I raced along, my speed picking up as I ran. The trees flew by in a blur, and I realized how much I was enjoying the movement. My body felt so alive, zinging with energy, full with the chase. My muscles rejoiced, stretching, moving, pumping full with the blood that flowed through the veins in my body.
The sky was somewhere between twilight and dusk here—wherever here was—and even in the dim light, I had no problem seeing the scattered limbs and boughs that littered the trail. As I ran, I began to notice that I wasn’t out of breath. Nor was I tiring. I leapt over rocks the size of my head and hurdled a fallen trunk blocking the path before coming to where I could see the end of the trail.
The drive to run slowed, but the summons forward was no less strong. I headed toward the opening leading out of the woodland. At the edge of the tree line, I found myself staring into a dark circle—a grove of sorts, and in the center rested a circle of bronze, engraved with runes and symbols I could not read.
I approached it slowly, holding my breath, waiting to see what would happen. Magic filled this place; it surrounded me like a crackling vortex, and even though I wasn’t familiar with its workings, I could sense it racing through me, along my skin like a flurry of pinpricks, making the hair on my arms stand on end.
And then, as I watched, a figure appeared on the dais. It was a man dressed in a dark suit. He was young—he couldn’t be over thirty—and a lost, confused look spread across his face. I frowned. What the hell was I supposed to do now?
As I watched him, a soft voice whispered from behind me.
“Training day, darling.”
I whirled to find myself facing a petite woman dressed in a long, sheer robe the color of the twilight sky. Her hair was burnished copper, the same color as Menolly’s, and it curled past her shoulders in thick waves. A wreath of autumn leaves ringed her head. I caught my breath—on her forehead was the same Mark I bore, the same tattoo. Only hers flared with a brilliant flame that burned brightly in the center of the crescent. And on her arms—intricate vines and leaves inked in vivid black and orange twined their way up her skin, glimmering tattoos mirroring the black of the crescent on our foreheads.
“You . . . you’re . . .”
“A Death Maiden, like you. And yet, not like you. I am dead, yes, and yet as tangible and corporeal as you are.” Her gaze met mine as she swept over me like a scanner, taking me in, examining me, and—I felt—finding me wanting. I blushed and stared at my feet.
“My name is Greta, and I’ve been assigned to be your trainer.” She reached out, and her fingers brushed my chin. Greta could barely top five feet, but the power in her touch nearly knocked me flat.
“Tra . . . trainer?” The confidence I’d felt earlier seemed to flow away as her energy slammed into me. Like the Autumn Lord, and yet, not. She was steeped in his energy, but she didn’t carry the season in her wake—instead she was . . . the huntress. The hunter, the hound after the fox, the tiger after the gazelle, the cat after the mouse.
“Our Master has declared it time to begin your formal training. You are the only living Death Maiden who has ever graced his stable; therefore you must be trained cautiously and with care. I am the leader of the Death Maidens and the best choice to help you adjust to your duties.”
She circled the dais, staring at the man.
“I didn’t realize I had to train for anything. He summons me and tells me what to do.” I was so caught off guard that I didn’t realize she was creeping up on me. And then she was there, standing beside me, barely as tall as my shoulder.
“No more. Your training begins in earnest with me. Tonight, you learn what it truly means to be a Death Maiden. You watch. You listen. You feel. You begin your journey toward realizing the full potential of just what you are becoming.”
Before I could speak, she reached up and brushed her fingers over my mouth. “Silence. Speak not. Hush and be still.”
And I was still.
Greta moved toward the dais, toward the kneeling man. She leaned over the bronze circle. A frightened glimmer filled his eyes and he backed away, but a force—one I could feel from where I stood—kept his knees locked on the dais, and he struggled, trying to free himself.
“No, no, no, my friend.” Greta whispered, and her voice echoed through the glade, a trill of sex and desire and love. “Do you know who I am?”
He bit his lip. “I’m not ready. I’m not ready to go.” He swallowed, and when he spoke again, the tremor had faded. “It can’t be my time.”
