The Reaper's Sacrifice

by Abigail Baker

  “Too bad your last visit to Montana was all business then,” I said pointedly. “You probably didn’t have time to see Glacier National Park after attacking me, killing my neighbor, and painting your Deathmark in my shop.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  Playing dumb, was he? “A Scrivener left my Deathmark on someone, I was attacked, then I found a snake and skull painted on a wall in my shop. Next to it was ‘You’re going to die, Scrivener.’ That short, blonde Trivial in the foyer was in on all of it.”

  He stared, somewhat dumbfounded, remaining silent.

  “It’s only because of”—I winced before saying it—“Chad that your Trivials didn’t hurt me, because believe me, they tried.” My body started to grow warm with anger.

  “Would you pardon me, lass?” He stalked to the solarium where he shoved between Pierre and Gabriel before the glass door slammed behind him.

  …

  “Getting chummy with the enemy, I see,” Chad said as we waited in Wrightwick’s foyer for Errol or one of his people to return after my conversation with him had abruptly ended. The three other Eidolons, who seemed to be attached at the hips, lingered in a corner, watching Chad and I squabble.

  “Just doing what Don suggested. Making friends with enemies.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Don’t forget. This isn’t a training session between Masters, Scrivie. Marin would shit a brick house if you even tried to pull something like that.”

  I shrugged and did my best to lie with conviction. “I’m only trying to secure a peace treaty. That’s why I’m getting chummy.”

  “Brent would spit nails if he saw you with Dennison, you know.”

  “Don’t try to stir the shit pot. You’re a terrible cook.” I smelled his pathetic attempt to cause trouble without having to hear it from his crooked mouth. “Speaking of getting chummy, I saw those looks you’ve been giving Delia. You think you have what it takes?”

  “I haven’t been giving her looks.” He broke eye contact.

  I hadn’t actually noticed Chad’s interest in Delia save for his dropped jaw when the wildcat strutted across the tarmac at the airport. My retort worked, though. That he wouldn’t look at me meant I was dead-on, which meant that in this pissing match, I was winning. “Do you talk to Brent regularly?” I asked.

  Chad, who was shrewder than he oftentimes acted, did not answer. He did, however, smirk like he always had and then strolled lazily across the foyer to a glass credenza stocked with assorted armaments, ones surely used to bring down all the dead animal carcasses tacked up on the walls. The katana with the curved blade and black hilt that hung on the wall above the credenza was what captured my attention. The weapon hardly looked used.

  Chad looked over his shoulder at me before he turned his attention to the credenza. “I talk to him more than you. Whenever I want, Scrivie. Doesn’t that just suck for you?”

  It did. But I would never let him see that.

  …

  Before breakfast, Murray had shown me to my room, which was twice the size of my Montana cabin. Smelling of lavender, an aroma that would forever remind me of that cup of tea that Brent and I had shared the night before I’d lost him to Marin, my quarters were typical of the Manor’s decor—expansive windows, thick, embroidered curtains, paintings of wine bottles and empty glasses, and a four-poster bed with animal heads carved into the wood. The room was nice enough for a pair of young, googly-eyed honeymooners. For me, I would’ve given anything to be back in my cabin with Dudley sleeping at my feet and Brent in my nightmares.

  After only a minute to observe my accommodations, I had been escorted to the dining room for breakfast, which, considering the hour, should’ve been lunch. Throughout the meal, Pierre, Don, and Gabriel had refused to eat or talk. Chad had picked at his plate of steamed eel with reasonable confusion. Murray had said nothing of importance but stared guardedly. Delia had studied me as a fashionista would, with a makeover in mind. And Errol had shared stories about the Manor, which was built by the Wrightwicks, a noble family of Scriveners. I had been rather relieved that he hadn’t returned to breakfast in the same huff in which he’d left the veranda an hour earlier. I had resolved that at breakfast I would try to mend whatever cordiality we had left. It had seemed to work. Or I had hoped anyway.

  “The Manor is unique,” I said to him as we carried our conversation out of the dining room.

  “It has been remodeled and added onto many times over the years. Sections of the library in the east wing still have some of the original masonry, though.”

  “There’s a library?” My heart skipped several beats.

  “You’re welcome to visit and peruse the documents.”

  I would, if I had time. “And the Wrightwick family, what happened to them?”

  “Slaughtered like cattle by Reapers,” Murray added with bitterness. I hadn’t realized he was part of our conversation, or even nearby for that matter. When I looked over my shoulder at him, Delia was at his side, and behind them were Gabriel, Pierre, and Don. Chad lingered to one side and, though he was normally interested in my every move, his attention had drifted somewhat to the redheaded socialite.

