The Reaper's Kiss

by Abigail Baker

  —Ovid, The Poems of Exile: Tristia and the Black Sea Letters

  14 April

  Dudley whimpered to remind me that he had not gone on his morning walk or had his breakfast—two of his reasons for living. I looked over to see his lazily swinging tail. It wasn’t his usual good morning wag, but it still held happiness. And hope.

  The digits on my smartphone read nine o’clock. A night of perusing HermesHarbinger.com had left me with time to brood since Brent had left my apartment. Eve’s time had been diminishing as I idled, feeling sorry for myself.

  Dudley trotted into the kitchen and glanced at the stove. Every morning I gave him blueberry pancakes in addition to his kibble. The dog liked his pastries.

  I slowly stood, my spine cracking thanks to the shot springs in my hand-me-down couch, when the sound of keys in the door turned my focus from breakfast and the injustice of back troubles at twenty-six, to the possibility of a full invasion. Travelling ten feet in a panic, I jumped onto the television stand that was still braced against the door.

  Through the peephole, I saw a familiar lavender eye looking back at me.

  “Open the door.” My foster mother Lorelei Balanchine’s voice carried through the apartment with a cutting ping. The sound fired shivers through me like it had when I was a teenager hiding in my bedroom and rereading the raunchier parts of her romance novel collection—an indulgence I wouldn’t normally admit to.

  “Hold on, Mama.”

  After I’d shoved the television stand back to its place and slid back the chain lock, both of my foster parents barged in with well-rehearsed purpose. I stumbled to the side, a hand to my tender back, and sighed.

  “You knew we were comin’ over. How are we supposed to get in if the door is locked?” Mama ranted as she brushed past me, carrying a plate of cookies. She was an emerald blur to my tired eyes. Her familiar green maxi dress accentuated her full-bodied curves. Waist-length black braids were wrapped in a color-matched headdress. Plastic limes dangled from her ears. The monochromatic green washed the warmth out of her nutmeg skin.

  I wasn’t thrilled to update them on the last harrowing few days, but if I avoided it, Mama would know. She was a Grim Reaper who could sniff out dishonesty with the skill of a bloodhound. “I set the lock because one of Marin’s guys was at the shop, and he followed me home last night.”

  Papa squared his massive shoulders. “What do you mean?”

  “His name is Chad. He’s an Eidolon. Marin sent him to keep an eye on me and, well, he did. I think he might’ve broke into my apartment, but I can’t be sure.”

  “You should’ve called. I would’ve come over, baby girl,” Papa said, with spite for Chad in his bass voice. His iron arms pulled me into a hug and popped the knot out of my spine. I was melted butter as I sank into his embrace.

  Papa’s hugs were worth getting lost in and not just for their chiropractic assistance. Even now, my cheek pressed to the soft cotton of his shirt, I felt as safe as I had when I was a little girl. Maybe I should’ve called him after Chad’s creepy visit.

  The knot in my back started to tighten all over again.

  “Thanks, Papa, but everything is fine now,” I said, pulling back from his arms to look into his dark brown eyes. Today Papa had shaved, displaying the glow in his dark chocolate skin. I always preferred him without a beard because I could see his smile better.

  “You know my feelings on Eidolons and Watchmen,” he hissed. “They are all a bunch of self-serving sons-of-bitches. One sure as hell shouldn’t be following you home. What’s this Chad’s last name? I’ll have words with him.” He deposited his jacket on the kitchen counter as we converged on the plate of chocolate chip cookies that Mama set between us.

  “Papa, it’s not a big deal.” Liar.

  “Like hell it isn’t. Best you be on your guard until I can get my hands on this—”

  “Stone, baby,” Mama addressed him with firm warmth. “Let’s not get worked up right now. Our girl is fine, and we have fresh cookies for breakfast.” Mama was not dismissive, even though it would seem so to an outsider. While anyone would be fearful of Papa for his sheer mass alone, Mama was the overlooked threat. Behind that plate of gooey chocolate chip love was a Reaper who would not back down from a badger, an armed robber, or the Head of Death himself. Plots for Chad’s downfall were already twinkling in her smiling violet eyes. “Your Papa baked these cookies with me this morning. Let’s celebrate his first step into the kitchen with a bite.”