“But it is. The natural balance demands it. The Harvestmen have sent me. You are a brave man, you have saved many lives today, but to balance the scales, the web demands your own death.” Greta’s voice danced in a singsong manner, tripping over her words. “Ronald Wyndhym Niece, I come for your soul.”
And then he was crying. “But I helped save them—I did everything I could, and now . . .”
As I watched, Greta stroked his face and murmured something I couldn’t catch. The tears dried instantly, and he looked up at her, a grateful and beautiful light filling his face. She leaned down, kissed him gently, then harder, and he opened his arms to her. As she slid against him, he embraced her, and their kiss turned long and luxurious.
I let out a long sigh, aware that I was getting aroused watching them.
Greta stroked his back, his arms, and the jacket was suddenly gone, and then she was holding him to her, and he was bare-chested—the shirt had vanished somewhere along with the jacket. I opened my lips slightly, sensing their passion, sensing the taste of his soul in my mouth . . .
She motioned for me, and I was at her side in three strides. She clasped my hand in hers, and I could feel the sensations run through her to him, making every touch explode in a minor death. I began to lose myself in the energy, sucked as deep as his soul, and as she drew him out through his mouth, inhaling his essence into her body, breathing his soul out through the pores, I shuddered and came, quickly and without warning, and dropped to the ground, stunned.
With one last moan, he slumped in her arms, then transformed into a pillar of white mist and floated up toward the heavens.
Ron Wyndham Niece was dead.
Greta turned to me. “This is your first lesson: What it means to harvest the soul of a hero. He journeys to spend a while by the side of those who do great things with their lives and sacrifice their own in the process.”
I blinked. “You killed him?”
“No, he was shot by the bullet of the armed gunman who would have killed a busload of people—except that Ron Niece was there to prevent it. He rushed the attacker, and in the scuffle, he was shot. Rather than his soul passing by unnoticed, the lords of Valhalla called for him. Since the Valkyries only gather the souls of true warriors—and not all heroes are warriors—they asked the Autumn Lord to allow one of us to harvest him before he could get away. He will sit with honor in the great halls for a time.”
“Do you harvest all souls with a kiss?” I didn’t know if I was going to like that. What if I had to harvest a demon and kiss him? Like Karvanak or someone equally filthy? Or some perv?
She gave me a sudden shy smile. “Heroes are given a death that removes the pain and loss they both remember and fear. Our kiss leads them into the afterlife in the most pleasant of ways. You will see that we give other souls—ones with less to be proud of in their lives—distinctly less enjoyable transitions. But to answer another unspoken question: yes, sometimes we do kill for the Harvestmen when they request it.”
I stared at her, realizing what she was saying. We truly were the harvest women for the Autumn Lord. We could make the transition easy or—I had no doubt—deathly painful.
Shuddering to think what infractions might befit the latter, I looked back at the dais. “Do we always come here to do our work?”
Greta sat down on the edge of the bronze circle. It was no longer glowing. “No, not always. But this is the easiest way to train you. When you travel to where our chosen actually are, you must contend with seein
g everyone gathered around them, even though they can’t see you. It is . . . difficult . . . at first, to see the spouses sobbing or the emergency workers who so desperately want to keep our chosen bound to life.”
“How do you deal with it when there’s so much pain attached to the death? When you know it’s going to hurt the ones left behind?” I couldn’t imagine ripping the life out of someone whose wife or girlfriend or children might be watching. “How do you harden yourself enough so it doesn’t hurt?”
She shook her head. “You are new to the life, and being alive gives you an added disadvantage. You have not passed through the veil; you’re still vibrant with the flush of youth.” With a sigh, she reached out and closed her ghostly hand around my fingers. Unlike Menolly, her touch was not cold, but warm and invigorating.
“Help me understand.”
It was futile to resist; this was my fate, and one day I might be sitting here holding some young woman’s hand, teaching her what it meant to work for Hi’ran. He was my destiny, I might as well accept and embrace it. Whatever amount of time remained between now and the day I joined his harem, I’d eventually end up here, beside Greta.