  “Slaughtered is one way of putting it,” she added, oblivious to Chad’s attentiveness. “The Wrightwicks died out in the early nineteenth century, Teacup. Murray harbors anger because the Reaper folk got them. Really, it’s not as if they didn’t get what they deserved. Wrightwicks didn’t like to share land and commodities, you see.”

  I ignored Murray’s grumbling. “Seems callous to say that of our kind, Delia.”

  “Oh, please. Scriveners are not all good, and Reapers are not all evil. Certainly you know that better than any of us.” She clicked by and vanished behind a bend in the hallway.

  “She’s a philosopher, too?” I cocked an eyebrow.

  Errol sniggered. “Delia has a lot more than Fashion Week goin’ on inside her head. Give her time. She’ll grow on you.”

  “I like her cheekiness a lot better.”

  “She’s like any Scrivener, too temperamental for her own good.”

  That sounded familiar. Perhaps a little too familiar.

  “I would like to apologize for how I acted before.” Errol dropped his smile for an emotionless expression, one that said all niceties were through and that business was in order. “After what you told me about Montana, I had a talk with Percy.”

  I slowed my pace. “Percy?”

  “The blonde girl whom you thought you saw in Montana. She is our youngest Trivial at Wrightwick. A bit of a troublemaker, I’ll admit. But certainly not a killer, I assure you. I’m sorry that your neighbor—”

  “Leo,” I snapped.

  “I’m very sorry Leo died—”

  “He was beheaded,” I clarified.

  “Yes, I see, but I dinna know anythin’ about it, and neither does Percy. This is a misunderstanding that merits further conversation, assumin’ you are open to it. I saved Percy from being sent to Erebus long ago, when she was just a wee thing. She was a victim of Marin’s laundry list of Offenses. I advocated for her when no one else would. Percy knows this. She has always been close, like a daughter to me. I know she would never betray me or act violently to others.” He never once blinked or flinched as he defended the Trivial.

  “They’re sociopaths,” I said of the Trivials. “They are loyal to no one but themselves.”

  “That’s a lie that I’m sure Marin and the Eidolons have fed you. Trivials are misunderstood. I live with them. I know.”

  “Perhaps living with them makes you the worst candidate to determine their intentions,” I said with so much confidence, it caused Errol to stumble over his initial response.

  “I… I know my people. Percy is innocent.”

  My instincts knew Percy was the same girl from Montana. Someone was lying, and from Errol’s keen gaze, I had a feeling it wasn’t him, that he was a pawn in some game he knew nothing about. “What about the copycat Deathmark?”


  Errol looked like he was about to shrug, but instead cocked an eyebrow. “Master Scriveners have more than one Deathmark. Some can copy another’s Deathmarks. There’s no patent on one single tattoo.”

  Hating my lack of knowledge of my kind, I folded my arms over my chest and stopped inside the hallway.

  “I never instructed my people to harass you, Olivia. I would––”

  A squeal tore us from our conversation. Errol bolted into the foyer, following the ear-splitting sound. I followed. When I turned the corner, hot on his heels, I saw Delia with a hand on her chest and whiteness in her peaches-n-cream glow.

  Errol threw his hands around her thin shoulders. “What is it?”

  Visibly trembling, her dark eyes darted between us as her pink lips opened and closed, seemingly stuck on words that wouldn’t come out.

  “Delia, please, what is it?” He shook her.

  “A rodent!” She threw herself against his chest. “It was horrible. It jumped at me.”

  “She was poking through Ms. Dormier’s luggage that hadn’t yet been delivered to her room.” Murray marched across the foyer, wearing an unbecoming frown. “Ms. Dormier brought more than her clothes to Wrightwick I’m afraid.”

  What could I have brought that would jump out from one of my bags?

  Errol peeled Delia from his chest. “What were you doing in Olivia’s belongings, then?”

  Red hair stuck to her lip-gloss. “I wanted to see what her dress size was, for her makeover, but…but that thing jumped out at me!”

  “What thing?”

  “Dudley!” From between Delia and Errol’s legs, Dudley galloped at me, ears thrown back and tail swinging from side to side. I fell to my knees so I could welcome him into my arms. He set his paws on my shoulders and licked my cheeks, all thirty pounds of happiness nearly knocking me over. There was no way he’d made the journey in my luggage.

  “You brought a dog?” Murray griped.

  “No, he was supposed to stay with Papa.”

  “He’s a dog, not an escape artist.” Murray crossed his arms over his chest. One day, someone would have to knock the grump out of him.

