He leaned underneath the light hanging above the watch, his black eyes as dark as a slick of oil. “Dennison has proven to be a problem, so it is best for all of us that you oblige this request for the time being.”
“What did he do?” Inquiring minds needed to know.
“In my early years as Head Reaper, I attempted to negotiate a deal with him to allow Reapers access to his homestead in Calistoga. There is something of particular interest there.”
“What is it?” I asked, playing into his drama.
“A river of water that flows underneath the mountains. It is called the Phlegethon. It is a challenge to the mechanics of Styx.” From the hard stare bearing down on me, I knew he would not explain further. Or perhaps I was just smart enough not to ask until I had my full wits about me.
“Dennison refused us access to the Phlegethon River. We attempted to procure his land and the river. Dennison declared war. He holds sway over the Trivials somehow, so he used them against my Eidolons, and his efforts have grown in intensity since.” He blinked once throughout his story. He hadn’t blinked at all before that. The flash of eyelids was intentional—probably for emphasis. “I will not allow Trivials to be used against us. You will talk to Dennison and resolve this problem peacefully. Most importantly, you will bring me samples of the Phlegethon. Without Dennison noticing, of course.”
I was being told to meet with a powerful Master Scrivener, sit among sociopathic Trivials, bargain for Brent’s life, and indirectly, mine, and bring Marin a flask of river water. Seeing as I had a chance to be Brent’s advocate, it wasn’t a decision at all. But I was so far out of my league with this request that I wasn’t even playing the same sport as Dennison, his Trivials, or Marin.
“How will I remember this conversation to help you with this task? This is Lethe,” I said with understandable worry. Memories flitted into oblivion the moment any Stygian stepped from Lethe back into the world outside.
“Everyone involved in this arrangement will remember exactly what they need to know.” The black voids of his eyes never wavered as he held my fingers and the tweezers in his left hand. “If you secure a treaty with Dennison and bring me back the Phlegethon sample, I will absolve you of past crimes. No more banishment. No more black and red sticker to tarnish your future and Hume’s. You can have the life you’ve always wanted with Eidolon Hume, if you so choose. You can run off and do whatever it is you do, as long as you keep away from rebel cells and Lethe.”
My heart fluttered hard against my ribs. For two long years I had lived with the pain of involuntary solitude. Papa and I both suffered from broken hearts, needing to be reunited with the Stygians we loved.
Provided I followed Marin’s rules, I would have a chance to be with Brent. Two years ago, I would have given Marin two stern middle fingers and a curt “fuck you.” Today, damaged and lonely, I didn’t see as much need for a rebellion or making Styx hear my voice. So long as the rebel cells continued their plan, a revolution would come, and I would reap the benefits from a distance. Selfish? Yes. But I had sacrificed enough. It was someone else’s turn to save the world. I just wanted my boyfriend.
“Can I…” My throat tightened. “Can I see Brent first, before I go?”
He wagged his head as he wore the faintest of smiles.
“Please. I just need to see him. Once. And then I’ll get you whatever you need. I’ll bring you a vat of the Phlegethon if you let me see him.”
Marin’s sallow eyelids lowered as he turned his gaze down to the watch.
I bit the inside of my cheek as I studied the gears of the watch.
I just need to see him. I need to know he’s okay. I just want to feel him against me. Just this once. Please. I pled with my eyes full of thick tears. I didn’t care if he heard me or read the anguish on my face. I simply wanted him, or someone, to know that being separated from the one being in the world who made you whole again was a successful punishment. For Papa…he never would be united again with Mama in this world. For me there was still a possibility, but there was no promise that I ever would. Now, I had a chance. And now I was bolder and recklessly desperate.
Marin leaned forward, all but touching his eyebrow-less forehead to mine. His hand clamped around my chin and forced my face to align with his.
You get ten minutes with Hume. His mouth didn’t move, meaning he was in my mind, nosing around. Then you bring me what I’ve asked for. Am I clear, Scrivener Dormier?
All I could do was blink.
