Dire (Reaper's Redemption Book 2)

by Thea Atkinson

  In the end, she pushed away from the table and chose to educate me instead.

  "I've seen my parents do a lot of things," she said. "But none of it had anything to do with raising the dead; they were sorcerers not necromancers. They wouldn't have known what to do, and if they did, they wouldn't have had the power. My guess is that if your grandfather put it there, he's not a simple sorcerer. And if it is a canonic jar, you can bet there are three more of them."

  Three more of them. That made me shiver. I didn't want to imagine my yard riddled with jars filled with desiccated viscera, let alone imagining Gramp burying them with care by the light of a fingernail moon under a cloudless sky. It was enough to keep my mind over-occupied all evening, and I ended up googling Egyptian necromancy on my cell phone in the hope I could shut out the awful thoughts of him cackling over someone's liver until I headed for bed exhausted.

  For the last three weeks, I had been sleeping in my grandfather's room while Sarah took mine. With him coming home the next day, I wanted him to have fresh sheets and a newly made bed so I didn't want to climb into it and toss a fitful night of sleep sweat into the sheets.

  That left my mother's room empty and available. It was almost disconcerting to realize that my grandfather had left it untouched all these years, but I'd never asked him about it because I had never cared to go inside.

  There had never been a question of whether or not I would stay in it. For the four years I had been here, I had always acted as though I could leave at any moment and refused to settle into anything I would call my own. When he had suffered his aneurysm and nearly died, I had realized how important he was to me. How important some sense of roots was to me.

  So with Sarah in my room and Gramp's bedroom clean and waiting on him, I flipped on the switch to my mother's old bedroom. Posters of old bands still lined the walls, but the closets were empty of any stitch of clothing except for one abandoned mitten from a pair. The bureaus, too, were empty as I pulled open the drawers to inspect them. All that remained in the bedroom besides the lamp on the bureau and the posters was a bed.

  I fell into the bed with a sigh and pressed the light switch on the lamp. Darkness enveloped the room and left it to paint leftover retinal colours on the walls. I burrowed down into the blankets, wrapping them tight around me and leaving just my nose out so I could breathe. I didn't even have the energy to roll over. I just closed my eyes and let my mind wander where it would. Snippets of conversation from the day tiptoed a quiet trail through my mind.

  The feel of Callun's body on mine as he had pinned me in the yard made my skin flush beneath the blankets. The look of his eyes as he'd stared down at me tempted me to roll over and imagine it all again. I felt my body go slack, as I gave in to the pleasure of it. I even thought I heard myself snore. At least until I felt him slip into bed next to me.

  Whether it was dream or reality didn't matter. The longing I felt for Callum was as real as a body lying pressed close to mine. His mouth on mine took on a hard and demanding insistence I didn't understand. I felt as though there was a question beneath the pressure and my mind was paddling about in a shallow pool of reason as my body tried to plunge deeper into the depths of desire. I was lost beneath those lips. I pressed against him instinctively, letting go any sense of propriety.

  There was a vaporous thought in the back of my mind that I hadn't invited him over. A niggling recollection tried to assert itself that I hadn't opened the door to him from my bedroom or pulled him over to my bed. I was astounded to realize that I wanted him. I wanted something I didn't understand and had never experienced. And I wanted it badly.

  His fingers whispered down the length of my arm to touch my wrist. The pads of his fingers rested on my pulse. I knew it was racing. I half expected him to chuckle against my mouth because that would be so like him, to tease me when I felt the most vulnerable.

  He didn't. He just stretched along the length of my body and wrapped his arm around the small of my back, urging my hips closer to his. I thought he inhaled my breath. I knew I moaned into his mouth. Everything was a dizzying miasma around me. I felt as though my eardrums were going to explode with the high-pitched keening sound that drilled into them and yet whatever pain that brought, was drowned in the heaviness of my body. I could barely move beneath him. I felt drugged or drunk but with an intoxicant more powerful than any I'd ever tried.

