The Reaper's Kiss

by Abigail Baker

  “Do we call the police?” I said. “Or dispose of the body? We don’t own a shovel. How much are shovels?”

  “This is exactly why you need to keep your power under wraps. The Head Reaper is going to send his Watchmen in to keep an eye on every move you make now. That was just too weird for him not to notice.” Gerard scored through my panic with a serious reason to worry. Watchmen were the Head Reaper’s police force, who arrived in white utility vans and wrought havoc on anyone who showed signs of the smallest offense—or something odd that Marin could label an infraction. We did our best to avoid them at all costs. “You don’t want him to notice you. You keep your head down, and you’ll survive.”

  “Look, it’s not like I’m showing off. I can’t help it.”

  “That’s the goddamn problem. You have to control it, Ollie, so the Watchmen don’t come sniffing around here looking to cause trouble. You don’t want them thinking you’re some kind of fledgling Master Scrivener do you?”

  I had not predicted this conversation would lead to the topic of the Purge—the genocide of Master Scriveners nearly seventy-five years ago, perpetrated by a rogue group of Stygians, rumored to have been led by Marin himself. But it was a damn fine reminder that burning through a human like I just did was a stupid mistake that could bring attention of the wrong sort. A mistake I’d never make again.

  Unsure of what to say, but keenly aware of my worry, guilt, and remorse, I rushed to help Gerard lift Moose’s body, but where we would put him wasn’t immediately clear. Even so, we couldn’t leave him on the floor—that seemed rude and unsanitary.

  “The Watchmen won’t care. I tattoo humans as I was taught and don’t look back.” Except now I was looking into the face of my not-so-dearly departed client. Usually, Deathmarks take weeks to call the Reapers, which meant we never witnessed this part of the process. “Maybe we shouldn’t move him?”

  “Why?” Gerard grunted when he lifted Moose’s head and shoulders.

  “Don’t police ask questions if the body is moved?”

  “Ah! That’s what I should do. Call the police.” Moose’s head and shoulders plopped to the floor when Gerard went for the countertop. Before he grabbed the phone receiver, he looked over his shoulder, his foreboding expression pouring over me.

  “It’s time for your lunch break,” he said, voice dry and pointed.

  “Now? Are you kidding?” Struggling with Moose’s right leg, I watched a dark emotion flood Gerard’s face. Granted, we were in a nasty predicament, and it wasn’t even noon yet, but he concerned me more than Moose’s corpse. “Ger, I should be here when the police show—”

  “I said it’s time for your break. Go. And bring me a cup of coffee with double the sugar. After this mess, I’m gonna need it.”

  Chapter Two

  “I am disappointed to report that one of our own, Violet Magby, was executed last night for failing to meet her soul quota for the fifth time this year and for her possible involvement in a rebel cell. With no Obol payouts, Magby resorted to petty crimes and illegal sugar addiction. She was found hiding in the Catskills. Violet is survived by her sister, Clover Magby of the Stygian Sector of Buffalo, New York.”

  —Head Reaper Marin, April 12th Newscast

  Although there were plenty of places to grab a quality jolt of caffeine near Salon de Tatouage, the additional time away from the shop would give Gerard the space he needed to clean up my mess. Besides, my preferred coffee shop was a ten-minute cab ride away.

  From Gerard’s reaction, what had happened was unheard of. Had I meant to leave such an impression on my client—to doom Moose before the Deathmark was through—I would not have felt an ounce of concern now. I was not sad for his passing. This was the business of death. If I felt bad for every customer who sat in my chair and received a skull, I would be locked away inside a padded room by now.

  No. I was worried for one reason only—Erebus, eternal suffering.

  Fifteen minutes after witnessing Moose’s heart putter to a stop, I disappeared inside Le Nektar Café where splendor is roasted, ground, and brewed to perfection. The coffee shop’s heavy wood door swung shut behind me, stubbing out the crisp Québec air.

  I inhaled and forced a smile as the images of Moose’s untimely demise and my future inside the walls of damnation faded into the background. Le Nektar had a warm, nutty fragrance that made you think of croissants, a good book, and free time that is never ending. It was easy to forget the bad things there—like Grim Reapers and Deathmarks.

