The Reaper's Sacrifice

by Abigail Baker

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover the Deathmark series… The Reaper’s Kiss

  The Reaper’s Embrace

  Discover more Entangled Select Otherworld titles… The Hunt

  Children of the Veil

  Unthinkable

  Son of Thunder

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Abigail Baker. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Select Otherworld is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Tracy Montoya

  Cover design by LJ Anderson

  Cover art from Dollar Photo Club

  ISBN 978-1-63375-587-1

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition June 2016

  For Mom and Dad

  I have been astonished that Men could die Martyrs for religion

  I have shudder’d at it

  I shudder no more

  I could be martyr’d for my Religion

  Love is my religion

  I could die for that

  I could die for you… I cannot breathe without you.”

  —John Keats

  Chapter One

  “Can I get a skull?” asked a girl with two hip-length blonde braids, wearing a Glacier National Park T-shirt. Nursing a steaming cup of apple cider in one hand, she couldn’t have been more than ten years old. “You know, like a Day of the Dead skull?”

  Her clarification was appreciated. It allowed me to form an immediate picture in my head of the exact type of skull I would do for her, the intricate layers of purple and red with hints of gold on the trim. This one would be perfect for a brisk day in October during the northwestern Montana city of Kalispell’s annual Harvest Festival, which celebrated food, the end of summer, and, of course, the pièces de résistance of autumn, Halloween and El Día de Los Muertos.

  “I want my whole face, too. Not just on my right cheek like her.” Braids plopped herself down in the chair across from me before I had a chance to clean up from the previous client’s skull request. The other client stood not too far away, arms folded across her chest, glaring through one normal eye and one skull eye. The reason that this new client wanted a skull on her entire face was because her friend, or possibly frenemy, the grimacing blue-eyed brunette with bobbed hair and freckles on her nose and cheeks, had opted for a skull on half of her face. The brunette was obvious competition, and I was the only way Braids would settle their score.

  So after twenty minutes of my hard work, Braids sprung from her chair, observed the masterpiece on her face in a little mirror hanging over my table, and then ran to her rival to compare notes.

  “It’s creepy,” my adoptive father, Stone Balanchine, said to me, sitting at my side with Dudley, my thirty-pound black-and-white mutt curled up on his lap. For the entirety of our day at Kalispell’s fall festival, he hadn’t uttered a word. He sat, slouched in his chair, massive arms folded across my dog’s back, watching people and the occasional undercover Watchman pass by my table. Most people looked at him with a smile because of Dudley. It was the Watchmen—Death’s police force, in black suits with gold scythe pins on their collars—who never smiled. Every time a Watchman came near us, the vein under the dark-chocolate skin of Papa’s forehead pulsed with anger.

  “What else am I supposed to do?” I replied as I began packing my supplies into an empty L.L. Bean shoebox. “Those kids don’t know my Deathmark is a skull.”

  “You shouldn’t tempt fate, Ollie.”

  “It’s face paint, Papa. It won’t call their Reaper.”

  While I look like a normal human, I’m a Scrivener from the world between life and the hereafter that we call Styx. When a human’s time on Earth is through, the assigned Grim Reaper ferries his or her soul to the Afterlife. But people who prove elusive will get a sudden urge to come see me, and I’ll tattoo my Deathmark on them. The magic in it helps the Reaper find the prey. My particular Deathmark is a skull—other Scriveners have other designs. Our jobs aren’t happy ones, but we help keep the human population from becoming too much for the planet to handle. But Deathmarks only work if I tattoo my clients. Face paint won’t hurt anyone.

  Papa unfolded and then refolded his arms as he let out a long hiss of a sigh. Dudley lifted his head and gave him an annoyed glance. Dudley wanted an uninterrupted nap. Papa just didn’t get that.

  To quell my father’s temper, I added, “I wouldn’t paint skulls on kids’ faces if there was any inkling of a risk. Okay?”

  “I know you wouldn’t, baby girl.” There was more to his words, like a fear that the Watchmen might see face painting as a violation of some obscure Stygian law. To Papa, there always was some reason to be concerned about incurring the Watchmen’s scrutiny. He had been like this ever since the week I became one of Styx’s only rebels to survive a death sentence imposed by Head Reaper Marin, Styx’s ruler. My Stygian ID has a coveted red and black “rebel” sticker for a Level Ten Offense, the worst there is.

  Two years ago, I broke into Head Reaper Marin’s underground lair and gave him the middle-finger salute on live Stygian broadcasting in an attempt to loosen his despotic control over our world. Instead of fostering the balance between life and death, Marin craved power—and he killed innocent Stygians all the time to get it, generally for breaking one of his many draconian “rules” and committing a high-level Offense. The rebellion—my rebellion—had ultimately failed, but Marin made sure I feared his wrath. He and his Watchmen kept me living inside a petri dish, zeroing in on every move I made out in rural Montana. Committing minor infractions wasn’t wise these days. I picked and choose my battles.

