“Who gives a shit what they think,” she declares, flicking a mascara wand through her eyelashes. “You didn’t do anything and if anyone gives you crap, you’ll knock them out—bring out the bar-fighting Ember I know.”
A black ribbon secures the entire front part of the dress together. “I do like the costume.”
“Well, you make one hell of a Grim Angel,” she says, clipping the lid onto the eyeliner.
My head snaps in her direction. “Is that what I’m supposed to be? I thought their bones showed through their skin.”
She gives me a once-over. “On some they do… the ones that go crazy. But some are as beautiful as the Angels of Death.” Her cell phone beeps and she sends a text.
I run my fingers along the soft petals of the rose in my hair. “I thought you said you didn’t know much about them.”
“After you talked about them, I went back and picked up the books to try and refresh my memory.” She reapplies her lipstick in the mirror. “You looked so upset that I couldn’t remember anything.”
I stroke the tips of my wings. “So what else do you know?”
She bites down on her glossy lip. “A lot, but I want you to prepare yourself for what I discovered.” Then she grabs my hand and pulls me out the bedroom door. “They are exceptionally beautiful. So beautiful in fact, that some humans can’t actually see their beauty.”
I follow her down the stairs. “And what about the insanity part? Is that true? Do they really lose their minds from the burden of death and the Reapers’ blood?”
She falters at the front door and realigns her foot into her white satin high-heel. “They can, if they give in to the wrath of death. It’s all about good and evil with these things, I guess. At least that’s what the book said.”
I turn sideways to fit through the doorway. “As in the Grim Reaper? He’s the wrath of death, right?”
She stutters at my knowledge. “Yeah, that’s the Grim Reaper. The belief is that a Grim Angel is a hybrid of Angel blood, mixed with Reaper blood, mixed with human blood.”
We hop into her car and I lean forward because my wings create a hump on my back.
Raven takes her wings off and tosses them into the backseat. “Reapers are considered the bad version of death. They collect the evil souls and they are very powerful. Allegedly the Grim Angel breed was put on Earth to stop some battle between the Angels of Death and the Reapers over who should get which souls... or maybe it was that one of them was stealing souls.” She adjusts her mirror and backs onto the street. “The Grim Angel lives on Earth as a human, carrying both the power of heaven and hell in their bloodstream—their bodies hold balance to keep the Angels of Death and the Reapers at the same level, so neither would have more power over the other.”
“You make is sound like the Angels of Death are as bad as the Reapers,” I say, noting that her version of the story matches up with the one I read in the book. “Aren’t angels the good ones?”
“In some ways, yes. They are the ones that collect the good souls, but the book said that they got greedy trying to balance out the soul collection when Reapers started stealing innocent souls.” She sighs. “But anyways, I guess Reapers constantly try to trick Grim Angels and mess with their heads so they would surrender to death and join them. It’s like a game to them or something, even though technically neither the Reapers nor the Angels are supposed to interfere with their lives.”
Her tires screech as she peels onto the highway. The sidewalks are flooded with kids in Halloween costumes carrying bags of candy. The houses are gleaming with purple and orange lights. A girl in an angel costume skips down the sidewalk, holding her mother’s hand in front of a house with an eerie mist across the front lawn. Can Angels and Grim Reapers really exist?
I rotate away from the window and slump against the door. “So what happens to the Grim Angels that don’t lose their minds? They just live being tortured by death until they die?”
Raven doesn’t answer right away. “Basically, I think so.”
I’m reminded of Asher’s tattoo and the story: One girl with death on her shoulders connected them both, and with a single choice she would save the world. But the fight would not be easy. He had to be talking about a Grim Angel.
She reaches into the backseat, swerving her car as she hunts from something. “Here, there’s the book.” She tosses a book onto my lap and regains control of her car. “It actually doesn’t say much more than what I’ve told you, but I marked the pages if you want to read through it.”
“Thanks.” I open the book. “And I mean that. You really didn’t have to go re-check this out and read it.”
She fiddles with the temperature, turning it up then down. “Look Ember, I know I’ve been a really shitty friend for most of our friendship, especially during the last week or so. But I want to start over—I want to be a better friend.”
“You’re a good friend.” I flip to the page she marked. “And last week’s bitchiness is totally acceptable considering… what happened.” I pause, one thing still bothering me. “But Raven, can you do me a favor and never call me crazy, even when you’re mad?”
She nods with regret. “I’m so sorry. That was such a low blow. And I know you’re not crazy.”
I’m not so sure anymore. In fact, I’m starting to wonder if a Grim Angel lives inside me.
As we drive over the bridge, we both stop breathing. The road is still stained with the X and the median is scuffed from the collision. There is a small spot decorated with flowers and ribbons.