  The usual customers hid behind assorted newspapers and laptop computers. The elderly couple still living their undying romance was tucked into a nook in the back lounge. Buried in a maroon-and-gold Université Laval sweatshirt was the always-present-yet-still-unnamed-student, typing away on her computer.

  Le Nektar was my second home because I could politely watch humans engage in their daily routines at the leisurely pace of one sip of coffee at a time.

  “Was wondering if you were ever coming by today, girl,” called my one-and-only welcoming party, Eve Cassidy, from behind the cafe counter. Eve was the only human who bothered to converse with me in the café. I adored her for that.

  “Consider this your reminder that my birthday party is Saturday. Mom is going to be there. I can’t wait for you two to meet. She’ll adore you,” she said as I squeezed between tables, coats, and patrons.

  “I wouldn’t miss your birthday or a chance to meet your mom for anything.” Now, as for getting Eve the perfect birthday gift, I had no clue. She pulled off a punk image with absolute perfection in black jeans, shirts that hung seductively off of one shoulder, ruby lipstick, and spiked pixie hair.

  As blond hair fell across her eyes, a gift idea promptly came to mind. I’d get her a decorative hairband. Or a hat. Or hair gel. Her preoccupation with looking like a twenty-something punk was endearing, and I made sure to tell her that whenever the moment felt right. Eve called me her outdoorsy, freckled friend because of my dreads, ripped jeans, dirty brown hiking boots, and, of course, Irish freckles.

  I did a sweep for any Reapers before I reached across the counter and gave Eve a hug. Had Watchmen—Grim Reapers with gold scythe badges, authority, and bad attitudes—caught me chatting with Eve, or any human, for pleasure not business, I could be sent to Erebus.

  “Your hair is getting long.” I pointed at the mop on Eve’s head, trying hard to stop the mind train of terror from ripping me off course.

  Think about coffee. Friends. Think about good things.

  Eve brushed hair from her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. “I’ve been so busy getting ready for Mom’s visit. I need to get it trimmed.”

  “It doesn’t look bad. It’s…avant-garde.” I forced a smile as I slid my reusable mug in her direction. “I’ll need a cup for Gerry, too.”

  “Sure thing,” she said.

  “Are you excited to see your mom in a few days? When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Oh, it’s been years. Strange how you don’t talk to someone for so long, and then you reconnect as if no time has passed. Made me realize how much I missed her, girl.” After plucking my empty metal coffee mug, Eve’s hands moved with graceful speed as she prepared my usual order. No matter how simple pouring coffee into a cup and slapping whipped cream on top was, magic worked from those fingers.

  “Well, you two will have a lifetime to make amends over her leaving your dad,” I said.

  “Yeah, we’re lucky. Would have been a shame if we never got to reconcile because she passed away or something. Wasn’t her fault that my dad was a high-functioning alcoholic. Glad I know that now. I never realized what had been going on with him—and them. I never gave her the chance to tell me—just walked away and didn’t let her back into my life. And—I didn’t tell you this part—but I just had this dream a couple of weeks ago that I went to visit her, and something started taking her away from me. I kept trying to grab her hand and pull her back, but I couldn’t reach her. Made me realize that life is s
hort.” Eve paused to smile to herself and followed it with a grateful sigh. “You look a little avant-garde yourself. Everything okay in the tattoo world?”

  Well, I could’ve said that I had inked such a badass skull on Moose the Noose today that he died before I finished my work, and that for the first time I bore witness to the power of my Deathmark and as a result I cannot quell the knot of raw, primal guilt growing ever tighter in my chest. But she didn’t know who—or what—I really was. As an alternative, I muttered, “There are good days and bad days.”

  Eve slid my favorite metal coffee mug and a paper cup full to the brim for Gerard across the counter and gave a wink. “I slipped in a shot of whiskey. That should make your day a little better.”

  I put the mug to my lips and inhaled the sweetness of whipped cream, caffeine, and barrel-aged spirit. “When is your mom flying in from Vancouver?”