Chapter Six
“People need hard times and oppression to develop psychic muscles.”
—Emily Dickinson
The room was domed, with stone columns encircling the round center. The floors were made of marble that echoed with my footfalls if I weren’t wearing my L.L. Bean hikers. This place was exquisite but grim, impressive but ominous. I remembered from the video of my insurrection that this was where everything happened—my face-to-face challenge of Marin, my trial, Mama’s death, and my banishment. I don’t remember this place. I don’t remember its smell or the sounds. Nothing about it feels familiar. But I was here two years ago. I walked across the white marble floor. I must’ve stared out at the columns.
As I stood in the very center of the massive room, feeling as small as a child in a gothic cathedral, I waited. I was silent. Motionless. My heart pounded wildly, but it was the only thing that told me I was alive at the moment. If Marin held true to his side of our agreement, I would get to see Brent for the first time in years. I would get to smell him, kiss him, and touch his face.
I just wouldn’t remember any of it once I left Lethe.
There was a hitch in my throat. My heart seemed to stop entirely when a door across from me creaked open, slowly, deliberately. Nothing appeared inside of the doorway at first. I gulped. My fingers curled tightly against my sweaty palms. All I wanted was to call out “Brent,” and invite him into my arms. My lungs, on the other hand, had no air to speak his name.
Two years. I knew only him for a short time before that. But that was all it took to steal my heart and earn my loyalty. The notion of me falling in love that quickly was beautiful and crazy. But it was never, ever questioned. I loved Brent. I always would, no matter the span of time and distance that separated us.
A towering man dressed head to toe in black, a sweatshirt hood pulled up over his head, stepped through that door.
Brent was there, in the doorway, those crystalline blue eyes peering out at me from underneath the dark hood. I had been told that he had been stripped of his human form right before my trial. Through torture and some mysterious Head Reaper power, Marin had reduced him to an emaciated Eidolon form of bone and muscle and a thin membrane of brittle black skin.
This Brent, the one before me now, was the one I remembered. The Reaper I made love to in a field in eastern Colorado and would, I prayed, again someday.
I ran. I ran so hard and fast that I could have easily overcome twenty miles in ten minutes. And Brent exploded toward me. The force of our bodies meeting rattled me from the inside out. I hurled my arms around his broad shoulders, breathed in his masculine scent, and pressed my face into the crook of his neck as I balanced on the tips of my toes. His arms locked my body so close and tight against him that I couldn’t breathe. He was in my arms and I was in his.
“Brent,” I cried.
His grip on me loosened slightly. I still would not have been able to let him go if I had tried. We were pressed together, able to feel each other breathe, feel our heartbeats racing, feel blood move through our veins. This was how we were meant to be, which made it all the more painful knowing that it would end in mere minutes.
“How in the hell did you manage this?” he whispered, his brown beard tickling my cheek. “Did you have some dirt on ol’ Marin?”
“I heard you lost your skin. How do you get it back?” I should not have asked, but this meant something significant. Brent had earned his humanoid self back, which had to mean Marin believed Brent was loy
al to him for some reason, even if it was a facade. I couldn’t find fault with that. Since Brent’s and my separation, I’d also lived according to Marin’s will, whether I liked it or not. So I just accepted with gratitude the fact that Brent had his human body back and we were together again. Maybe that made me wicked. I didn’t give a damn if it did.
“I got it by doing what Marin says. Simple really. Be obedient, and the world is your oyster.” Brent didn’t look pleased with that admission. “So, answer my question, darlin’. How did you get him to approve this?”
“He wants me to do him a favor. I asked for one in return, and he said okay.” Stupid answer, but it was the truth.
He huffed an incredulous laugh. “Fucking hell, I never thought to ask. You’ve got balls that I clearly don’t.”
“I don’t need balls to take risks. But really…maybe Marin’s just getting soft,” I said as Brent’s grip slackened and my heels came back down to the floor. Those strong hands cupped my cheeks and aligned my face with his. Blue eyes like the ocean stared into my own.