  Lust, my mind whispered. That was what this was. An ache so acute, I couldn't move a single muscle beneath the want. All I could do was lay placid and docile under his touch.

  It was only when I felt another set of lips behind my ear. Azrael's voice whispered against the lobe.

  "Wake up," he said. "Wake up, Ayla."

  I jerked myself awake and lay panting in the darkness. For a moment, I didn't know where I was and I stretched my arms out to either side of me, feeling for something solid. Wall on the left. Edge of the bureau on the right. Home then. In bed. Alone.

  The light of a street lamp reached in through the window and painted yellow onto part of the ceiling, And where it left shadows, they looked like a vulture's beak. I blew out a long hiss of air as I tried to orient myself.

  I looked sideways and found my cell phone clock flicking to 2 AM. The residual feeling of desire was still heavy on me, making me restless. I fumbled for my phone and pulled it into view. The screen showed two texts. Something in my belly quivered when I realized both of them were from Callum, saying he'd pick me up at school so we could liberate Gramp from the hospital.

  Not my bed. My mom's. Now I remembered. Gramp would be coming home tomorrow. Sarah was in my room. Callum wasn't here. And thank heaven, neither was Azrael.

  Azrael. I pushed myself up onto my elbow and flipped the bed sheets back as I thought of him. The Angel of Death. Not just a gorgeous creature, but a magnificent one, and completely infuriating. He seemed to think that the information I might need to know in order to complete the little task he had put on me could be parcelled out in tiny pieces.

  He gave me only so much information each time he visited me. Not the least of which was that I was originally a fallen angel, who had spent millennia incarnating into the human realm as punishment for whatever vile deed I had done that got me cast out of paradise in the first place.

  He seemed to infer that my present state of supernatural reaper had been the result of him wrangling a deal somewhere that enabled me to earn my wings back again.

  But that little trophy didn't come free of charge. The risks associated with it were both visceral and cosmic. Apparently I had a finite amount of time to collect all of the supernatural fares I would need to in order to earn those wings. Should I die tomorrow without my tally, I'd end up as a glittering ball of dust slammed into Azrael's cane for all eternity. No wings. No paradise.

  Since I didn't remember that paradise anyway, I wasn't really all that bothered by it. I'd never really given much thought to a divine creator. At least not until he had entered my life and I'd had to fight a maniac in the cathedral. What bothered me the most was that Azrael seemed to think the people who were closest to me should be among my first fares.

  I let my feet dangle to the floor. Sitting there in the dark, it was almost impossible not to remember the night everything in my life changed because of Azrael. His presence was so powerful even as a mere recollection that I could still feel the effects of the dream and his lips on my earlobe as I stared at the opposite wall. It almost looked as though the streetlamps were making wings on the plaster and put me in mind of the top of his cane.

  I ran my palm down my leg absently, feeling for the spot where I knew the brand had been seared in. The same brand as the bottom of that jar. They were connected somehow. A message. The question was, what was it trying to say?

  I grabbed for my phone and lay in the dark for hours, frittering the time away until morning because I couldn't sleep. I researched Egyptian resurrection and did nothing productive except creep myself out. Half an hour before dawn, I ended up laying backward
on the bed with my arm flung over the side, waiting for morning and a decent hour to get out of bed.

  I showered, dressed in my yoga pants and a down vest to keep warm, and braided my hair into one long plait down my back. In the daylight, things felt normal again.

  I could already hear Sarah rustling down in the kitchen. Although we had fallen into an easy rhythm, I felt bad she was stuck here day in and day out, waiting for me to come home from school so she could have someone to talk to. I briefly wondered what she and Gramp would get up to while I was gone. Finding out that he was involved in magic a little more deeply than I had thought at the beginning, was disconcerting. And the thought of the two of them cackling over a boiling cauldron together was one that made the hairs at the back of my neck stand up.

  Even so, I knew Gramp would enjoy having her here as much as I did. Especially if she cooked. Neither one of us enjoyed that small task.