  “You helped?” I cocked a brow. Papa’s bowling team would love to see a picture of that: Papa in a pink, frilly apron rolling out cookie dough. Come to think of it,I would love to see a picture of that.

  “This lady from Québec Bookanistas said that learning together would revive our marriage.” Mama’s smile made her freckled cheeks bunch up. I had always liked that Mama and I both had freckles despite the fact that our skin was different colors—mine pale and cool; hers dark and warm. When I was little, I imagined she’d sprinkled her freckles over my cheeks when she’d give me kisses goodnight. I still liked to think that.

  “I guess after so many years you’d need a little romantic rekindling. What are you reading in Québec Bookanistas these days? Any suggestions?” I said.

  She put on that sassy smile I learned to copy at a very young age. “We’re reading Regency romances. Such lovely literature.”

  “Don’t be fooled, girl. Your mama skims for the steamy parts.”

  So did I.

  The doorbell rang. It had been so long since I heard it I didn’t recognize it.

  “What’s that sound?” Papa didn’t either. But then, he and Mama found the use of a doorbell odd because they preferred to barge into a room, not use pleasantries like doorbells.

  “Probably the wrong apartment.”

  The bell rang again.

  “Be right back.” I pulled away from the counter.

  As always, I used the peephole to assess the threat. No Eidolons. There was nothing but the hated 1920’s pink and gold floral wallpaper. What I would’ve given to have a strong chat with the interior decorator who’d gotten her hands on the wrong roll of bad taste and went bonkers covering every square inch of the common areas of the apartment building.

  The bell rang again, and I jumped.

  I opened the door a smidgen and faced one cerulean eye. My heart pattered. I expected him to come back in a few weeks, not hours. That he came back now made him really desperate to lead that rebellion, or just excellent boyfriend material. I wasn’t ready to decide which, since I still didn’t know what he actually was. Insurgent, Eidolon, hero…

  He has food?

  Brent the Rebel Eidolon held a bag of Chez Ashton and a to-go cup of coffee from Le Nektar. Without delay I reached for the treats. He jerked them away. His smile turned wicked, and I wanted to slap it and kiss it and then slap it some more. I was not proud of that dilemma.

  “Why are you here?” I stared down the treats in his hands.

  “To talk.”

  How sweet. His timing was awful. Brent with Mama and Papa? Erebus would be Elysia in comparison.

  “No thanks.” I tried shutting the door because it was my only defense, but Brent jammed his tape-booted toe through it to stop me. He was as smart as he was stubborn.

  “I want to make things right, Ollie.”

  Come to think of it, I should have set the chain lock after Mama and Papa arrived.

  “I spent some time thinking after you kicked me out…into the frigid cold night. All alone in the world.”

  I glared. His playfulness was wasted on me.

  “Ahem. I was wrong. I don’t expect you to become a rebel with me overnight,” he said hastily as I crushed his toe harder with his every word. “But sometimes we have to take risks. I think we might be able to help Eve, at least give her some extra time, as you asked.”

  My world stopped spinning for a moment. “What?”

  “We can help her, but it’s a Level… Hell, I don’t know
what level of offense it would be. Probably off the charts.”

  “What in the world does that mean?”

  “Means it’s serious enough to talk about inside your apartment with the door locked and voices hush-hushed. Possibly in bed, under the sheets, naked while I make it up to you. I at least owe you that.”

  Too fucking tempting.

  His smile spoke volumes. I glanced around the door at Mama and Papa who were hovering over the cookies. They weren’t eating or talking, which meant they were trying to listen.

  I could already see Brent’s squashed face if Papa got his hands on him. Four years ago, Papa had discovered that a Reaper I had been dating for a month was promoted to Watchman. I had to break off the relationship after Papa put the guy through a stained glass window. Papa didn’t like authority, so if he thought for a moment that I was interested in an Eidolon—for an honorable and rebellious cause or not—it wouldn’t matter if Brent outranked him. Papa would take it as a personal challenge.

  “Come back later,” I conceded. “And bring those treats.”