“I wish that were true about him.” His gaze moved over my face, starting with my eyes, then my freckles, my nose, my lips. “Then again, I wish none of this were true. But it is.”
“You’ve been visiting me at least…in my dreams,” I said.
He sighed. “Not for long. Once Marin picks up on it, he’ll put an end to that, too.”
“How will he ever know?” How did it even work?
Brent smoothed his thumbs across my cheekbones. “Don’t worry about that. With any luck, things will be different for everyone very soon.”
My heart felt like a thick, wet sponge in my throat. “What do you mean?” Marin might have successfully subdued my inner rebel, but it sounded like Brent’s was still fully active.
“I’ll let you know when the time comes. Trust me, Ollie. Please.” The energy between us intensified as he moved closer. Our foreheads met. “Now, what is the favor he’s asked you to do?”
“He is sending me to meet Master Scrivener Dennison in California to score a peace treaty,” I said, wishing our lips were touching instead of our foreheads.
Brent grew uncomfortably silent. Was he thinking about kissing me? Was he thinking about throwing himself on me and ravaging me in the five minutes we had left? I would’ve welcomed that. But he lingered still, wasting time. When I moved to put my lips against his, he backed away an inch. Anxiety tightened the knot in my stomach.
“Dennison?” That name seemed bitterly familiar on his tongue.
“Look, if I do this for Marin, we can be together.”
“Dennison.” When he said the Scrivener’s name again, his voice sounded distant, like he spoke into a hollow cavern two times the size of Earth, and I was on the opposite side.
“I have to do this,” I said, my mouth brushing against his. “I have to, for us.”
“Ollie.” His breath tickled me from the inside out. “This is no kind of life for you. I…” He kissed me instead of completing his thought. His lips pressed so hard against mine that I was sure I couldn’t sustain the pressure. His tongue pushed inside. Our teeth clicked together as we dove deeper into the moment. One of his hands moved around to the back of my neck, supporting my head. The other slid under my chin, a thumb locked underneath to keep me exactly where he wanted me. I ached to be lost in this closeness forever. Our kiss felt like it lasted only a second, but when it ended, I knew there were very few minutes left before we would have to say good-bye. There simply wasn’t time for anything else, and the both of us knew it.
“You couldn’t have asked for twenty minutes?” he said with a chuckle, his lips nipping at mine. “It’s been two years, but I could’ve lasted longer than ten, you know.”
My hands cupped his cheeks as his had cupped mine. His beard felt smooth against my palms, the flesh of his cheeks warm. “Not sure I would’ve.”
Before I knew it, two Watchmen approached us, obviously hell bent on separating us and taking Brent back to wherever it was he spent his days. I clutched him frantically, not even remotely ready. Our ten minutes had ended so quickly that I wasn’t sure it ever happened. Were there do-overs in Lethe? Could I ask for a replay? Within the impossibly short timespan, I kissed him long and hard and made promises to remain steadfast. I knew, as did Brent, that I wouldn’t remember anything about our time together, but my heart was his, regardless.
Just before the Watchmen were upon us, Brent stuffed a piece of paper down my shirt and inside of my bra, stealing a quick grope to taunt us both.
“Don’t touch that until you’re outside,” he whispered.
“I won’t. I promise.”
“You should let go of me.”
The words felt like a punch to the gut. But before I could question him, the Watchmen tore him out of my arms. They clamped their hands around his elbows and dragged him back toward the door where he’d entered. He looked over his shoulder, refusing to take those blue eyes off of me. His gaze spoke many things—I love you…Please don’t forget me…I miss you…Please move on.
I wanted to run after him and follow him and the Watchmen, wherever they went. I would’ve given up the outside world with its trees and mountains and cloudy skies and fresh air to be with him for the rest of my days. I couldn’t convince my heart that one more day or week or month separated from him wouldn’t kill me. I guess the only consolation was that I wouldn’t remember this, or what it was like to feel him close to me again after years of longing.
But the note.