  In truth, I felt a little sorry for Sarah. We hadn't talked much about her insinuation that her family was after her, and each time I tried to bring it up, to glean a little bit of information from her, she shut down like a frozen hose.

  There was time, I told myself. When things had cleared up and Gramp was home and she felt truly safe. I'd tell her then.

  I looked at myself in my dresser mirror, adjusted my braid. I looked worn out and fatigued. There were smudges under my eyes that weren't normally there. I vaguely remembered tossing and turning, and the shades of the dream left me with a peculiar feeling even now made my full skin flush when I remembered it.

  I picked my way down the stairs to the smell of bacon and eggs. The taint of burnt toast hung in the air, and as I rounded the stairwell and looked through the pass-through counter, I could see Sarah scraping the surface of a piece of toast into the trashcan.

  "What?" I said. "Again?"

  She looked up at me through the counter and grinned. She wore a bandana across her forehead, holding her black hair off her face. I could see the blonde roots at her scalp, showing at least an inch of growth.

  "Your toaster is a mess," she said. "Either that or you've rigged it to catch the house on fire so that gorgeous Callum can come over again."

  She gave me a wink.

  "I stopped lighting fires long ago," I said. "Besides, he comes by almost every day. It's nothing special by now."

  "You keep telling yourself that," she said with a smile and turned away to continue scraping the toast.

  I could tell myself whatever I pleased in order to stop thinking about Callum that way. I was too young for him, he'd already said as much. Yet the thought of him falling onto me out in the garden was a delicious enough memory that I replayed it right then just for the sheer pleasure of it. Guilty a pleasure as it was, I had to turn away from Sarah so she wouldn't see the glazed look of yearning on my face that I knew was there.

  I passed through the kitchen to the refrigerator and pulled the door open. A quick inspection showed she had been down here in the middle of the night, cleaning out the leftover tetrazzini and draining the orange juice. Seriously, I thought she might eat in her sleep.

  She dropped the toast on the table and gave me a speculative look. "You look like death warmed over."

  "How charming of you to notice," I said and leaned back in the chair.

  "Sorry," she said, putting a finger to her bandana and tucking a stray lock beneath it. "But it's true. You might want to rethink that black T-shirt."

  "I do feel pretty ragged," I admitted. "I kept tossing and turning. Strange dreams."

  She chuckled beneath her breath. "I've had those kinds of dreams," she said. "But I don't think I've woke up looking quite like you do now."

  She plopped a plate of fried bacon in front of me. Then she sat on her side of the table, I noticed she had a big piece of chocolate cake and a tall glass of milk to place in her spot.

  "About that jar," she said in between bites. "I've been thinking."

  I lifted a brow in query.

  "Let's assume there are three more. It begs the question of the contents."

  I smiled because I couldn't help it. Despite the ever increasing creepy feelings I had crawling over my skin as I had researched Egyptian resurrection, I thought she would be impressed by my new self-education.

  "I know what's in them," I said. "Liver," I counted off one finger and then the next. "Stomach, lungs, intestines."

  She gave me a smile as though she was indulging me. "Well, done, grasshopper, but you missed my point. I wasn't questioning what was in the jars. But who."

  My stomach gurgled, and it had nothing to do with the intoxicating smell of bacon. I pushed my plate away.

  "You mean..."

  "Exactly," she said. "If they are resurrection jars, then where did your grandfather get the viscera?" She leaned across the table and pinned me with those piercing blue gaze of hers. "And more importantly, who is he planing to resurrect?"

  CHAPTER 4

  I stared across the table at her, holding her gaze as though I was a mountain goat teetering on a loose rock.

  "No," I said and just saying the word out loud made me feel more certain. "Not Gramp. You've got it all wrong. You don't know him like I do."

  She leaned back with a shrug and her bandana slipped down to her eyebrows. "He is the one who gave you the malice bag. That's not exactly pleasant magic."

  It was a good argument, but not one I wanted to consider This was my grandfather, after all. A man compassionate enough to nurse baby birds back to health and feed the neighbourhood's stray cats. Besides, he had never admitted to actually creating the bag. Just to having it.

