The Reaper's Kiss

by Abigail Baker

“Brent, we should not—”

  His mouth covered mine. I lost myself for a moment, forgetting how to kiss back. Even if I’d wanted it, I hadn’t expected him to follow through so brazenly.

  But when his tongue grazed my closed teeth, that sphere of bliss in my center dropped down between my legs. My body begged me to give in, to let him have his way.

  I dug my fingernails into his back. He growled and the sound vibrated my chest. I smiled a smile he couldn’t see before returning his kiss with twice the vigor. Our teeth scraped as I enjoyed his sweet spice. I had to feel every movement of his jaw and lips and tongue with my own.

  He overpowered me. Not by strength, but with a carnality that had me begging him not to stop, like I could enfold myself within his kiss forever. Pawing at his back, I pressed my breasts against him, inviting him to feel the rest of me if he wanted.

  But he jerked away, and I snapped my eyes open.

  “What?” Sensuality drained through my toes.

  “I can’t,” he said, and quickly backed away.

  Everything upsetting and wicked—like Eve and her Reaper—that I left behind just a second ago returned like a flood. Full as I felt with renewed grief, I still deflated when Brent stood to his full height. In one hand was the baggie with the card “Baird” written on it. With the other hand he raked his fingers through his wet hair.

  He glanced from side to side, looking for something or simply trying to avoid looking at me. “I’ll go back and get the name again. Sit tight. I shouldn’t be long.”

  “Wait.” I sat up. “Won’t security in Lethe be tighter now?”

  Brent was already at the apartment door. “I’m crafty. Don’t worry.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  His back was to me as he said, “It was wrong. This is business. Nothing more.”

  With that, he left, and I felt heat from my inner radiator, the hotness that had gotten me into trouble to begin with, swell within me. Suddenly, I was too hot with rage to be cold any longer.

  …

  “Our security cameras show that last night, two accomplices absconded with an undisclosed Deathlist from Reaper Headquarters. Anyone who knows of the whereabouts of these two Stygians and does not report them will be prosecuted with a Level Ten Offense for withholding information. I say to these accomplices, turn yourselves into Headquarters immediately for merciful justice.”

  Gerard and I sat inside of the tattoo shop, listening to Marin’s biting podcast. The missing Deathlist came after a whole list of troublesome news for Styx. That morning, humans had announced a possible cure for heart disease, one of our most frequently used causes of death. But worse was the census report. The human population welcomed its seventh billionth member into the world last night.

  “Might I remind everyone that tampering with the workings of Death is an offense worthy of eternal punishment in Erebus? It would behoove you to do as you’re instructed. Do not deviate.”

  Despite the reasons everyone in Styx should be having one massive coronary, the only thing that boiled my blood was the Deathlist. Brent and I had agreed to write down the name of Eve’s Reaper—Baird was all I knew—instead of pilfering the entire list, so as to leave no trace of our presence. Brent must have taken the list, perhaps even his own. There was no sneaking around with a missing list. The Deliveryman would know.

  Whatever Brent wanted with his own Deathlist, assuming his was the one he took, it didn’t mean anything to me. Not only had he reminded me how lonely I was by kissing me and then telling me it was wrong, he’d conned me into becoming a fugitive. It was only a matter of time before they found out who broke into the Registry Vaults.

  I was, by my own stupid mistake, a rebel, and I was fucked for it.

  The only consolation was that Brent wasn’t captured, a concern I had, since he had never returned.

  “When you eventually surface, Hume,” I grunted under my breath, “I’m going to kill you. Resurrect you. And then kill you again. That’s what I’ll do.”

  Someone tapped my shoulder.

  I jumped. “I didn’t take it!”

  “Look busy. Charming Chadwick is back for more.” Gerard didn’t skip a beat.

  Over my shoulder, I spotted Chad stomping out his cigarette outside of the shop. Fortune would be a kind goddess if she gave me some confidence so I wouldn’t inadvertently confess my crimes to the creeper Eidolon. I’d have to be cool and continuously remind myself that Chad had followed me home and tried to attack me. We had history, and I was not about to give in to him like I had to Brent.