  “I thought we could discuss it over breakfast.” He waved the Chez Ashton bag and coffee.

  “Not now. I’ve got company.”

  “Who?”

  I chewed my bottom lip and threw out, “A man. We’ve been…busy.”

  Only the slightest lift of his right brow gave away his suspicion. “Slap me silly, you moved on fast. Mind if I shake the hand of this Romeo? I’d like to know who I lost out to and he better not be Chad.”

  “Moving on would mean we had something to begin with, Hume.”

  “Just because you didn’t let me in your panties doesn’t mean you didn’t want me there. I see how you look at me.”

  “How does your ego fit into that head of yours?”

  “I wear relaxed-fit jeans.” He curled his fingers over the edge of the door and tried to glance around it. There was no time for me to explain that my foster father would string him up by his toes if he had the chance.

  “I’ll give you a pound of sugar if you leave right now.” I put a hand on his chest and noticed his hard muscles, something I shouldn’t notice in a Grim Reaper for Stygians. He could destroy me. And yet he hadn’t. That fact made me feel like he’d reached into my chest, grabbed my heart, and gave it a sensual squeeze.

  “We have business to discuss,” he said. “Tell your booty call to leave.”

  “He’s not a booty call, he’s… You…you leave.” I drew my hands back. They were turning pink, warm, and prepared for a battle. But that also meant I couldn’t touch the door. The brace of my foot was the only thing protecting everyone from an unplanned gathering.

  His grin suddenly turned excruciatingly mischievous. “Howdy there.”

  Patchouli wafted over my shoulder. Nervous chills zipped through me.

  “Ollie, who is your friend?” asked Mama.

  Shoulders rigid, I turned around to find Mama’s violet eyes as broad as dinner plates. But it was Papa who caused my head to spin.

  When he was off, he was the sweetest, kindest Reaper imaginable. When he was flipped on, he was the incensed grizzly bear uprooting pine trees to make a very specific—vicious—point.

  And judging by the flare of his nostrils, Papa had flipped on.

  To be fair, his aggression came with the territory. Papa took it upon himself to use intimidation to protect me. But it only worked if my would-be suitors knew Mr. Stone Balanchine personally. Brent did not.

  “What’s this about? That Chad?” Papa asked in a wrath-auguring bass. When I assessed them both, Papa was a hair shorter than Brent but wider by far in musculature. His size alone was usually enough to send others scattering.

  Size evidently didn’t matter to an Eidolon.

  “No, Papa, he’s not Chad. He’s a friend who stopped by to say hello,” I said. “He was just leaving.”

  “What’s your name, sugar?” Mama pulled Brent inside, completely unfazed by her husband’s fury. Mama lived to antagonize Papa, evidenced by her boundless collection of Beanie Babies, which layered every square inch of their apartment. This was probably why Papa liked to visit my place. No piles of stuffed animals to wade through.

  “Reaper Brent Hume, ma’am,” he said, smiling from ear-to-ear. “Now, I may not be a brilliant man, but you must be Olivia’s momma.”

  “My, you’re a southern gent. How nice.” Mama put her hand to her chest. “The name’s Lorelei Balanchine, Grim Reaper. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  I rolled my eyes—again. So did Papa. Brent’s sparkling blue gaze could have charmed the knickers off a nun, but did he really have to take Mama’s hand and kiss it?

  “Miss Lorelei. That’s a lovely name indeed.”

  “Mm. Ollie, why didn’t you invite this devil in sooner?” For the first time in my life, I could have sworn I actually saw a swoon in the wild.

  “Yeah, Ollie, why?” Papa asked.

  I backed into—and almost crushed—Brent, our breakfast, and that sweet, sweet caffeinated nectar. “I was trying to get him to come back another time.”

  Papa’s face danced a jig between murder and torture. “You didn’t try hard enough. You should’ve given the choke-slam or the brain-buster. Those moves will get rid of troublemakers. Your last three boyfriends were up to no good. Do I have to remind you of Alexander and Jacob and—”

  “Please stop.” There was no masking my embarrassment at that point.

  I could never tell when Papa was reddened from anger, but whenever the vein in his forehead popped—like it did just then—I knew he was pissed off beyond compromise.

