The Reaper's Kiss

by Abigail Baker

  Brent and I stood side by side, fingers interlaced. I wasn’t convinced that somehow we’d been duped into a trap fashioned by Marin, but I eyed everyone, plotting how we’d escape if this were indeed an ambush.

  But then something gave me pause.

  The clicking of nails on the hardwood floors started after I took several long breaths. Dudley trotted past all the pairs of legs toward me. He reared up, tail slapping from side to side when I dropped to the floor. Those beady hound eyes bulged. I pulled him to me and gave him a suffocating hug.

  “Duds,” I said to my furry companion. He licked my cheek, a habit I didn’t like because I knew where that tongue had been. “Was Brent good to you, buddy?”

  “He was treated like royalty,” Brent answered from behind me.

  My legs drove me upright when a male Reaper with a steely gaze peeled away from the group and made his approach. Blond hair scraped his wide shoulders. He was as tall as Brent and as filled out. A scythe was pinned to his crisp black shirt collar.

  I looked around. Everyone, including Azim and Clover, stood in awe of this Reaper, except for Brent, who looked like he was two seconds away from snapping him in half.

  “Scrivener Dormier, I am Garik, Head Watchman for the First Precinct of Styx. As you know, every Watchman in the Province of Québec reports to me.” His thick French-Canadian accent melted each vowel into the next. He had a commanding air about him. “I am also the head of this rebel cell.”

  A floorboard creaked when Garik took another step toward me. Brent inched closer to my side like the steadfast soldier he was. Garik stopped. His simple good looks remained cool. No smile. No frown.

  “Thankfully, one of us discovered you before Marin did,” he said, giving Brent a sidelong glance. “Now that we have you, we need your help.”

  Right. This wasn’t a “Hey, let’s have punch and cookies while we talk about how to make Styx a better place” type meeting, was it?

  “You want help with deposing Marin.” I already knew. No sense in wasting air.

  “Then it seems we are on the same page,” Garik said with a cunning smile.

  I squared my shoulders. “So long as we play by my rules, we are.”

  Garik stared pointedly. Perhaps he didn’t expect me to be quite so demanding.

  “Will you do what I say?” I needed to know the answer and now.

  “I cannot promise we will agree to your orders, Scrivener Dormier.”

  “I think you should,” Brent interjected. “Dormier knows what she’s doing.”

  Garik raised one eyebrow. “Would you do what she says?”

  Brent squeezed my hand. “I trust her. So should you.”

  Every Reaper in earshot muttered comments to each other. Faces that were glum smiled. Voices that had seemed hesitant were energized by what they heard. Brent Hume’s loyalty to me seemed to be enough to earn their conviction, or at least their interest.

  Garik waited until they quieted down before he spoke again. “Let’s hear your plan then, Scrivener Dormier.”

  After telling the rebels my plan, which amounted to putting myself in the public spotlight to call on the union of anyone who opposed Marin’s fascism, they weren’t keen to help. They wanted me to say that I would run headlong into Lethe and boil the flesh off of Marin’s bones. That’s all they cared to hear.

  I acquiesced to their pleas after hearing their counter proposal, however. I would make my public broadcast, and then Brent would help us get into Lethe. From there we would stop Marin for good. While I wasn’t entirely certain that I could, I needed the rebels to help me speak out and, in the end, save Mama and Papa.

  But after a couple hours of plotting and strategizing, I needed air. I slipped out the back door and onto a little concrete patio where new grass sprouted through a myriad of cracks. An upturned lawn chair with rusted legs would have been a lovely place to sit and stare out over the expanse of naked vineyards nearby, if I didn’t have so much on my mind.

  I finally had time to process everything that had happened in a few short days. Eve’s death. Mama and Papa’s capture. And now the most recent—Gerard’s banishment to Erebus.

  I put my hands to my face and breathed in as deeply as I could.

  Enough was enough.

  By capturing Mama and Papa and banishing Gerard, Marin was making it clear he meant to bring me to my knees in front of all of Styx. Before now, he wouldn’t have had a single person to answer to about injustices like these. Until Hermes Harbinger had popped up.