  “I’ll pick her up Saturday morning.” Our eye contact broke when she turned her focus on her black-lacquered fingernails. “She asked me what I want for my birthday.”

  I lowered my drink to the counter. “What did you tell her?”

  Those green, dark eyes of hers, much like my own, twinkled with happiness. “I want a tattoo from my favorite hippie artist. I—”

  “Excuse me, don’t mean to interrupt you two, but I believe the lady dropped this back there on the street,” said a man from behind me in a sweet-as-pie Southern accent that had enough brown sugar and bourbon to tease a girl’s sensibilities.

  Considering this was Québec City, a good thousand or so miles north of the American South, his drawl was intriguing, and it was evident from the assortment of cat-like female eyes peering over their laptop computers that I wasn’t the only one who noticed.

  “What do you mean you want a tattoo…from me?” I said, trying to hold off the man to get Eve, who was as agog over him as her customers, to answer. If she asked for my Deathmark, I would lose her in a way that was unfathomable. But for the moment, I had lost her to Southern Charm behind me.

  “Um…” was her thoughtful reply. Then she bit her bottom lip.

  I turned to see what had left her speechless. My gaze rose to meet a man with chestnut hair and a five o’clock shadow. He wore blue flannel under a soiled down coat and looked as if he’d crawled back from the high country after an arduous winter in unforgiving Canadian weather—the type of man who needed a woman’s touch to soothe the lingering brutality of his job.

  The fluttering in my chest that had begun at the lilt of his drawl exploded into a heart-squeezing throb. I was victim of my starry-eyed fantasy. Had I been any more socially eccentric, I would’ve been president of one of those lumberjack fan clubs where girls get hot and bothered over red flannel, axes, and beards. I usually observed such men from afar, but right now, I was standing before this fangirl’s dream, and I was, to be honest, a little tongue-tied.

  Until I saw what he was holding.

  My pink, glittery cell phone looked odd in this man’s massive, tanned hand. He might as well have been holding a baby doll in a lacy dress with “Olivia” sewn into the fabric. In moments like this, I hated that Mama pushed her ridiculous hand-me-downs on me.

  “Thu—thanks,” I said. “I didn’t realize I dropped it.”

  Beguiling sapphire eyes glinted when the southerner smiled. “City people are a lot faster than I remember. Had to chase you four blocks to return it.”

  I wanted to take the phone back. Really did. But I was afraid to, as if this man was the proud new owner of the pink shame, and I’d break his heart if I took it from him. So, I stared at his hand…I mean, the phone, and mumbled something like, “You didn’t have to trouble yourself.”

  “You’re a sweet thing. I couldn’t let you run off without your phone, darlin’. Besides it gave me a chance to introduce myself and ask your name.”

  I spied a sparkle of Grim Reaper gold in his eyes.

  My heart thumped inside my ribcage, quickening its pace, but not because I was still dumbstruck with lust. Now, I was terrified. What if he was an undercover Watchman hoping to arrest me?

  Did this one follow me from the shop after what happened to Moose? Is he undercover for the Head Reaper, here to make trouble?

  Channeling Eve’s articulateness, I sputtered “Thanks,” snatched my phone from his hand, and whirled back to see Eve wearing a proud, tigress’s smile. I didn’t need her egging me on with The Pylon of Sexy Death behind me.

  “Wow, Ollie. Here you were going on about how there are no good men left in the world, and Lumbersexual shows up to prove you wrong,” Eve said.

  The playfulness in Eve’s words reminded me that she had declared it her job to find me a good man to go to bed with. A boyfriend was the last thing I needed in my life these days. “I’ve gotta get back to work.”

  “Might I accompany you then?” the Reaper said.

  “That’s a great idea.” Eve’s grin was impish. “It’s a long walk. You’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other.”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I like the time to myself.”

  “Don’t let her scare you off, sir. She’s shy around handsome men. I’ll see you later today, Ollie. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.” Too soon, Eve was off taking another customer’s order, abandoning me with this Reaper.