  “Mr. Balanchine,” Brent interjected, then handed off the squashed bag and sweating coffee and stepped around me. He crossed his arms over his chest, flexing those muscles to make it crystal clear to Papa that he wanted a brand new asshole. “I don’t have any ill intentions toward your daughter.”

  “See there. He has no ill intentions.” Mama’s plastic lime earrings swung violently as she sought to calm Papa. “I taught our daughter to find a decent man. One of these days she’ll get it right. Now Ollie,” she turned to me with a strained smile, ignoring Papa’s seething stare, “Stone and I are going to leave so you two sweethearts can do whatever it is you were going to do.”

  “No, no. We’re not dating.” However, if we were, I’d at least have the glow from a recent orgasm to make this conversation bearable. “I barely know him.”

  “You don’t have to disguise how you feel. We understand.”

  “Mama, there’s nothing to understand. Brent came by because we… um…we’re gonna save a client I marked from death.”

  The conversation fell silent.

  Dead silent.

  The only sounds were the traffic below my apartment and my upstairs neighbor using his rowing machine.

  “What did you say?” Papa’s dark skin glistened in angry sweat.

  I wasn’t sure what to do. Run? Hide? Kool-Aid Man my way out of the apartment building? I looked between Brent, Mama, Papa, and then back to Brent, who was staring like I had punched his elderly mother in the throat. I shouldn’t have spoken, I knew.

  Desperate measures were in order.

  My grand resolution to this problem was coming in three, two…

  “Mr. Balanchine,” Brent said, “What Ollie meant to say is that since I’m an Eidolon, I can help her fix a problem with an elusive Deathmark before Marin catches on. No big deal.”

  “My ears must’ve heard that wrong, son. You’re a what?” Papa growled.

  “An Eidolon.”

  Papa’s paws clamped around Brent’s throat.

  “Here.” I tossed Brent a Ziploc bag stuffed with ice.

  His mouth finally stopped bleeding after twenty minutes, a surprisingly long time for a Stygian. Usually our wounds healed within minutes, so long as they weren’t too deep. Thank Hades for that. My accident-prone childhood would’ve been predominantly hospital visits if I weren’t Stygian.

  I plopped down on th
e couch next to him. “You shouldn’t have told him you’re an Eidolon. He doesn’t trust Eidolons after the Purge.”

  Not that I needed Papa telling me why Brent was six million reasons wrong for me to get entangled with, because I knew. Still, he was my type in every which way. Well, except for being a rebel. I could have done without that, thank you very much.

  “I had to say something.” Brent pressed the bag of ice to his gradually healing lip. “We’re talking about challenging the fundamentals of Death by interrupting Eve’s death. If we get caught because your parents narc on us, we’ll be serving shit sandwiches to criminals down in Erebus.”

  “Excuse me?” I bristled.

  He appeared confused, one eyebrow elevated.

  “There are a lot of Stygians in Erebus for bullshit charges. They aren’t criminals. Like my birth parents for one.”

  “Didn’t mean to be insensitive. You know what I meant.” He tossed the bag of ice onto the coffee table. It landed with a clunk next to a collection of True Blood DVDs.

  “What’s this plan then?” I asked after a temper-cooling breath.

  “There’s a place in Québec that holds Deathlists for Reapers, called the Registry Vault. I worked there as the Deliveryman before I was kicked off the job.”

  The Deliveryman was the second in command next to Head Reaper Marin, the big honcho. Brent Hume had been one degree away from the seat of power that many would fight to acquire. The notion was surreal and disturbing. “You were the Deliveryman?”

  He nodded, completely nonchalant.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I barked.

  Brent released a long exhale. “I’m not fucking kidding anyone.”

  I couldn’t count how many times I had tried to catch the mystery Stygian who delivered Mama and Papa’s Deathlists when I was a child. He or she was an enigma, like Santa Claus to human children. How does he get to every house in the world on Christmas Eve? How does he fit through chimneys?

  “I don’t get it. You’re a rebel. Rebels don’t work that closely for Marin.”

  “I joined the rebellion after Marin kicked me off the Deliveryman job.”