  On my swivel chair, I rolled over to my station and fished my gear out of my backpack. It was Tuesday. Eve and her Reaper could have their fateful meeting at any moment. And Brent was probably halfway across North America by now, doing Hades knows what with the stolen property.

  “Scrivies,” said Chad as he glided into the shop. “You better be ready for some Deathmarks today. Head Reaper is in a foul mood.”

  “We can’t go out and solicit Deathmarks,” Gerard said, and it was the first time I heard him talk back to the Eidolon.

  “Indeed, Gerry. I made sure that Salon de Tatuoage will be busy today.”

  “Did you do it by convincing everyone you saw to ask for pinups and skulls?” I hissed from my workstation.

  “Exactly how I coerced your girlfriend to come here, yes, indeed.” Chad’s cigarette breath carried across the studio. The stink was sickening. I was in no mood for smelly work conditions or this SOB scrutinizing our work.

  “You’re not supposed to interfere with the process,” I said through my teeth.

  “Silly Scrivie, what little you know.”

  For a moment, I saw him in my mind’s eye with a Deathmark right in the middle of his forehead. It was a small tattoo, nothing impressive, but it was there and triumphant. Imagined victory must’ve been written in my expression because Chad’s eyes flashed red to wrench me back from my fantasy.

  “Rest assured, Eidolon,” I growled before the image faded entirely, “you won’t get any Master work out of either of us today, unless you want a pinup or skull on that butt-ugly face of yours.”

  Gerard was at the counter before I suggested a better place to put a Deathmark. “Ollie, don’t argue.”

  “Am I supposed to let this fucker follow me home and harass me, too, Ger?” I was standing, but I didn’t feel my legs. I felt nothing except the desire for everyone to leave me the hell alone—Brent, Chad, Head Reaper Marin.

  “What are you talking about?” Gerard glanced between Chad and me.

  “This champ harassed me after work the other night and then broke into my apartment.” Chad’s eyes turned red at my challenge and I grew confident. My hands matched his gaze. They were ready to do something—burn him or slap a Deathmark across his horrid mug. I would risk Erebus to show him I was not afraid. “Does the Head Reaper approve of bullying?”

  “Ollie!” Gerard glared at me.

  I hid my red hands behind my back. “Sorry. I’m having a bad week.”

  “No shit.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Go home. You can’t do good work if you’re unfocused.”

  My cheeks felt as hot as my hands as I held gazes with the Eidolon.

  “Chad, excuse us, please.” Gerard steered me toward the back room as Chad remained lingering in the shop, seething from my insubordination. I was tempted to put my fist in his jaw but stopped when Gerard wrenched me into his office.

  “You have got to watch yourself,” he whispered.

  “He set Eve up. He is going to stick around until he catches me doing something, and you know it. I can’t win, so I’m going to fight back even if it destroys me.” My eyes were gritty, my hands red hot. Parts of me felt like they’d erupt or detonate with one more push from an outside aggressor. I did not fear anyone but myself at present.

  Gerard’s nostrils flared. “Take the day off. Go visit Eve. Say your good-byes and then make peace with it.”

  I wanted to go against the rules Brent and I
had agreed to and tell Gerard everything—about the Registry Vault, the Deathlist, Brent’s affection—but if I spoke, I would have burst into sobs. I wouldn’t let Gerard see tears stream down my cheeks. He wasn’t the type who knew what to do when someone cried, not even when his male clients sobbed during a tattoo session.

  “Come back to the studio when you’ve cleared your head, kid.” Gerard patted my shoulder again and stepped out of the room.

  I listened to him smoothing things over with Chad before I took his advice. I slipped out the back door of the studio, leaving my tattoo machine and backpack behind. I would find Eve, and I would prepare for the worst.

  Chapter Ten

  “Congratulations, Stygians. The blog has reached a million hits in only four months’ time. The voice of the stifled is mounting. Their murmurs are stirring the rebel fiend.”

  —HermesHarbinger.com, 2:30 pm 4 April.

  15 April

  When I arrived at Eve’s familiar, dilapidated apartment building in Saint-Roch, I started to push the buzzer for apartment 4B but put the moment on pause.