My mind flashes back to the bar fight and the way Asher took down a guy twice his size without even so much as blinking. Could Asher have killed him to protect Raven? But why would he decorate the scene? “What do you think happened to Laden?” I ask. “Do you think he’s… Do you think Asher really killed him?”
She clutches onto the steering wheel. “You know what? I really don’t want to know what happened to him. If Asher killed him, then so be it.”
I clear my throat and distract my thoughts onto the book. “Grim Angels are the most important and most dangerous breed of Angels that have ever existed. They have a direct insight to death…” I read aloud with a shiver. “They have the power to either destroy the human race or save it, depending on where their legions end up lying.” I glance up from the pages. “But how can they destroy the human race? That’s what I want to know.”
She flips the page and taps it with her finger on the title. “I’m not sure, but read this. It’s really interesting.”
“The Grim Reaper is believed to be the collector of the evil souls. They possess the ability to not only separate one’s soul from their body, and guide it to the next world, but they can also trick an individual to render their life over to them.” Oh my God, my mom. “They like to play tricks on the bodies of the souls they take, leaving them hanging from trees, hiding them—”
She taps the brake so hard it locks up our seatbelts.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, unlocking my seat belt.
“What if… what if Asher’s a Grim Reaper and you’re a Grim Angel?” It’s like a light switch has flipped on in her head.
I rapidly shake my head. “There’s no way that can be true. Why would you even say that?”
“Ember, think about it. You can see death. If you were a Grim Angel, this could be why,” she presses. “And Asher has so much interest in you. And he knew where your car was. What if he told the cops?”
“No. There’s no way.” But doubts tug at my mind. When I died in the rose garden and I saw the Reaper take off his hood; back at the water, while I was drowning; and I saw the Grim Reaper before suddenly waking up on the shore next to Asher.
I shake the thoughts from my head. I will not jump to conclusions just yet, not until I hear what he has to say. Especially since Asher brings me an indescribable calmness and he has never openly done anything to hurt me. And he’s had a lot of chances.
“It says in the book that they like to mess with Gri
m Angels’ heads and try to ruin their lives, make them go crazy, and get them to surrender to the Wrath of Death,” she says. “Think about it, Em. What if Asher did something to Laden after he saved me, but only so he could reenact what happened with your dad? What if he has been wiggling his way into your life to fuck with your head?”
“Why are you making these accusations?” I ask. “When just a few seconds ago you were defending Asher.”
“Because it’s making sense now.”
“No, it’s not. Nothing is making any sense. At all. My whole life doesn’t make sense. It’s like I’m always one step away from walking off a cliff.”
“Read some more,” she urges. “See if there’s anything else that might give us some more clues.”
I continue in an unsteady voice. “Grim Reapers are also excellent shape shifters, more often than not in the form of snakes, rats, cats, birds, and sometimes humans. Through their abilities, a Grim Reaper has been known to steal many innocent souls with a simple bribe or trick. This was the cause of the first battle between good and evil that lasted nearly a decade.” I stop reading.
She reaches over and turns the page. On the top of it is a beautiful angel, with wings as black as the ones I’m wearing and hair as dark as ash. “Keep reading. I think you’re getting close.”
“An Angel of Death brings a more peaceful death to the individual whose soul they collect. They only collect the souls of the dying innocent and carry the spirit over to the next world. They bring a sense of calm with their touch.” That sounds more like Asher. “Unlike the Grim Reaper, they wait for death and do not feed off the life of an individual. They are gentle by nature, but passionate in battle.” My eyes meet Raven’s. “Passionate in battle?”
“It talks about a battle more toward the back.” She diverges into the school parking lot, not reducing the speed, and I’m slammed into the door. “But you can read about all this later. Right now, I want you to focus on having fun.”
“Yeah… right.”
Strobe lights flash in front of the entrance and a shroud of torn sheets hang from the front doors. Hay bales, with skeletons situated on them, border the sidewalk. On the sloped roof of the school, the Grim Reaper stands. It’s fake, with yellow eyes, but it sends a chill up my spine.
“Em.” Raven’s voice brings me back to her. She parks the car next to a group of people dressed up like the Scooby Doo gang. “I have to tell you something. And it’s really important.” She texts someone and then tucks the phone into her bra.
“Really.” I give her a look. “In your bra?”
Her face drains of humor. “I might need my cell phone.”
I bite down on my lip until it bleeds and fills my mouth with the bitter taste of rust. “Raven… do you really believe in this stuff?” I hold up the book. “Grim Reapers, Death Angels, and battles between good and evil? Or are you just showing it to me because I asked about a Grim Angel?”
Her eyes are as soft as they’ve ever been, and at that moment she is the same friend that slapped Ricky Stewart in the face when he cut off a piece of my hair in kindergarten. “My best friend has been able to see how everyone is going to die since she was four years old. If that shit can exist, why can’t this?”
“I think the gift might be gone.” I place a hand on her arm. “I can’t feel your death anymore.”
