by Marie Hall
Michael’s lips twitched. “When are you gonna learn that were don’t know his ass from his head? The man’s worthless. Call a toad a toad and a bad weatherman a bad weatherman. Period.”
She nodded. “Hear, hear.”
Ten minutes later Eve fingered a delicate gold-and-emerald butterfly brooch. “Baby, do you think Tamryn would like this?”
He glanced up from browsing at a case of black pearl necklaces she’d considered buying for her sister. “Sure. I guess.”
She laughed. “‘I guess’? The standard male answer for everything, right? Why do I even bother?” She caught the heavily made-up clerk’s eye and nodded.
The blonde glided over in a sea of expensive perfume and sent a blatantly lustful smile in Michael’s direction. Eve hid her laughter under a pursed lip and raised brow. “The butterfly,” she prompted and handed the lady a fifty.
Michael grinned and encircled Eve’s waist from behind, laying his head on her shoulder. A soft lock of his doe-brown hair brushed the side of her neck. She swept the hair aside and sighed.
“You just love it when that happens, don’t you?”
“What?” he asked in a rush of innocence.
“‘What?’” she mimicked. “You’re too gorgeous for your own good.”
Throaty laughter spilled from his lips as he swayed with her in time to the strains of “Jingle Bell Rock” floating through the overcrowded department store.
Eve snuggled deeper into his arms.
Michael nuzzled the side of her neck.
Her whole body tightened up in reaction to his touch. Even after five years of marriage he still had the power to make her heart flutter and her knees tremble.
“Michael,” she whispered.
“Hmm?” He placed a gentle kiss on the nape of her neck.
Goose bumps skimmed along her forearms. “I’m ovulating.”
He went still for a split second then nipped her earlobe. His large hand framed her stomach. “Let’s go make babies, then.”
Her lip twitched, and she wiggled her bottom against him. Michael growled low in his throat and pinned her arms to her sides, holding her still. “Eve,” he warned.
She turned and draped her arms over his neck. “What?”
He dragged her closer, a mischievous twinkle in his emerald-green eyes. “Imp. You’re lucky I’m wearing a coat long enough…”
“Excuse me.” A strained voice interrupted them.
She turned. The sales clerk held her purchase and change in one hand. Her narrowed eyes and curled lip were too much for Eve to ignore.
Taking the bag, and without missing a beat, Eve leaned forward just enough to part her button-down shirt at the collar, causing her pentagram to swing free from between her breasts. “He ain’t on the market, babe.”
The clerk, obviously human, turned deathly white. No human liked to tangle with the dark arts. And though that wasn’t what Eve did by any means, the blonde didn’t know it, and Eve sure as heck wasn’t going to correct her assumption. Judging by the reaction, the threat had done its job.
With a smile and a jaunty wave, she turned on her heel and marched off.
Michael held out his arm. “What in the world did you say to her, Eve?” She didn’t miss the tinge of humor lacing his voice.
She just grinned. “What? And give you a bigger head than you’ve already got? I don’t think so.”
He chuckled and grabbed her hand in his, caressing her knuckle with the pad of his thumb. Laughter glittered in his eyes. Then he became serious and turned her face to look directly at him. “I love you.”
The way he said it made her shiver. One of those freaky moments in time that made her wonder if there was some sort of sixth sense involved. Then she thought of the dream again and the visions of death.
Her smile slipped for a millisecond. She always tried to be aware of the signs and the environment around her. What if she was being purposefully ignorant? Ignoring the obvious? What if that dream really was a warning?
Don’t make more out of this than what it is. Everything’s fine.
Pushing the neurotic fears to the back of her mind, she gave him a crooked smile. “I know, Mikey. And I thank the goddess every day for you.”
* * *
Cian waited within shadow just outside the entrance to the mall; the mortals he’d been sent to harvest should appear soon. Keeping his back to the crowd, he stood in such a way so that he had a clear view of the door as pedestrians filed and in out of the busy shopping plaza.
Using his essence, he transformed himself into an ordinary guy, hardly worth a second glance. Through all the years of using this guise, he’d never once been remembered. Right now, he needed people to look past him, not see the peculiarities that branded him not quite human. Unfortunately he couldn’t go fully invisible until the harvest time came upon him.
His hair turned a drab brown, short and barely reaching his collar, his eyes much the same color. The process happened so fast, no one even had time to react at all.