She squeezed my fingers. “You seem so resigned. I know what you are fighting in your world—worlds, rather. I know what you face. So much, and yet it won’t matter a whit once you join us. But for now, just know that you will learn. I promise to help you. And soon, you will understand what it’s like to breathe the breath out of one of the chosen.”
“Tell me. I want to know. It’s important for me to learn correctly. This is a sacred trust, and I don’t want to make any mistakes.”
The tattoos on her arms flared as she squeezed my hand. “When you breathe out their lives, you can touch their souls. You feel them and rock them and cradle them. The ones who are violent, we don’t entangle—we have no need unless we want to reassure ourselves that they are truly the monsters the gods say they are. But Ronald—I felt every inch of him, I felt his love and his sorrow, his memories. His joys and his disappointments. I washed them clean for him and left him ready to leave the world. We give solace to those who have done something with their lives, who have made a difference. We give them the gift of a blessed transition.”
I let her words sink in, and for just a moment—I understood. Then the feeling faded but left behind a touch of balm to soothe my worry and fear.
“When your service with the Autumn Lord ends, you will be free to go home to your ancestors, you know,” she added.
This was news to me. “What do you mean? I thought we served him forever.”
“Oh no, my dear. You serve a term and then—unless there’s something special he wants from you—you will be released to your own journey. So take heart, there is a chance you will not be pledged to him forever in the afterlife. And truly, he is a sensual and . . . giving . . . partner.”
With that, she stood and motioned to the path. “Run now. Run like the wind. I will come for you again on the next waning moon, and you shall take the helm as we continue our lessons. For now, go back to your life. Live. Enjoy.”
And I was off and running. I don’t remember how long I ran, but I began to feel sleepy. It wouldn’t hurt me to just lie down a little and rest, I thought. So I shifted into black panther form, curled beneath a tree, and fell soundly asleep with only the wind to keep me company.
“Delilah? Delilah? Wake up!” Iris’s voice echoed through the fog filling my brain.
“Kitten? Kitten—come on. Please wake up.” Menolly’s voice joined her, and I felt myself blink as she yanked me to my feet and helped me sit down in a nearby chair. “You okay? What the hell happened?”
Camille was rushing into the room with a cool cloth, which she pressed to the back of my neck. “You felt hot, like you were burning up.”
I shook my head, trying to focus. “I . . . I . . .” Part of me didn’t want to tell them. What had happened would take me some time to come to grips with, but with what we were facing, none of us could afford to keep secrets anymore. Just like when Camille was shoved into her priestess role and would soon be undergoing a rite to induct her into Aeval’s court of Night, so, too, this could have ramifications that might affect all of us, not just me.
“I just had my first training lesson as a Death Maiden.”
The men and Iris broke out talking, their words falling over one another. My sisters, on the other hand, stared at me mute, both looking terrified. I realized what they were thinking.
“No, no . . . I’m not going to die soon. But apparently I have to be trained in my duties. It’s going to be one hell of a journey, I can tell you that.” I blinked, realizing that it was no longer a feeling: My life was about to change, and change drastically. Hi’ran had gone easy with me until now, but no more.
As the others quieted down, I dished out what had happened. “It was incredible watching her with the man,” I said, whispering. “We truly do harvest the dead. He was on his way out and didn’t want to go; he was resisting. She made it easy for him.”
“I wonder . . .” Iris crossed over to the television and turned on the news. She flipped through the stations until she came to the local cable news channel, and we watched as the story unfolded.
Trevor Willis, the local-boy-makes-good-as-anchor-star, came on, his expression suitably grave. Behind him was plastered a picture of the man in the suit whom I’d seen in the grove.
“Ronald Niece, a local man, died tonight after saving the lives of fifteen fellow bus passengers. Police say that an armed gunman—identified as Shane Wilson Thatcher—intended to gun down the entire bus, according to a note they found in his house.