  Although, I didn’t have much fight left in me anymore. I grew tired and weary much earlier than normal. I seemed to have half of everything—energy, time, and determination. Sleepwalking through life was an apt description. Only I couldn’t wake up.

  I never would so long as Brent Hume—the only living Grim Reaper in Styx besides Papa whom I loved—carried the other half of my soul. Brent was my assigned Grim Reaper, meaning only he would someday have the honor of ferrying me to an Afterlife when it’s my time. No other Reaper, no matter how powerful—not even Head Reaper Marin—could ferry me anywhere. And Brent, being a die-hard rebel, used that
technicality to remind Head Reaper Marin that he did not hold all the cards in this game of life and death.

  Two years ago, after capturing my band of rebels, my parents, and me, Marin had offered us a choice: accept banishment from our home city of Québec and live under his thumb, or die. Mama had chosen death. I had, as well, but Brent refused to ferry my soul. Instead, he’d absorbed half of it, as the natural rules of Styx dictated that no other Stygian could ferry a half-ferried soul. The Reaper who’d begun the job had to finish it—not even Marin could get around that one.

  And I loved Brent for this. I really did. Which made the fact that I might never see him again all the more painful. At least Papa had agreed to banishment so he could stay with me.

  A shadow fell across the table, breaking into my thoughts. “What can we do for you?” Papa asked, too busy adjusting Dudley so the dog’s nails didn’t cut into his thighs to look up and offer a polite greeting. I shoved the rest of my art supplies into the shoebox. I was ready to leave and had been since mid-afternoon.

  “So this is Scrivener Olivia Dormier’s table, eh?” said a familiar, but unwelcome, French-Canadian voice.

  Before I could control my expression, my eyes snapped up to meet the face I’d wanted to crush with a two-by-four for years. Chadwick was an Eidolon Reaper like Brent. Eidolons were Grim Reapers put on earth solely to ferry Stygians like Papa and me—either to Erebus, a hellish Afterlife for our kind, or Elysia, an Afterlife of sunshine, unicorns, and bright white lights of peace and love. But what Brent had in compassion and love and good looks, Chad sorely lacked. Whenever the blond douchebag appeared, with his yellow-stained teeth and usual smell of decay and cigarettes, there was trouble afoot.

  After I took a moment to compose myself and let out a deep, annoyed sigh, I zipped up my backpack, slung it over my shoulders, and gave Chad a proper frown. Papa did too, only his was far more intimidating. Even Dudley should’ve given Chad the ol’ hairy eyeball, but he ran under the table instead, which was a smart move on his part.

  Chad was tall, thin, and wore a black suit exactly as he had when I first met him in Québec City—the day he coerced me into tattooing a Deathmark onto my beloved friend, Eve Cassidy.

  Papa moved closer to my side, a foot taller than me, twice as wide from muscle, and stared Chad down with venomous intent. He wasn’t an Eidolon—just a regular Grim Reaper, which meant Chad outranked him. But he was never one to let a hierarchy shut him down. He cracked his knuckles in preparation for hollowing out Chad’s skull if he had a moment to strike. That is, if I didn’t get to him first.

  “Fancy seeing you here, Scrivie, acting all human around those kiddos,” Chad carried on, in his French-Canadian accent.

  “I don’t see why you’re surprised to find me, Chad,” I hissed. “I was banished here by Marin. Kalispell is the only place I’m allowed to be.”

  “You’re giving out skulls. That’s got to be…” Chad’s face contorted as he tried to think of what to call the skull-faced children who raced about the festival.

  “That’s face paint. It doesn’t qualify as a Deathmark or a violation. You ready, Papa?” I asked my foster father, who had, as Chad and I went back and forth, begun looking around for Dudley. His alarm grew palpable as he glanced underneath the table and then from one side to the other.

  “Where’s Duds?” Papa said.

  “He was just under the table. Where could he have gone?” I said, jumping into a sudden panic as we searched for my dog, with Chadwick the Eidolon watching smugly on.

  “He never leaves our sides.” Papa was quick to begin tearing apart our little station at the festival and, as a result, butting into our neighbors’ tables in his rush to find my dog. But he was right. Dudley never left our sides. He was the laziest creature I had ever known. “He couldn’t have gotten far.”

  “I don’t know, Papa Bear,” Chad sneered. “That dog could be anywhere. Look at all these humans and booths.”

  “You have something to do with this.” I was quick to accuse Chad, and I felt no guilt in that.

  “Please, Scrivie, I care little about your stupid pet.” With that, Chad the Eidolon, the Reaper responsible for sending Mama to Erebus, strutted away with his head high with his minor vindication. I was on his least favorite Stygians list, and I was proud of that honor. Word among the rebel channels was Chad had been demoted because of my almost-successful rebellion, which had occurred on his watch. Demoted because of little ol’ me. That disgrace had to hurt. Chad likely sought revenge because he was the revenge-seeking type, the Eidolon who would make sure I felt the same pain he’d endured after losing favor with Head Reaper Marin. But would he steal my dog? The idea felt silly.