Staring at his gloved hand, he waited for the next step of his transformation to take place. He didn’t have to wait long. A shock, like a burst of flame, ran down his arm and into his hand, turning him from man to monster. Fire traveled his veins, making him grunt with a momentary flash of pain. He hissed and snatched off his left glove, making sure he was well within shadow. The day was so drab and gray that unless he did something obvious, like flash the crowd, no one would turn his way.
He clenched his hand, studying the bones of his fingers. For an outsider, to look at the transformation would seem surreal. Above the wrist he was man—flesh and blood. But when the change overcame him, and it was time to harvest souls, the hand turned to a design of the macabre. The flesh, muscle, and tendon literally faded from sight.
Human depictions always had the grim reapers wearing the traditional black cowl with a sickle in their skeletal grip. In truth, reapers were as normal as man. You could pass them on the street, commenting on their remarkable beauty, little knowing that beneath the white smile and ever-present gloves lurked the killer of legend.
A small, noisy crowd of humans walked toward him. Shoving his hand into his pocket, he leaned against the wall and waited; it wouldn’t be much longer now.
After centuries of doing this job, he’d learned patience, the art of stealth, and the endless waiting game of death. For such a vital and intricate part of life, the actual moment of death could be unbelievably boring.
Several minutes later, an electrical rush of power surged through his body when a couple walked out. A man and a raven-haired witch. He felt her power ripple through the air like a powerful ocean current. The man, though, exhibited no energy, which meant he was fully mortal. The man grabbed the witch around the waist, pulling her close for a quick embrace.
Cian’s pulse pounded when she smiled. It was a good smile, the kind that made him want to return it, to see her do it again just so he could have the enjoyment of gazing on that kind of radiant and rare pure joy.
The man hopped in front of her and grabbed her hands, toying with her fingers. Her laughter was a rich, lilting sound, deep and throaty, hot and sexy, and for the first time in his life, Cian wondered what it might be like to have a woman look at him that way. He envied mortals in some ways, specifically the way they could enjoy life, short as it was, and how they loved one another. He couldn’t think of anyone who’d look so happy to see him.
Those thoughts were jerked from him as the final phase of his transformation washed through his body. A charge, like static energy, traveled through his pores, his blood, and in seconds he’d gone completely invisible. Only able to be seen by those straddling the line between life and death, he strolled purposefully toward the car garage.
Today’s scenario would be no different than the thousands of others he’d seen through the years. He could see it in his mind, like an image on a television screen. A carload of teenagers barreling through the garage, the interior of the car heavily la
ced with the thick stench of cannabis. The driver was laughing, blaring the Ozzy tune “Crazy Train,” unaware that soon he’d be indicted for two counts of vehicular homicide.
Cian often wondered at times like these why the humans couldn’t feel it. The end of their lifeline, the disturbance in the air, death; for him it was like the blast of trumpets, loud and hard to ignore.
Turning his attention back to the couple, he waited. The man popped open the trunk of a green sedan, laid down his packages, and flashed the witch a smile. She stood by the hood of the car, her midnight curls blowing in the stiff wind.
The faint rumble of an approaching engine echoed eerily through the garage. The vibrations traveled through the soles of his feet. Soon. It’ll all be over soon.
For a crazy second he wanted to scream at them. Move. Get out of the way. But he held his tongue. He wouldn’t interfere; that was the single most important rule of the reaper. His skeletal hand twitched, and he yanked it out of his pocket. No mistakes.
The car made a sharp left around a concrete post in the garage and swerved headlong toward the couple with a loud, echoing cry of rubber.
For Cian the scene was agonizingly slow, each detail sharp and clear, as if it were taking minutes, though in truth it would be done within seven seconds.
When they finally noticed, it was already too late.
The witch’s golden eyes grew wide in her face. Blood rushed from her skin, leaving her a pasty white. Her hands covered her mouth as a scream of raw fear flew from her lips. “Michael!”
The smile on the man’s face died. He turned—unable to run for cover, to hide from his fate. She ran forward, arms outstretched, and tried to pull the man toward her.
Metal exploded against flesh. The sickening crunch of bone and tearing muscle warred with the scream of tires braking. The man was dragged under the car. She was flung aside, her limbs at odd proportions.
Cian’s heart clenched painfully when he saw her ravaged body lying so helpless on the ground. She looked like a morbid porcelain doll. Beautiful and broken.
Blood spattered everywhere. All over the windshield. Even on the neighboring vehicles in the next three slots. The overwhelming metallic stench was all around.