  On the walk to her apartment, I had toiled with what to say, what to do, or if I should, in a roundabout way, tell her how much she meant to me, as our final good-bye. Everything from admitting that I was a Scrivener from the world of Styx to a simple hug went through my mind. Nothing felt sufficient. The only option was that I wouldn’t let her die alone.

  With a deep breath, I pressed buzzer 4B.

  “Oui?” she called through the speaker after a few seconds.

  “Eve, it’s Ollie. I thought I’d come by after work to see how your Death—I mean, tattoo is healing. Can I come up?” I checked behind me. A row of streetlamps spotlighted parked cars and leafless trees. No Watchmen or Eidolons in sight.

  Everything was tranquil—dissonantly so. I pressed my hands against my queasy stomach. I carried the same unsettled feeling as a child tucked away under a bed during a game of hide-and-go-seek. Only the stakes were higher than any childhood game I ever played.

  The buzz and unlatching of the building’s main door were a relief. I skipped several stairs until I reached the fourth floor. Barefoot and in a pair of jeans and a white tee shirt, Eve stood in the doorway to her apartment.

  Fear zipped through me as I drew closer to my friend. She was pale, her eyes sunken.

  “Mom won’t get to see it healed if it keeps getting worse.” Eve pulled her sleeve down over her viciously inflamed Deathmark and sank into the brown couch pillows. With brown bookcases, a tan rug, and auburn wood floors, Eve lived inside a chocolate truffle.

  Inside her apartment, with lavender incense burning and Bad Religion playing in the background, it could’ve been so easy to pretend that this was just a sleepover between girlfriends and not a chance for me to delay her approaching death. My plan was to linger for as long as possible without appearing odd. I couldn’t stop her from dying tonight or tomorrow, but I could be there as friend, to be by her side when it happened.

  “Is there anything else I can do for it?” she asked about her tattoo, pulling me back to her reality.

  My face hot with shame, I sat across from her, cradling a mug of coffee. She made it like she had at Le Nektar—only the whipped cream had melted into globs, and the coffee was lukewarm because I hadn’t touched it in over an hour. “Some tattoos take longer to heal.” Some Deathmarks take longer to work, too.

  “As long as it does before Saturday.” Eve balanced her elbows on her knees. A strand of blond hair fell over her brow. “Since you’re here, Ollie, want to hang out and watch movies or gossip? Did you go out with that lumbersexual from the other day? Tell me details.”

  I was happy to accept her invitation. We had shared a few nights curled up on her couch talking about various patrons of Le Nektar. One last night doing what had helped build our friendship seemed fitting. “I don’t kiss and tell, and you know it. But I’d love to hang out. Might even have to crash on your couch if it gets late.”

  “Right on! A sleepover,” she said with a brimming smile.

  I tried to mimic her glee.

  “Remy and his friend, Nick, are coming over, too. The more the merrier, right?” She rose from the couch with renewed verve. “I’ll get some blankets. You can crash on the couch.”

  When she vanished into her bedroom, I sank into the cushions. Here I was, with just a flimsy plan, and I hadn’t accounted for Remy and his friend. There was precious little I could do to save her if she suffered a massive coronary tonight. My plan was to protect from an outside threat—fire, electrocution, drug overdose, stumbling onto a kitchen knife.

  I exhaled deeply until every molecule of oxygen drained from my body. My hands began tracing furious circles on my thighs, begging me to bail out.

  “You can do this, Ollie,” I rallied. “You’re strong. You can—”

  The doorbell rang.

  There was a clamor from the back of the apartment before Eve rushed to the door and pressed the button to give her visitors access to the building. The pounding of boots grew louder and louder. She wrenched the door open and greeted Remy with a kiss. A tall, dark-haired companion followed Eve’s boyfriend into the apartment.

  “Well, there she is. The tattooist.” Metal chains hanging from his pants’ pockets, Remy strutted across the living room to shake my hand. “Nice to see you again.”

  “You too, Remy,” I said.

  “Ollie stopped by to check on my tattoo. I invited her to stay and hang out with us.” Eve put her arm around me, as close friends do. “This is Remy’s friend Nick. They met at a music festival last month.”