“His plans were thwarted when Niece—an accountant by day, black belt karate teacher by night—noticed the gun as Thatcher aimed at the driver. Niece managed to knock Thatcher off balance long enough for the driver to stop and open the back doors.
“As people were exiting the bus, Thatcher recovered his hold on the gun long enough to shoot Niece five times. The driver hit Thatcher over the head with a lead pipe he was carrying under his seat. Unfortunately, though paramedics did everything they could, Ronald Niece died en route to the hospital. Bus passengers and the driver are calling him a hero. Niece is survived by—”
Iris flipped off the TV. “How horrible. You’d think with all the problems facing the world, people would find better ways of taking it out on each other. I’ve been around for a thousand years, and I still find it incredible what people—Fae or human—will do to each other.” Her eyes were misty, and she wiped the back of her hand across them.
I stared at the TV. “That was him. He walks in the halls of Valhalla now. Warriors are applauding him; the gods look favorably on him. And he saved fifteen lives tonight that might otherwise be walking in the spirit realm now. I don’t think that’s a bad way to end your life, even if the end comes too short.”
As I’d watched Greta soothe his fear, I’d realized that she—we—performed a valuable service in so many ways. No one who’d been such a hero deserved to take their last breath in fear. He deserved a passionate and lovely welcome, and the Death Maidens could offer him one.
“Delilah, what’s happening to your arms?” Camille frowned, pointing.
I glanced down at my skin. There, a faint shadow started at my wrists, working its way up to encircle both forearms in the shape of a vine. Like Greta’s tattoos. As I watched, the vines reached my elbows and stopped, the leaves springing forth from them—maple and oak. The color was muted, like plum bruises, but the images were definitely there. My arms tingled, though not uncomfortably so, as something inside whispered, “First lesson . . .”
“Greta—she had tattoos like this on her arm, but they were brilliant black and orange. But they were the same shape and pattern.”
“I wonder if they’ll get darker the longer you train with her.” Menolly brushed her fingers over my arms, then shook her head. “I don’t feel anything. Camille, Iris?”
Camille held her hands over
my arm and closed her eyes. After a moment she shivered. “It’s his energy, all right. The energy of harvest, of bonfires, and cold autumn nights. I think Menolly’s right—these aren’t finished yet. I guess you’re being marked, like I was by the Moon Mother.” She nodded toward her back. The two tattoos emblazoned on her shoulder blades glimmered beneath the sheer material. They designated her Moon Witch and priestess.
Sucking in a deep breath, I closed my eyes, weary. “So many paths to walk . . . but this is mine.” The thought of being tattooed didn’t frighten me, and indeed—Greta’s arms had been beautiful, lovely and wild. And Hi’ran might be one of the Harvestmen, but he was brilliant and as compassionate as he could be frightening.
I straightened my shoulders, proud to be under his rule. My liege walked the paths of shadow, and now, so did I. A little bit of the weight that I’d been carrying for months fell away.
Camille and Menolly knelt by my side, Camille on my left, Menolly on my right. They took my hands, and we sat there in silence. What lay ahead we could not know; we were each facing new challenges, new trials, but we were together.
“We’ll walk the journey all the way through, hand in hand,” Camille said, giving me a slow smile. “My own descent into the realms of the Harvestmen lies through magic and worship. Yours—through duty to an Elemental Lord. And Menolly walks the journey in body. None of us is immune to the shadows, and I think we just have to get used to it. We walk in the darkness, not in the light.”
I gazed at my arms, then back at them, feeling a whole lot less alone. “It’s true—we have shifted. Shadow Wing saw to that. I wish we could find Stacia. The longer she’s out there, the more worried I get.”
The Bonecrusher had eluded us for far too long now. But every lead we traced came up empty. We knew there had to be a leak somewhere—someone feeding her information—but we couldn’t figure out who was ratting us out. And Stacia was doing a good job of playing her cards close to the table.
Harvest Hunting Page 5
