliberate walk toward me.

  I held my ground even though my insides vibrated with waves of energy, screaming at me to throw myself in his arms.

  “Are you going to tattoo me now?” He stopped one pace away. The aroma of leather and masculinity made my knees weak.

  “Years ago, I wouldn’t have gone near you with a tattoo machine.” I closed in the space between us. I had to. My knees would not have held me upright and in place for much longer. I put my hands on his chest, feeling the smooth leather over the peaks and valleys of his musculature underneath. “But I’m up for the task.”

  “Good. Cuz I was thinking about that dolphin on my backside.”

  Oh, Hades, yes, I was definitely up for that task. On our first date, Brent had mentioned that he had a dolphin tatto
oed on his ass, even offering to show me. I had refused back then out of principal even though Ollie from two years ago would have gladly peeked at a buttock as fine as his, tattoo or no tattoo.

  “It’ll take a few days to heal. No riding motorcycles in that time. Are you sticking around or passing through?”

  “That depends on you, darlin’.” He did not need to say more. I knew what he meant. Did I want him to stay? Did I still fear him? Was I okay with the truth that he was still my Grim Reaper?

  I had plenty of time to think it through in the past few months. My heart knew my feelings for Brent had never changed. My brain—that nervous little critter—was the hold out. It needed time to mend, to finally accept that everything had fallen into place and that Brent and I were free to live out our days as a couple.

  “You know…” I started the speech I had been waiting to tell him for months. “I couldn’t contain my fear of you. I’m not sorry for it. Being sorry would mean my reaction was wrong. It just was. But I am sorry that it has taken me so long to finally see what I knew from the beginning.”

  His eyes and half-smile softened as he listened.

  “I love you, Brent. Hades, I always have, even when I was terrified of you. That’s why I’m so grateful that you waited for me to come around.” His arms slid around my hips, closing in the distance between us. I could feel the electricity in his body, the energy waiting to pour over me in kisses and other, nice things.

  “Does this mean you’re ready now?” he whispered, the softness of his lips fluttering against my forehead.

  “Ready to be us—just us?” I said with a relieved laugh.

  “Just us, darlin’. You, me, and that dog of yours. Just…us.”

  “I’m down for that. After that dolphin tattoo, of course.”

  “Ah, you know, I was just kidding about that. I don’t need no sharp things near my ass.”

  “Oh, but you see, there’s a hefty charge for cancelling. So, it’s probably best you let me have at that backside. I’ll be gentle.” An impish playfulness came to mind as I thought about Brent sprawled out on the table before me with his ass in full, glorious view.

  With a broad, predatory smile, he drew me into a kiss that told me just how much he had missed me the past five months. This was a kiss to make up for lost time and to tell me in no uncertain terms that we would get that life we had been fighting for. The one with late mornings, shared breakfasts, afternoon walks, and snuggling by the fire in evenings. Who was I not to accept this gift? Better yet, who was I not to show him too, in my own passion, that I missed him and that I was so damn glad to have him here?

  “So you’ll stay?” I asked, sure of his answer but still anxious to hear him speak it.

  As our lips brushed together, as we enjoyed and savored the intimacy that neither of us had forgotten nor ever would, he whispered the words I’d been waiting to hear for so long that it felt like a permanent scar on my heart.

  “I’m not planning to leave anytime soon, darlin’. Never, ever, again.”

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  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Entangled Publishing and my fabulous editor, Tracy Montoya. I am so lucky to have landed in your lap. Thank you to my dear agent, Suzie Townsend, and all the lovely people at New Leaf Literary.

  Thank to the friends and family who have been there for me in one way or another as I went on this journey with Ollie and Brent. Ya’ll know who you are. And ya’ll know I love you.

  Thank you to Mom and Dad. I always be grateful to you both, you know. But it certainly doesn’t hurt to say it over and over. So, I’ll say it again—thank you for everything.

  And last, but not least, thank you to my readers. I hope you enjoyed Ollie’s wild ride as much as I did.

  About the Author

  Abigail Baker shares her home with a Siamese cat endearingly named “The Other Cat” and two rescued mutts with mundane human names that people think are cute. In addition to writing about rebellious heroines, she enjoys hiking, discovering craft beers, baking the perfect vanilla bean cupcake, and rock climbing (going as far as scaling 800 vertical feet to the summit of Devil’s Tower National Monument in 2013).

  Abigail won first place in RWA’s Golden Network’s 2011 Golden Pen in Paranormal Romance for Tattoo of Your Name Across My Soul, the book now known as The Reaper’s Kiss (Deathmark Book One). She regularly blogs about life observances at abigailbakerbooks.com, lives at the base of the Rocky Mountains, and can be easily found hiking any of Colorado’s best trails.

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