  I shook my head. "Not my grandfather. I know you're traumatized and all, but you're grasping at straws. There has to be a better explanation for why that thing was in our yard and when he comes home, I'm sure he will give it to us."

  I pushed myself away from the table and with the aroma of burnt toast lingering in my nostrils, I fled to the driveway with every intent to kick my scooter into life for the ride to school. I knew Callum would be picking me up afterwards to take me to the hospital to pick up Gramp, but there was no way I was going to ride the bus in the meantime. I had my pride. Plus I needed some time to think, and the bus was always filled with self-eccentric conversation that wasn't even shallow enough to put a mud puddle to shame.

  Lost in thought I kicked my scooter into life and hopped on. The morning was overcast, promising rain. Garbage bins had been set along the curb, awaiting pickup by the trashmen. Even through my helmet, I could smell the stink. It was a rancid and sour one with overtones of fish. I thought I caught sight of the turkey vulture pecking at an entire discarded leg of lamb and I felt nauseous.

  A car honked behind me, because I had swerved a little too far out into the lane. I mentally checked myself. Gave my head a shake. I was tired as all get out. I realized then how much I was blinking to avoid closing my eyelids altogether. Maybe I shouldn't be on my scooter at all, weaving into traffic and avoiding the children that jumped out in front of me.

  Yawning, I decided to play it safe and ride along closer to the curb.

  Something jolted my scooter. It wrenched beneath my bottom I was going to fall. I knew it but it was too late to do anything to stop the inevitable thrust of the back and sideways. I could feel the skid as the wheels slipped out from beneath me.

  My stomach lurched into my throat, sending the sour of taste of bacon into my cheeks. I was falling. My ribs struck the curb of the sidewalk at the same time as my head knocked into the asphalt.

  Pain shot up my shoulder. Thank god for the helmet. I lay there dazed for several moments before I realized people were running toward me. A throng of people rushed forward, and I tried to get up by pushing myself onto my elbow.

  "I'm alright," I said.

  It came out weak and rough, but it was pretty clear even through the helmet. I pulled it off with a trembling hand and dropped it onto the pavement. There. They'd be able to see I was fine.

  By the time I made
it onto my knees and was pushing myself to my feet, several people had already clustered around the front of my scooter. No one even paid attention to me.

  "I'm sure everything is okay," I said. "It's a pretty tough old thing."

  I took a few mincing steps toward the cluster of folks who had gathered, all looking in the wrong direction and two of them hefting the front of my scooter sideways. An older man turned around to look at me over his shoulder. There was a look of disgust on his face that made me clutch at my stomach. The few patches of hair he had on his head bristled at me.

  "Hooligan," he spat at me.

  Confusion furrowed my brow as I stepped closer.

  "It was an accident," I said. I pointed to my scooter front, surveying the crowd, trying to make out what had struck me. I was ready to be magnanimous about it all and tell whoever it was that I wasn't going to press any charges. It was an old thing. On its last legs anyway.

  I realized that there was something in the front of my scooter. Lying on the pave, surrounded by a cluster of people. One person was kneeling down on the pavement, obstructing my view of the thing that had struck me. I peered through the gap in his legs and caught sight of a blur of blue and black. A bit of nylon gauze fluttering in the breeze. A shock of silver blond hair.

  A person. That mat of hair belonged to a head, that nylon material to a jacket.

  My stomach wrenched. Apparently I hadn't been struck. I had struck someone.

  Shock flooded my system and pushed everything else out of my senses. I saw a young woman dialing 911. She rattled a bit of information into her cell phone and I realized with a sick feeling that I was only a few blocks from my house. A few blocks from where Gramp lived, where I lived. I knew these people. They knew me. My first thought when everything registered enough that I could move was that maybe the person I had struck was someone I knew. My mouth went dry and with a heaviness in my legs that made moving difficult, I pushed through the crowd, jostling between two older ladies. One of them muttered something about me being a monster.