The car squealed to a halt, slamming against the side of the sedan. The shattering of glass echoed through the garage with an eerie finality. It was done; their bodies slowly dying, their souls waiting only for him to harvest and carry on to the appropriate afterlife.
The driver, a pimply-faced redhead emerged. “Oh no! No!” He sang the litany over and over. He ran a trembling hand through his hair and glanced up. A family in the next row over stared back in openmouthed shock.
“Get back in the car, Derek!” the girl in the passenger seat screamed.
The wind picked up flurries of snow, enclosing them in winter’s peaceful embrace. An ironic scene, at odds with the gruesome sight of death before him.
The kid jumped back in his car and squealed off with one last bump-bump in his wake.
Cian closed the gap between himself and the victims. First the male. The man’s face had been nearly sheared off. His forehead was cracked open and a constant stream of blood gushed from the wound. Kneeling, Cian extended his skeletal hand, ready to harvest the soul and carry it safely to the afterlife.
The man moaned and opened green eyes glittering with pain. He didn’t question why Cian was kneeling over him; instead he parted ruptured lips and croaked, “Save my wife.”
Cian glanced over at her prostrate form for a brief second and then shook his head with a sad, bitter twist to his lips. He’d seen many broken bodies in the past, never feeling more than quiet detachment. But seeing her now, hearing the wet gurgle of her breaths, it was like razor-sharp spikes driving through his heart.
He closed his eyes, chanting over and over in his mind: This is the order to life. Without order there would be chaos. To prevent the chaos there must always be order.
Taking a deep breath, he plowed on, finishing what he’d started. “Find your peace, human…” For us both. Then he gently caressed the man’s exposed cheek.
The light of death filled the man’s eyes, and a single tear slipped down his cheek. The mask of pain relaxed, and a soft blue mist exploded from the caved-in chest—the soul pulsed with energy and differing shades of blue.
A glowing portal of brilliant white opened before him. The melodic song of a bubbling brook and rustling grass momentarily made Cian forget—forget the pain and loneliness.
The soul glided toward the light. It shimmered and glowed as it stepped through the portal. Then it was gone. The light went too, and with it the temporary peace Cian had sought his entire existence.
One left. The thought was a needle stabbing into his brain. He tried to remain clinical and study her not as a victim, but as a task and a duty to fulfill.
She wasn’t in nearly as bad a shape as her husband had been. Both legs were broken at the hips. One foot was pointed north, the other south. Besides the obvious injuries, she also suffered a ruptured spleen and would soon die from internal bleeding.
Short, shallow breathing turned his gaze to her face. Thin and heart-shaped with full pink lips and almond-shaped eyes.
His hands trembled; something was causing him to hesitate, a strange feeling he had no name for. What was it? Curiosity maybe? Something about the witch tugged at his normally detached feelings about death and life. Do it. You must. Take her from this misery.
Her eyes snapped open. The lioness gaze ensnared him. Her bloody hand grabbed his fleshy one and his world turned upside down. Instantly images and thoughts came to him. The face of her husband, a sensation of overwhelming, heartrending love. The pain. The fear. The hope. Her hope exploded inside him like a seedling shooting through black earth.
His brows dipped, and his breathing spiked. He continued to share her emotions. He bit the inside of his lip, and the bitter taste of blood pooled on his tongue as he fought off the onslaught. He’d known upon first seeing her that she was a witch, had sensed her energy, but her powers were intense. He’d never come across a projecting empath as powerful as she was.
Cian took slow breaths and pushed his will against her own in an attempt to extricate himself from her furious assault. His will was like talons ripping and clawing at her insides; the back blast resonated through him. He reeled from it but couldn’t block himself off. She whimpered, moans spilled from her lips, and still she fought him.
He could break her wrist, force her to let him go. Force her to end the emotional battering. So why wasn’t he doing that?
Because he couldn’t. Because for the first time in an eternity she was making him feel—not just her pain, but her desperation for life. Emotions he’d never felt before. It was all so confusing, and yet…he’d never felt more alive. All his life he’d walked around in a daze. Moving from one soul to another, not living, just existing. For the first time, he wanted. He felt. Because of her, and he’d betrayed her in the worse possible way.
Her eyes, glazed with pain, held his own. Defying him to take her life. She wanted to live.
Another shot of emotions slammed him. They felt like churning waves of angry sea crashing against him, stripping the flesh from his bones. Her anger beat at him, clawed at his throat with desperation.
Right then he made a decision. In defiance of his queen, the ruler of the reapers, he let her live.
Also by Marie Hall
Death’s Lover
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