  Until today.

  I tore at a hangnail with my teeth. Papa would have given me a disapproving glance if he saw me now. He had always said I had pretty hands—that I shouldn’t hurt them. I tucked them into the kangaroo pocket of my sweatshirt.

  “I’m going to destroy Marin,” I said, hopeful that those I loved could hear me from across miles and dimensions.

  The back door cracked open and Brent poked his head out. Clutching a mug of tea, he stepped outside. We stood quietly for a moment, our red sweatshirts from Azim and Clover binding us together as rebels. Against the springtime chill, steam from the drink spiraled out of the mug like miniature spirits rising toward the sky.

  Brent offered me the drink. A whiff of lavender swept over me. I took a sip.

  “Lavender is calming,” he said.

  “I’d need a vat of this stuff to calm me down.”

  “Or maybe just a keg of beer.”

  “That, too.”

  We laughed, but it was a tense, forced laugh.

  Brent ran his hands down his face and dropped them to his sides. His expression lost its lightheartedness. His brow carried the stress of the world. Had I the power to kiss that stress away, I would have, but the best I could do was set the tea down on the patio, take his hand, and pull him toward an age-old maple tree that reminded me of one I had climbed every summer in my childhood.

  “How did you escape Garik’s lecture?” I gave his hand a squeeze to assess his mood.

  He returned the effort by interlacing his fingers with mine. His grip tightened then, as if I or my hand might run away again. “Garik’s got his head so far up his ass, he probably can’t see that the Reaper sitting in my place is five-foot-two and female.”

  “You don’t trust him?”

  “I don’t trust anyone who plays both sides.” Brent’s eyes narrowed as he spied the maple tree I was steering us toward. The branches were filling in with bright green leaves. Without asking, he put his hands on my hips and lifted me onto the lowest branch. I didn’t need the assistance, and he knew that. Brent just wanted to touch me—a fact I welcomed.

  As I settled onto my perch, feet dangling a couple feet above the ground, Brent sat next to me, his shoulder pressed against mine. How appropriate that as we gazed across the vineyards back toward the house, the sun began its descent.

  We sat in silence, listening to the ambient noises, squished together on the branch like a pair of teenage lovers. This stillness was the peaceful center of the hurricane. The storm was coming. We would be in the thick of it sooner than I wanted to acknowledge.

  This fleeting ceasefire was paradise.

  “Are you ready for this?” he asked, in reference to the plan of attack.

  My eyes fluttered shut in an effort to keep the world of Styx and rebellion separate from the tranquility of the moment. “I have no choice, whether I’m ready or not.”

  “Guess that’s how rebellions work.”

  “Suppose so.” I looked back at the sky and then at Brent, where I caught a fleck of anxiety in his expression. His confidence slackened, like he wanted to drag me through the earth’s core and all the way to China, miles from this mess.

  My cold fingers barely felt his beard when I drew him in for a show of thanks. For once, I was cool and calm as he enfolded me in his arms, deepening our kiss as the sun set on our slice of peace.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “There is probably no pleasure equal to the pleasure of climbing a danger
ous Alp; but it is a pleasure which is confined strictly to people who can find pleasure in it.”

  —Mark Twain

  27 April

  The morning sun was bright and vibrant over the Isle of Orleans. Brent darted in and out of the cottage, loading the Mercedes’s trunk with ropes, harnesses, and tool chests that we had acquired from the rebel cell. I wrung his World War II cap in my hands, my only sign of disquiet.

  Brent swept a hand across his sweat-covered brow. “What do you have in that brown toolbox though? Thing weighs a ton.”

  “Some tools.” I stuffed the garrison cap inside one of the giant pockets of my navy blue jumpsuit, which had “Zooey” embroidered across the chest pocket. Brent, Azim, and Clover wore the same costumes, except their suits were named “Juno,” “Boris,” and “Rebecca” respectively.

  The Mercedes creaked when Brent dumped the last of the goods into the trunk. “The weatherman said it’ll be sunny until early afternoon. We should get moving now, because it will be more difficult to install that doohickey to the roof if it is raining or snowing.”

