by Apryl Baker
“So they’re out there killing people now?”
“They are devouring innocent ghosts, those wandering around lost, confused, and afraid. Once they gain enough strength, they’ll go after the living. The soul of a living person is ten times brighter than a ghost. Because of the life force that powers it. Good or bad, a person’s soul is the brightest and most powerful energy source on the planet. Once the rogue children have gained enough power, they’ll be unstoppable. We’re afraid that if Deleriel realizes the type of power source they are, he’ll get what he always wanted.”
“Which is?”
“To escape hell forever. He hates it there. Before he fell, he looked after the souls of children. He protected them, especially the ones who suffered at the hands of those charged to care for them. When he fell, his desire to protect didn’t change. It did morph into something twisted, but it’s why he surrounds himself with children now. He protects the child army he’s created, cares for them the way any father would for their children. He even loves them in a depraved sort of way.”
“You make it sound like he’s a good guy at heart.” But that makes no sense. Aren’t fallen angels bad things?
“Fallen or not, he’s an angel, Mattie. Good exists inside of him, only it’s warped and twisted. He may protect his children from outside forces, but he still feeds off them, still causes them pain so they will be what his black soul needs to survive.”
And that thing wants Mary? No way, no how is he getting his hands on her.
“We’re veering off topic and my time is limited.” He shifts, and his eyes seem to lose focus for a minute, like he’s seeing something I can’t. When he blinks, there is an urgency in them that wasn’t there before. “Deleriel seeks permanent entry into this world. If he finds these two before we do, he’ll realize they can provide him with the energy he needs to stay above ground. Not only that, but he’ll let more souls die and send them out.”
“So he’ll get the juice he needs by collecting those supercharged ghosties after they’ve pigged out?” I frown, thinking. “But if he feeds off souls, and the souls of those kids die, how does that help him? He can’t feed off them anymore if they don’t possess a soul, can he?”
“A soul is made up of pure energy. Those children are feeding off energy, the same as Deleriel. All he has to do is consume that energy when it’s released.”
“He’d kill them to release the energy?” And boom, Deleriel would never have to go back to the underworld. He could just keep feeding on the soulless chock full of the energy they’ve consumed.
“Exactly.”
“Freaking great,” I mutter. Now I have to worry about this, on top of everything else.
“We need to find the person who is helping Deleriel,” Kane continues. “He can’t take a corporeal form here on Earth without great difficulty, so he usually acts through a human vessel. Find the vessel, find the missing girl. I believe the last child tried to show you where they were, but your memories of it are either gone or buried. If you can eliminate the vessel, you can send Deleriel back to his own hell.”
“Can’t he just pop into another vessel?” Angels do it all the time on Supernatural. It’s one of the few paranormal shows I enjoy. Then again, it could just be Dean I enjoy.
“Real life isn’t like TV, Mattie. There aren’t multiple vessels for angels to play musical chairs with. This vessel is one Deleriel has cultivated since the time of its birth. He’s made the man as twisted as he is so it can hold his true essence. As evil as mankind can be, it takes someone truly evil to hold the Devourer of Children.”
The Devourer of Children. Just the name makes me shiver. “How am I supposed to help if I keep blacking out when they get near me?”
“Not when they get near you. It’s only when they touch you.” He blinks and rubs his eyes. Can reapers get tired? “We have to figure out how to keep you alive long enough to help. Your brain is damaged, and if you keep seizing, it won’t last much longer. It would be easier if you died and became a reaper, but for some reason, those in charge do not want that.”
“Dying’s not an option, Kane. If I die, Dan dies.”
“Something I just discovered yesterday.” The bite in his voice isn’t directed at me. At least I hope not. “It changes many things, including the need to keep you alive. I must go, but, Mattie, remember what I told you in the Between and try not to do anything stupid until I return.”
And just like that, he’s gone. There one second, and then poof, gone the next. Now that is a cool reaping ability I wouldn’t mind having.
I’d fled to the Between in the morgue to escape what I now believe was Deleriel and the last victim before Kayla. It takes three days for the soul to leave the body. He was there to collect. Kane showed up to help me navigate safely through the white zone that is the Between with the little ghost girl I’d saved from them.
While there, he’d told me I had to worry about the people in charge upstairs. They’re afraid of me, apparently. I don’t think he meant God. I think he means other players within that realm—his reaping supervisors, maybe? I just don’t know. Either way, he said as soon as I take care of Deleriel, they would take care of me. It hadn’t really inspired any urgency to deal with said demon. Unfortunately, this whole remaining on Earth thing has caused me to rethink it. I can’t sit by and do nothing. If he’s allowed to stay here, the havoc he could rain down upon us all? Not good.
I’m not sure what I can do right now, though. My brain is not cooperating. Just talking to Kane for as long as I did made my headache worse. Sleep is probably the best thing for me. I can figure all this out in the morning.
Chapter Five
The humming is nice. It reminds me of an old lullaby my mom sang to me when I was little. I can’t remember the words, but I remember the sound of her voice and the rhythm of the song. It’s soothing.