“Your curse isn’t gone.” She smiles sadly and slips the white-feathered wings onto her back.
“Yeah, but what if it’s not a curse?” I maneuver awkwardly out of the car, bending low to get my wings out. “What if I’m… what if this whole time I’ve been able to do all this stuff because I’m not human?”
“It would still be considered a curse, Em. Death stole your life away from you when you were four.” She locks up the doors. “Come on, let’s go inside.”
The chilled wind blows through our hair as we hike across the parking lot. Raven holds the bottom of her dress down and fiddles with her hair. Inside her bra, the phone rings, and she does a little wiggle from the vibration, but ignores the call. We push through the doors and a puff of mist engulfs us.
“Damn Halloween decorations.” Raven coughs and waves her hand in front of her face.
I fan my face and blink my stinging eyes until we break through the mist and into the quad. Up on the stage, a guitarist flares on his instrument’s strings. The drummer is shirtless and branded with mythical tattoos. Music bursts through several large speakers lined along the wall. Orange and black streamers are spiraling around columns, and purple and silver ceiling lights flash down on the packed dance floor, where people jump up and down, shouting out the lyrics of the song. There are witches, devils, vampires, Frankensteins, and even a few angels. In the farthest corner, someone is fashioned in a Grim Reaper costume.
“God, I hope there aren’t too many of them,” I mumble.
Raven tracks the object of my gaze. “Oh Emmy, you don’t fear the Reaper, do you?”
I shoot her a blank stare. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
She smiles and hooks arms with me. It’s the strangest thing in the world, touching her and not feeling her death. We create a wide path with her wings as we weave around the room, toward the common area, a small room just behind the stage. Heads turn in our direction, but I keep focused on the common room doors.
“Why are we going back here?!” I yell over the music.
She points at the doors decorated with spider webs and an ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK sign. “There’s a haunted house back there and Asher just sent me a text that he was walking through it with some friends.”
I slam to a stop and she’s jerked back.
“Em, what the hell?” She unclasps our arms. “What are you looking at?”
My pulse races as I stare at the door. “I’m not sure I want to go in there.”
She rolls her eyes and jerks me forward. “Come on, we’ll be fine.”
“Why can’t I just meet him out here?” I argue.
“Stop being a chicken!” She laughs. “I was only kidding about him being the Reaper.”
I begrudgingly follow her into the haunted house. It’s dark inside and when the door shuts behind us, it suffocates the music. There are skeletons to greet us at the entrance of a hallway of hay bales. Twinkle lights sparkle the way.
I back away, but Raven pulls me forward. “You are going to have fun tonight whether you like it or not.”
Shaking my head, I trudge after her. The skeleton jumps up and shrieks at us as we pass it. Raven speeds up, laughing, and I sneeze from the hay. The farther we go, the more scarce the lights get, until there are none left and we’re smothered by blackness.
Someone screams and a warm mist dampens my skin. A recording of a laugh turns on, followed by a deep growl.
“Raven,” I hiss. “I want to go back.”
Her hand falls from mine and she laughs. “Last one to the end’s a rotten egg.”
I stumble around in the dark with my hands sprawled out in front of me. “Raven, where are you?"
Behind me a light clicks on, highlighting a graffiti wall. I lower my hands as another light turns on and emphasizes a chain link floor-length gate in front of me. I push through the gate and step into the next section, which is lined wall-to-wall with mirrors. The gate slams shut behind me. I whirl around, threading my fingers through the links, jerking it fiercely.
The gate won’t budge, so I walk vigilantly up the slender hall between the mirrored walls. “Raven, please tell me where you are. This isn’t funny anymore.”
I hear her laugh from somewhere and the lights flash off, then on. A man appears at the end of the hall, with dark hair, kohl-lined eyes, black jeans, and a T-shirt. A giant X brands his forehead.
I squint through the blinking lights that reflect blindingly against the mirrors. “Laden?”
“Hello, Ember.” He smiles. “Long time, no see.”
I back up quickly, but crash into a solid figure. A thousand deaths pour through me: pain, terror, f
alling, drowning, fire, pain, pain, pain. I buckle forward, but he grasps my arm, rotates it behind my back, and reels me to face him.
Garrick’s greasy hair shines in the light and he scratches the X on his eye. “You’re not playing the game right, do you know that? You‘re not answering every question we ask and you’re not giving in. It’s very disappointing.”
“We,” I say, hoping to throw him off. “As in the Anamotti.”
His face remains stoic. “What? You think that surprised me? The bigger question that I think needs answering is who are the Anamotti? And who leads us?”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.” I try to wrench my arm away.
His fingernails dig into my skin. “Oh I think you do. It’s the perfect crime, you know. Telling the person you’re after about the group who is chasing after her, when really you are part of it. Earning her trust, so she’ll never see it coming.”
Ember (Death Collectors, Book 1) Page 20