I was itching like mad to rip the letter from my left breast and read it over and over. The temptation was almost unbearable. What did he say? What did he want me to know? Was it a love letter, or something about the rebellion? And, most importantly, could I get it out of Lethe without getting caught?
Two of the Watchmen dragged Brent through a doorway, and another grabbed my elbow to steer me in the opposite direction. I craned my head to catch one last glimpse of Brent, but he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him with heartbreaking finality. I hoped so hard it wouldn’t be the last time I’d ever see him.
The Watchman took me into a conference room and curtly introduced me to Don, a five-by-five middle-aged Eidolon with slicked black hair. Don didn’t bother with niceties but simply slid a manila folder across the table, pulling my internal focus up from that tempting folded square of paper hidden inside my bra. “This’ll get you up to speed on Master Scrivener Dennison’s history. Read it during the flight to California,” he said through one side of his mouth. The other side should’ve held a fat stogie. Perhaps Don didn’t smoke during professional meetings.
Marin had already briefed me, so I didn’t need to know much more about Dennison. He was a Master Scrivener who had possibly fashioned an army of zombies to help him torment Stygians. Don didn’t reveal any theories as to how Dennison controlled them.
“What does he look like?” This seemed a logical question, maybe even the first I should’ve posed, but then I wasn’t working with logic—just dread, caffeine, and a kernel of excitement that I was about to meet another Master Scrivener, evil mastermind or not.
Hey, I had faced down much worse in my lifetime.
The door to our room opened once more, and the same Watchman who had led me to Don pushed Papa and Chad into the room with us. Papa sat down at my side, his hand covering mine on the armrest between us. Don’s interest then shifted to Chad, who sat on my opposite side, hands nowhere near any part of my body. My allies were dwindling. Even so, there was no guarantee that Chad was an ally. I hadn’t had the time to ask him or Brent about any connection between them, but if he was loyal to Brent, that indirectly meant he had an allegiance to me.
Chad had to know my cross-examination would come.
“Marin didn’t give me liberty to explain anything that isn’t in that folder,” Don said. “This meeting is merely a formality to mollify Reaper Balanchine, who insisted on having an opportunity to ask questions. I cannot answer—”
>
“Dennison’s a Master Scrivener, so he’ll be annoying.” Chad folded his arms across his chest.
“Chadwick, you aren’t—” Don started.
“Long, blondish hair. Devilishly handsome, according to the ladies. Loves wine.”
“I’m not permitted to let you—”
“He’s Scottish. Right, Donny Boy?”
“—speak with Ms. Dormier about—”
“Scottish?” My astonishment cut through Chad and Don’s posturing, a tension that was evidently seeded long ago. “But we’re going to California.”
“He settled there because he’s Scottish and it hardly ever rains in California,” said Chad. “That’s what Brent Hume told once me. You know him, dontcha, Scrivie?”
I gave Chad a hard look. And then I tried my best not to think about the letter in my bra, or that I could still taste Brent on my lips. I couldn’t let those two very lovely things distract me from this business meeting. I would do what I was told to do so that I could live out the rest of my life enjoying Brent’s finer gifts.
“It’s important that you do not make personal enemies with Dennison.” Don continued with the meeting he seemed in a hurry to finish, probably so he could smoke the stogie missing from his crooked mouth. “Be friendly, cordial. Don’t jump into negotiations. You want him to trust you so that he’ll show you the way to the Phlegethon.”
Building trust would be problematic. Had there been ample time, I would’ve gone to diplomat finishing school before meeting with the Demon Scrivener of Fleet Street and his hoi polloi of Trivials. But I would do my best.
“I’ll be one of your four bodyguards,” Don said. “This is Gabriel, who will also join us.” He gestured to the brown-haired Eidolon on his left. Gabriel had a banana face, one that arched from his protruding chin to his forehead.
“Nice to meet you, Gabe,” I said with nominal warmth.
“It’s Gabriel to you, Scrivener,” Gabriel bit out.
“Okay, then.”
The Reaper's Sacrifice Page 6