When I open my eyes, my calm turns to alarm. I’m in a bedroom, only it’s not mine. The walls are a blood red, the floor black tile. The humming is coming from somewhere beyond the open doorway. Where the heck am I?
Should I go investigate? I mean, that’s how the stupid person in the horror movie dies. They go and investigate. But I can’t stay here, can I? If I’m in some weird memory thingy, I have to go see what’s up. It has to be either a memory or my own dark and twisty dream. Either way, sitting here in a bed isn’t going to change things.
I hop down, noticing I’m in my favorite penguin pajamas. At least that’s one plus. Dream me is going for comfort. The hard tile beneath my feet is freezing cold, and I wince with every step I take. No slippers anywhere to be found. When I reach the doorway, I pause. The hall before me is empty, barely lit with some recessed lighting turned low.
Listening to the sounds of the lullaby, I start walking down the hallway. This place is creepy with its dark flooring and even darker walls. Where am I? I’ve never been here before, at least not that I can remember. When I round the corner, I stop, staring at the scene before me.
There’s a table with a body on it, and the white sheet draped over it sets off alarm bells. An easel is set up next to the table, the blank canvas waiting for the artist to begin. Old mason jars, the kind you use for canning foods, sit on a smaller table, along with several brushes. The dark brick behind the easel pulses a bit, the wall itself alive with something.
I have been here before. Only once, though, and that was enough. I turn to run, but I can’t. I’m frozen. I look down and see my feet encased in ice. It creeps up my legs, and I can’t move. No, no, no! Not again. I struggle, but it’s useless, and I know it. I’m not getting out of this until he decides to let me.
The painter enters the room, humming the lullaby that had soothed me before. It’s gone past that to blatant, all-consuming fear.
Silas.
What does he want? Memories of our last meeting intrude. He’d flayed a strip of skin from my face, and then healed it. He’d promised me more pain if I didn’t start doing what he wanted—learning to
bring my drawings to life with my own blood.
“Good morning, my darling girl.”
His British accent is quite pronounced today. Usually, it’s not so thick. He’s either very happy or extremely upset. You can never tell with him.
“What do you want?” I keep my voice calm, or as calm as I can. Grandfather or not, Silas terrifies me.
“No ‘good morning, Grandpapa’?” Silas walks over to the table and pulls the sheet back. A man lies there, his blue eyes fixed on Silas. He’s about forty or so, the few streaks of white in his chestnut hair attesting to his age. It’s his expression you can’t look away from, though, it’s one of abject fear. Silas picks up one of the mason jars, inspecting it. A small whimper escapes the man on the table.
“Good morning, Silas.” I force the words out. He’s being civil, but that could change in a heartbeat. His moods flip-flop so often. I have no desire to set him off into a rage. I can’t move, so I can’t protect myself from his wrath.
“Emma Rose, meet Cordell Reyes.” Silas puts the jar down and picks up another. “He made a deal with me ten years ago, and he didn’t want to honor our deal when his contract came due.”
The man on the table makes a sound between a strangled sob and a cry of pain. His eyes are wide, the whites more prominent than even the blue of the irises. I look around, trying to find something to help him with, but immobile as I am, there’s nothing I can do. I’m angry because Silas has put me in this situation where I have to watch whatever he’s going to do.
“You pity him?” Silas turns to face me. “Would you still pity Cordell if I told you he sold his soul to gain access to his parents’ fortune so he could spend it on his own perverse peculiarities?”
The man in question closes his eyes, shame written all over his face. He’d killed his parents so he could…I shake my head, unable to even think about what he might have wanted to do.
“I arranged for their deaths while he was out of the country. He’s spent the last ten years indulging in his fantasies as promised. Now, it’s time to pay the piper. Deals must be honored. Remember that, Emma Rose. If you make a deal, it must always be honored. Our word is our bond.”
“I’m not making any deals, Silas.”
“But you will, my darling girl, you will.” Silas turns and picks up the man’s arm, his fingernails tracing the soft flesh of the underside. “Do you remember your first lesson? What I told you about the blood?”
The first time I had met Silas was in a dream, in this very studio. He’d shown me a painting of a woman. The same woman who’d occupied his metal table beside the canvas. Her soul had been trapped in the painting utilizing her blood. The soul resides in the blood, constantly flowing, growing, changing. He’d used my blood to finish the painting, and it had breathed life into it. The woman seemed to move, her emotions a living, breathing thing right there on the canvas. My blood did that.
“I remember.”
“Wonderful.” He pierces the man’s arm with a razor-sharp nail then lowers it so it hangs off the table. He sets the large mason jar beneath his hand, and the blood slowly trickles down his arm, winding around his hands and falling drop by drop into the jar.
“Where are my manners?” Silas whirls around. “I am not used to company, so you’ll have to forgive me. Would you like breakfast, child? I can whip up something, whatever you like.”
“No, I’m not hungry.” My stomach churns at the thought of eating while Silas drains the man’s blood to use for paint.
“It’s just as well. We have much to accomplish while they are busy trying to save you.”
“What do you mean trying to save me?” Alarm flares up. What’s he talking about?
“You are having a major seizure, my darling girl.” He says it matter-of-factly, prepping his brushes. “I called your soul here while they are working on you.”