  “Walk away from the human, darlin’. There are Watchmen nearby,” Flannel Death whispered, so close to my ear that the skin on my neck prickled.

  His warning registered as I threw an elbow in his side to get him to back away.

  He wasn’t lying.

  In their uniforms of black suits and gold scythe pins—ones that made them look like FBI super-agents to humans—were a male and female Watchman peering through Le Nektar’s front window at me. Although they weren’t demanding I join them outside so they could strong-arm me into confessing to some minor infraction, they watched intently.

  I wanted to say good-bye to Eve and ask one more time what kind of tattoo she wanted for her birthday, but I kept my lips sealed as I made for the exit. With my new friend the Grim Reaper nudging my back, I slipped through the door of Le Nektar, coffees in hand and my head full of mounting worry for Eve. The familiar, cold squall swept around us. I shivered under my parka and glanced up at the sky. Where humans saw scattered clouds with sun peeking through, Stygians saw millions of ashen, moaning souls. No sun. No stars. Nothing but bone-chilling murkiness. And that’s all we ever saw.

  The Watchmen closed in on our left, tearing my attention away from the soul-cloudy sky and frosty nip.

  “Stop right there, you two,” called the male.

  “We’re in a rush. Can you make it quick?” said the Southern man, whose drawl had transformed into a flawlessly articulated French-Canadian accent. He didn’t stop to chat, nor did he stop herding me away from the Watchmen.

  “We’re looking for a person of interest,” the female announced, following our retreat.

  “Sorry, can’t help you now. Late to work.” He grabbed my elbow and pulled me into a quickened gait. His flesh was cold against my warm hand. The feeling of his hand on my elbow was oddly welcomed. Panic made me grip him tighter, and the man’s unexpected alliance with me grew into an instant friendship, at least until we were out of sight of the Watchmen.

  “Bonne journée,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “You’re a Québecker?” I whispered as we trotted hastily toward our escape.

  “Kentuckian, but I’ve been here long enough to mimic the locals. Don’t want my accent stirring up trouble.”

  “By Head Reaper Marin’s law, you two must show us your identification,” one Watchman bellowed.

  “Let me handle this,” the southerner said, squeezing my elbow and letting go before he faced our pursuers.

  My anxiety rocketed into full alarm. I was certain this confrontation would come to blows or mean an arrest or both, so I was staggered to find my ally facing off with the male Watchman. The female pushed in between them as the pair engaged in a dis
creet conversation that I couldn’t interpret from ten feet away.

  The southerner’s broad shoulders remained squared when he stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets with a cool but annoyed casualness. And that was it. The female gave me a once over and pulled her coworker back from my ally. They slinked toward Le Nektar, turned on their heels, and made off to harass another Stygian a block away.

  “H-How did you do that?” I asked when the southerner faced me, smiling in a way that had me curious what it was about me that was worth smiling about. To avoid his eyes—and those dimples—I looked down at his black boots. Duct tape encircled the toes, looking just like my ten-year-old pair of L.L. Bean hikers.

  He was perfect for me.

  “Let me buy you a drink tonight, and I will explain everything,” he said.

  I could’ve accepted his offer because, there would be no reason to say no to such a brave soul. But Papa had always told me, if it feels too good, it probably is. Papa was what I call a jolly pessimist, and I was smart to remember his lessons. He would give me a two-day earful if he knew I was chumming it up with this god of flannel without a proper introduction.

  Moreover, what had happened to Moose at the shop was concerning. I was running straight back into a mess that would put me under the spotlight of Marin and his allies. This Southern Reaper could be trouble. While, sure, he was handsome and my type, I could not risk making yet another mistake today.

  “You’re kind, but no thanks,” I said and began the twenty-minute walk back to the shop.

  One step behind, blowing past people to keep pace with me, the southerner said, “I really mean no harm. Please, I’m new to town and would like to get to know the locals.”

  I didn’t notice that I had come to a stop until I was face-to-chest with him. I spat out the first excuse fresh in mind, “Welcome to Québec City. I don’t date men without tattoos.”