  “Ollie, over here!” Papa cried out from three rows of booths away. He stood among a crowd of humans that surrounded a booth displaying and selling authentic Native American artwork. This was David’s booth, a man I had met several times during Kalispell’s many summer and autumn festivals. I had planned to pop by David’s table before the end of the day, but I had a bad feeling the reason for my visit now was sinister in nature.

  I shoved my way through the growing crowd, listening to people barking “he’s having a heart attack,” or “he’s dying,” or “we need an ambulance,” into their cell phones. Eyes closed, David was sprawled on the ground next to his collection of artwork, lifeless and pale. Dudley was at David’s side, nudging his feet with his black, wet nose. Relief at having found Dudley quickly became horror when I spotted the fresh skull tattoo on David’s forearm. Then my stomach turned inside out.

  The skull was glowing, a trick that only Stygians like Papa and me could see, and there was only one reason why.

  David, one of the friendliest men I’d ever met, had come to my Kalispell tattoo shop three weeks ago. From our two-hour conversation, I had learned he had an unrivaled passion for skulls. He had asked me for an appointment to tattoo a Jolly Roger on his arm. He had put down a deposit and left, never to return. It wasn’t uncommon for clients to make an appointment instead of immediately plopping down in my chair—I did good work, if I say so myself, so some people were attracted to the art of my Deathmarks. But if it wasn’t their time to go, they’d put it off, saying they like to think about their new artwork, to let the idea settle in. Scheduling an appointment and getting a deposit was my way of seeming obedient to the Head Reaper’s demands that I tattoo as many clients as possible. Then I had tangible evidence that I tried to get them to go through with a Deathmark, even if I might have verbally encouraged them to wait.

  So I hadn’t placed a Deathmark on him, something that brought me comfort now. Yet here I was, weeks later, staring into the face of what was my work—or the work of a copycat.

  David. How? I was the only Scrivener that I knew of whose Deathmark was a skull. I was on my knees at his side, squeezed between two women who were slapping him gently on each cheek in an attempt to rouse him from unconsciousness. I looked up at Papa, whose face was contorted in both grief and confusion. He knew I hadn’t put my Deathmark on David. I had told Papa last week that David missed his appointment. So where did this mark come from, and why was it working like my own Deathmark?

  My racing heart broke into an uneven cadence when among the growing crowd circling David appeared the numerous gold eyes of advancing Reapers—mostly Watchmen, and the one nutsack who always seemed to pop up in grim moments, Chadwick the Eidolon. Each Reaper was drawn to the sparkling tattoo on David’s arm, wishing he or she would be the fortunate one to send this man’s soul to the Afterlife—and earn a valuable payout. Death had assigned David to only one of them, but each Reaper seemed ravenous enough to ignore the law and take him for their prize.

  The crowd of humans was blissfully unaware of who was in their proximity. Happily for them, they didn’t recognize Grim Reapers or Scriveners, seeing us as murmuring, concerned humans and not Death’s workforce trying to keep the human population on the straight and narrow.

  There was a catch in my throat when I
spotted a statuesque beauty moving through the crowd with purpose. Dark, wavy hair dangled from underneath her turquoise beret. The golden-eyed Reaper knelt down at David’s side and placed her hand over the glistening skull with a gentleness that did not seem typical of Death’s employees.

  As everyone—the Reapers and yours truly—watched in both envy and relief, her eyes glowed brighter, and curls of mist, like the smoke of a campfire, spiraled out of David’s body. The wisps intertwined until they formed a faceless silhouette.

  Like the weight of the mounting human population had been lifted off of us, every Stygian gasped when David’s soul peeled away. His disembodied mist rose higher and higher, carrying away his life to the Hereafter, whatever that was like for humans—information those of us from Styx were not privy to.

  Only seconds passed before a bitterly cold squall swept around us, reminding us of the world that we lived in. Where humans saw scattered clouds with sun peeking through, we saw millions of ashen, moaning souls when Styx was in full production. No sun. No stars.

  A silver coin appeared between David’s lips. His Reaper tucked the coin into her jeans pocket. Payday. Her gaze settled on me as the rest of our colleagues disbanded, squawking on about the unfairness of Death’s financial system. She gave me a tiny smile, a thank you for helping her pin down another elusive soul, and then she set off back to her daily routine.

  But I didn’t help her. I had nothing to do with this Deathmark.

  I thought I was the only Scrivener with a skull for a Deathmark. How did this happen?

  As these questions rattled me from the inside out, I had some respite concerning Papa and Dudley. The humans, on the other hand, held out the hope the paramedics would arrive to whisk David off to safety. Sirens in the distance beseeched him to hold on a bit longer. As far as they knew, medicine might still save David as it saved others.

  What they didn’t know was he was already gone.

  His booth of Native American artwork would no longer appear at Kalispell’s weekend farmers’ markets. His short existence was stamped out in seconds because of our work, and David’s ill-timed death would be chalked up to bad luck or bad genetics.