  “It’s an Interceptor,” Azim said, standing next to the driver’s side of the Mercedes.

  “It’s a doohickey.”

  In the hours since arriving at the Isle, Azim and I had to remind Brent that the Interceptor, the square metal box, was our key to seizing Styx’s main broadcasting system. Hooked up to the antenna, it would be our means to connecting to the masses.

  Brent checked the sky. “We better hurry.”

  “He’s correct. We can’t delay,” Garik said as he climbed into a white Watchman van.

  Towering over Québec City in verdigris copper and russet stone, the fairy tale stronghold atop a mountain, Le Château Frontenac, awaited our arrival. The wide central tower of the Château looked taller than ever when we made our final turn into the hotel’s courtyard. In minutes, Brent and I would be dangling from the top from a blue rope the diameter of my pinkie. The notion turned my already unsettled stomach.

  Brent, Clover, and I climbed out of the Mercedes and left Azim sitting at the wheel, prepared to make our getaway. We agreed that blending with humans would hide us from Watchmen. Or at least it would confuse them long enough for us to make our escape.

  Around us, flags representing ambassadors from France, Great Britain, and Italy flapped in the brisk April wind. The Québec City flag, with its four white fleurs-de-lis and a cross embedded in royal blue, saluted us from high above.

  The bellhops retrieved luggage from the row of guests’ cars. They never knew that three citizens of Styx walked past them. We hustled one by one through the turnstile doors to step into Le Château’s lobby for the first time.

  Panels of mahogany adorned with sconces and chandeliers encased us. Together, we stood in front of the revolving doorway as blasts of cool air swatted our backsides, inviting us to retreat. Granite floors were blanketed in Persian rugs. The elaborate furniture looked too elegant to be comfortable. Ebullient workers trotted around the lobby in their pressed suits and red bowties, assisting guests. Dressed in our navy jumpsuits and army boots, toolboxes in hand, the three of us Stygians were plebeians among human monarchs.

  I tucked my hands into my jumper’s pockets. “I can’t believe I’ve never been here.”

  Brent hooted. “I can. This place isn’t for the poor.”

  “I’d have to start charging for the Café’s sweatshirts to stay one night here.” Clover eyed a rather handsome bellhop wrestling a suitcase onto a brass dolly. “It might be worth it if I can take one of those home.”

  Brent stared at Clover as if she was intriguingly bizarre to him.

  “Well,” I sighed. “It’s business from here on in.”

  Brent’s mirrored sunglasses reflected the bustling atrium. His jaw was set, shoulders squared, and lips showed no hint of nerves. I fed off his bravery.

  “Clover, you know what to do.” Before I finished the words, she was off toward her station in the rooftop chef’s gardens, where she would be our eyes should any Watchmen try to make a move on us.

  I made for the concierge desk with Brent bringing up the rear. Behind the counter, a man with snow-white hair and a mustache curled at the ends was my target.

  “Can I help you?” the concierge asked, sporting a nice grin under foggy eyes.

  “This place is busy isn’t it?” I asked.

  “Indeed it is.”

  “I wouldn’t be able to tell a ghost from a human being in here. It’s gotta be good for business. Anyway, I’m Zooey, says so on my badge.” I pointed to the name embroidered into my jumpsuit. Brent bumped my shoulder.

  “So,” I went on, “my colleague spoke with Marcus, who reported a leak in the roof on the tower.” I flashed a badge from our fictitious repair service, Aloft Roofing. Aloft Roofing had emailed the hotel that morning to make a sales call.

  Yesterday evening, a hotel worker by the name of Marcus had met with Azim over coffee and had given him pertinent information—most importantly his email address, which was promptly hacked by yours truly.

  The old man studied us. Then the flesh around his milky brown eyes crinkled with a grin. “Ah, yes, Aloft Roofing. I remember. Marcus sent me an email this morning. Shall I have someone—”

  “Not to worry. We already know the way.” I was pulsing with relief.

  “I assume you have keys to the eighteenth floor and roof access?”