  Nick stepped around the coffee table to shake my hand. His grip nearly crushed the bones in my fingers. When his black eyes raked me from top to bottom, my blood ran cold. I recognized his expression—I’d seen the same one on the thugs who traveled Québec streets late at night. This guy was not the charming soul that Remy appeared to be.

  “Nick, she’s the tattooist who did my Day of the Dead skull,” Eve explained.

  I felt for the ZZ Top belt buckle around my middle. Brent had left it behind last night after he abruptly left my apartment. I’d had to wrap his belt twice around my waist. No matter how irritated I was with how he betrayed my trust by running off last night, his belt was the only thing holding me together.

  “Would you and Nick like to rent us some videos for tonight?” Eve nudged her boyfriend’s side.

  Nick gave her a cutting look. “Let’s go down to the corner store and grab drinks first.”

  “It’s late, and Eve isn’t feeling well. Why don’t you and I go, Nick?” Remy said after Eve started for her shoes and jacket.

  Nick squared his shoulders. “They can watch for any trouble.”

  “What trouble?” I said before I could stop myself.

  “Nothing you need to worry your pretty head about,” Nick mocked.

  Whatever trouble Eve and I were supposed to watch out for down at the corner liquor store, he wouldn’t divulge. I had a good enough imagination to put together a few ideas, however, none of which I liked. I had agreed to stay by Eve’s side. I would, even if going out into the night seemed to be the worst of options.

  “What are we doing?” I asked Eve the second Nick and Remy vanished into the liquor store.

  “We do this all the time.” She never once looked at me; she kept her attention locked on the empty dark street. Apartment buildings and corner stores surrounded us. The air was humid and icy, burning my lungs with each breath.

  “What do you do exactly?” I nudged.

  “It’s not a big deal, you know. It’s slightly criminal. Not like we’re stealing Rolexes.” Eve’s attention drifted to her boot toes.

  “Remy doesn’t seem the type. Neither do you.” I peered into the liquor store. Remy and Nick were at the register with their arms flailing and the clerk shouting at them. I wondered what it was they were arguing about. Eve, on the other hand, kept her eyes on her boots.

  “This is Nick’s thi
ng, not ours.” She lifted her head when the voices inside of the store grew louder.

  “Do they usually argue with the clerk?” I put my face closer to the window, spying. Eve lost interest in her toes and followed my lead. She pressed her nose against the glass, too.

  “Does the clerk usually get his gun?” I asked with a warble in my tone.

  Her eyes were wider than I had ever seen, enough warning for me to grab her hand and run for safety, either in her apartment or some alcove far away from Remy, Nick, or the pissed off and heavily armed sales clerk. Eve squeezed my hand tightly as we crossed the street.

  The pops of a fired handgun made us squeal. Our pace quickened.

  From over my shoulder, I saw the liquor store door fling open and Remy and Nick spill out, dodging bullets. A heavyset man in a green parka aimed his gun at us and fired again. With Eve’s hand in mine, we ran. But all too quickly the men passed us by, their legs longer and their gait more generous.

  “Goddamn kids!” shouted the clerk. Having been provoked enough to pull out his gun and make his point, I was sure he’d call the police.

  Remy and Nick had already disappeared into a dark side street lined with homes and a canopy of trees. They whispered from the darkness “over here” and “come on.” I pulled on Eve’s hand, intending to vanish into the darkness with Remy and Nick. She resisted.

  “Eve, come on,” I urged. “Let’s just get someplace safe.”

  She did not reply. With how hard we had been running, I didn’t expect her to hold a deep conversation. Still, I slowed and looked behind me to see the nightmare I had been trying to avoid since earlier this week.

  “What is it?” I screamed as I stared into the pale face of my human friend.

  “I think…” She wheezed, “I think he got me.”

  I threw my arms around her and felt her back. Patting up and down, I felt nothing of consequence. However, adrenaline had a way of masking the truth.

  “Is it bad?” she asked, her chin braced against my shoulder.

  Just about to tell her she was fine and likely just winded, I paused on a spot on the left side of her spine. Part of my training as a tattooist and a Scrivener was to learn human anatomy. My heart, which pounded fiercely in my ears, slowed and slowed as the realization came crashing down upon me in the middle of a dark Québec City street at eleven in the evening.