“Why?” I can’t keep the suspicion out of my voice. Silas never does anything without an agenda.
“Why? To keep you safe, of course.” He checks the mason jar and tsks. It’s not filling up fast enough for him. He stands and runs a fingernail across the man’s chest. Blood wells up, and Silas dips his brush into it. “Don’t worry, Emma Rose, I’m not going to let you die. I have too many plans for you.”
Don’t worry? Easier said than done. He’s standing here telling me my body is going through a major seizure, causing who knows what kind of damage, and he expects me not to worry just on his say so? So not gonna happen.
His brush soaks up the sticky substance and I watch, fascinated, despite my disgust and worry over what’s going on outside this dream as Silas begins his first brush strokes across the canvas.
He’s very, very good. Each movement is fluid, beautiful. There is joy on his face as he paints. Nancy told me once that the only time she’d ever seen me happy was when I was drawing. She said I’d looked joyous. I wonder if I get that from Silas. It would be just my luck, the one true talent I have would come from a demon.
“Now, Emma Rose, if I free you, can I trust you not to try to escape? I’m in no mood to chase you down. Nor do I want you running into one of my hounds. They can be testy about trespassers.”
No, I do not want to be on the wrong end of one of his hellhounds. I watch Supernatural. If Silas’s beasts are even a tenth as nasty as Crowley’s, I want no part of them.
“I won’t run.”
And just like that, I’m free. The ice is gone from around my feet and legs. I lean down and rub them, relieving some of the ache from the cold. “Thank you.”
“You are most welcome. Please, sit.” He motions to the chair beside his easel. I hadn’t noticed it before. Or perhaps he made it magically appear when he needed it.
I start to refuse, but decide against it. A civil Silas isn’t as dangerous as an irritated Silas. I have to admit the chair is more comfortable than it looks. My legs are sore from standing immobile for so long anyway.
“Have you given any thought to our discussion?” Silas goes back to painting, and I notice the man’s face is beginning to look more alive, the details transforming an outline into expression and contours.
“About Deleriel?”
He nods, beginning to hum. It is the same lullaby my mom used to sing to me. How does Silas know it?
“I’m not sure what you expect me to do. I’m a reaper, Silas. I deal in ghosts, not fallen angels turned demonic. I don’t even know where to begin.”
“Yes, Emma Rose, you are a reaper, but you aren’t just a reaper. There are so many layers to you, layers you don’t even know about yet. Take your visions, for example. That comes from the shaman gift that runs through your bloodline.”
I’d almost forgotten about that. My great-something-or-other grandmother happened to have powerful shamans in her family. It was why Silas chose her to be the mother of his child. It was the beginning of the selective breeding that produced me as the end result. It freaks me out just thinking about it. He’d essentially produced me in a lab, only one of his making instead of a scientific, clinical laboratory.
“You have abilities that you haven’t discovered, doors in your mind that still need to be opened. One door in particular.” Silas studies the painting as he speaks. “You remember that your birth mother made a pact with Deleriel for a child with certain abilities?”
“Yes.” Melissa had basically sold me to save herself. I still haven’t even let myself think about that. One mother tried to murder me to protect me, the other to save herself. I sure did win the lottery on motherly affection.
“Your mother came to me, as I told you, and I arranged the circumstances that would produce you. There is only one ability that Deleriel seeks, one ability that cannot be cultivated from the human pool here on this plane of existence.”
My skin crawls at the implications in his tone. What does he mean, this plane of existence?
“Your mother…”
“She’s not my mother.” I stop him there. It’s the one thing about this whole mess I’ve
come to reconcile myself with. Melissa wanted me dead because it served her selfish needs. That is not what a mother does. Claire did what she did to protect me. She’s my mother. Always will be. Zeke may always resent that, but it is the truth. Claire Hathaway is and will always be my mother.
Silas turns and regards me curiously. “She is your mother, though. She gave birth to you.”
A short, bitter laugh escapes. “Giving birth to someone doesn’t qualify you to be a parent. Parents love their kids, protect them as best they can. They would die themselves before letting harm come to their child. Georgina Dupres is not my mother. She just happens to be the woman I share DNA with. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Amanda Sterling tried to kill you, my darling girl, but you think of her as your mother?” True curiosity burned in his eyes.
I forget that Claire’s real name is Amanda Sterling, Dan’s adoptive mother’s sister too. It’s odd when I hear people call my mom Amanda. She’s been Claire to me since I was old enough to understand her name wasn’t just Mama.
“Mom wasn’t trying to hurt me, Silas.” I shift in my seat, trying to find the words to explain it. “She was protecting me.”
“Protecting you by sticking a knife in you eight times? That says rage to me, Emma Rose. Overkill. She could have simply slit your throat, stabbed you in the gut, used poison…but to stab you so many times?” He shakes his head, clearly not in my lane of thinking.
“She was also high on heroin. I doubt she knew how many times she stabbed me.” I tell myself that all the time. Silas’s words are the same questions I’ve run through my own mind countless times over the years, though. He could be right, and I could be terribly wrong about her intentions, but I choose to believe my mom was doing her best to protect me.