  Brent yanked a set of decoy keys from his jumper and dangled them in front of the concierge, giving a silent, curt signal that we were equipped.

  “Very well. Please let us know if we can be of any assistance, Zooey.”

  And like that, we penetrated Lethe’s luxury façade. There was no resistance or deadly fight, no rules to skip around. It was straightforward.

  Almost too straightforward.

  Only once we slipped behind the burnished gold elevator doors, out of view of the lobby of humans, did I breathe. Brent didn’t.

  I rocked from toe to heels, clutching my toolbox. “I didn’t get to ask you earlier. World War II, huh?”

  “Yup.”

  The elevator dinged as we reached the fourth floor, and we rose a little higher.

  “Whose side were you on?”

  “Styx’s.”

  “Styx fought in the War?”

  “I gave Reapers direction in battle.” His barrel chest puffed up like a bulldog on alert. “Otherwise they would’ve taken out the wrong human soldiers, and the war might’ve ended differently. We control the course of human history, not just their deaths. It’s important we get it right.”

  “Oh.”

  The elevator dinged, signaling floor fourteen.

  “At least you have experience in battle. Being here scares the hell out of me, and this isn’t war,” I said. There was no time to go into theoretical ideals.

  “Experience tells me what I should be frightened of, Ollie. It’s not always for the best.” A slight lift followed by a drop, and the elevator doors opened to the eighteenth floor. “Besides, this is war.”

  He slid off the elevator before the doors finished opening. I padded onto the maroon carpeting. I wore the hat Brent had donned as general in World War II. And I chose to follow his lead. But when we came to a locked door with roof access, and he grabbed my hand, I hesitated to follow him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “We don’t have a key.” I fixated on the steel door that kept us from our goal.

  Brent, who appeared unfazed by metal and locks, cracked a smile. “I’ll half-death us through it.”

  “Half-what?” The word “death” coming from an Eidolon like Brent did not inspire confidence. In fact, it made me want to spin on my toes and make for the elevator.

  “Half-death. That’s how I presumably got us into Lethe last week. I would have had to ferry you through the bedrock wall noted on my map. Of course,” he snickered, “you don’t remember. I don’t either. But I have a lovely vision of a polka dot g-string, and I don’t know why.”


  I would have preferred a vision of a polka dot g-string to the brief memory I had of being awash in darkness as ice zipped through my veins. The former left a nicer imprint on the mind.

  “So, you’re gonna half-death me?” I was regretfully putting the pieces together and dreading what he would have to do to get us on the other side of the door.

  “Yup.” He drew me closer to him, his body already cold to the touch. “Ready?”

  I sighed, took a deep, calming breath, and then I tried not to think about this next part.

  “Look.” Brent demanded for the umpteenth time. “The city is gorgeous from up here. There’s the Isle of Orleans and the mountains off in the distance. This is the way to see Québec.”

  I locked my gaze on the Interceptor that he was fastening to the base of Styx’s antenna. Staring at his work was easier than watching the souls whizzing around us, rattling structures I prayed weren’t the ones anchoring us to the eighteen-story roof.

  Contrary to Brent, being above the city, secured by a thin rope tied to my seat harness, was not my idea of grand entertainment, especially not when ghosts were buzzing around us like gigantic flies. That Brent kept insisting I take a look at the roofs of Québec City through the souls wasn’t doing anything but aggravating my acrophobia. This was precisely why I never mounted the goddamn Interceptor on my own roof before now.

  I gripped my blue lifeline and looked down between my boots, which were pressed to the copper sheeting of the roof.

  If I puked, would it discolor the roof? Would it bother the spirits?

  Brent aligned the drill. “Last bolt and then you can hook the rest up.”

  Wrapped around his leg and ankle was the remaining length of the blue rope. The fancy little auto-locking belay device—what he called it after I called it a piece of scrap metal—was set so that if he had to lower me, he could pull on the lever and send me steadily back to earth. We were tethered together, but he held the control.

  Too quickly I had forgotten that he was my Grim Reaper. With Brent’s hand on the brake of that belay device, it would be an unfortunate moment for him to decide to honor his Deathlist.