  I scratched behind Dudley’s black floppy ears. “You don’t know Duds then. He’s not just any dog; he’s crafty. A survivor.” Or more likely, he’d had a Stygian sneak him onto the plane. And if there was anyone who was good at appearing in places unexpectedly and disappearing like the ghost he could be, it was Brent. So this had to be Brent’s doing, sending Dudley along to comfort me. There was no other way to explain it.

  Chapter Nine

  “What we have to remember is that we can still do anything. We can change our minds. We can start over. The notion that it’s too late to do anything is comical… We must not lose this sense of possibility because in the end, it’s all we have.”

  —Marina Keegan

  As Errol, Murray, and Delia swapped words about Wrightwick’s unexpected guest, I dashed to my room with my stowaway trotting at my side. The always-vigilant Eidolons were sure to follow. Their attentiveness must have been an Eidolon trademark. Brent had given me the same never-leave-my-sight devotion. Humans would find it unsettling to have one or five Grim Reapers trailing them like homeless puppies, and the sentiment was no different for Stygians.

  Before the bedroom door had even slammed shut behind me, blockading the band of top-level Grim Reapers from entry, my cell phone was to my ear. One, two, three phone rings. I expected the call to go to voicemail, when on the fourth ring Papa answered. My concern faded into relief.

  “Why haven’t you called?” He was unusually frantic. “I was worried sick.”

  A glance at the digits on the bedside table clock and I understood his concern. “Sorry, Papa. It’s been a whirlwind so far. How are things back in Québec?”

  “Interesting,” he said with a sigh. “Found out about these spies they’ve been talking about at the Book Clubs, and they aren’t Trivials. That’s all I know right now. Have you met Dennison?” When Papa’s voice was gravelly, he was beyond tired.

  “Yep, and he’s not nearly as scary as he was made out to be. In fact, he’s a little disappointing in the intimidation factor. I’m nervous that I might not be able to get Marin what he asked for though. I don’t want to fuck this up for Brent and me.”

  Papa didn’t answer for a while. I waited patiently until I heard the rattle of a groan and then, “You’re the only Scrivener Marin has in his pocket and the best hope for resolving peace. You can do this.” Papa couldn’t mask the hypocrisy he felt using “Marin” and “peace” in the same thought.

  “Has Errol been civil?” he added.

  “He’s being coy about the Montana incident. I’m pushing the subject because I want—”

  “Let Montana go. It’s not important. Focus on the peace pact because the more you screw with things, the longer you’ll be there.”

  I bristled. “It’s wrong to let Leo’s murder go. Errol, or someone, needs to own up to it.”

  “You aren’t in any position to get him to own up to anything.”

  “I can help from my side.” As I fought back, he growled, crackling the phone connection. Papa clearly didn’t want to argue further, even if I did. My cell phone battery wasn’t charged enough to support a full-blown father/daughter debate now, anyway. “Fine. I’ll let it go, but only because you said to. I still think it’s wrong.”

  When Dudley rolled onto his back so I could scratch his belly, I brushed aside my exasperation. I should’ve found a furry companion for Papa before I had left Québec. He could’ve used one to lighten his temper. “By the way, someone showed up unannounced.”

  There was a hush, the kind that made me believe we lost cell phone signal, and then…

  “Gotta go. Call me later with an update.”

  The phone connection died, and my concern for Papa spiked. He’d been cold and aloof. Perhaps he was simply concerned for my safe return, but something about his demeanor seemed unnatural and forced.

  I sprawled out on the pillow-top bed as I began picking Papa’s behavior apart. This was multitasking—familiarizing myself with the bed I’d have for the next couple of days while sorting out Papa’s behavior and everything else that had been thrown at me in under forty-eight hours. Just attempting to look at the bigger picture exhausted me. I’d had very little sleep in the time between the appearance of David’s mysterious Deathmark and now, so little that the bed, in all its fluffy comfort, carried me off on an impromptu nap.

  Almost as soon as I’d slipped into unconsciousness, Brent appeared in my dream. He stood in the doorway of the very room where I had fallen asleep, and he was, as usual, a black shadow, his human form nowhere underneath the blackness. And his presence felt oppressive. I shot upright to face him. He stood several feet away, but the energy from him pressed down on me, as if it wanted to shove me through the bed, the floor, and into Wrightwick’s grand foyer.

  “Did you read the letter?” he asked, voice low and gravely.

  I nodded, too frightened to speak.

  “Been thinking.” He moved further into the room. As he did, the layer of blackness around him began to recede, slowly, like ink being washed away by rainwater, and the Brent I knew from years ago emerged. He wore his usual blue flannel and jeans, along with those familiar hiking boots with tape wrapped around the toes.

  This was the first time he’d ever appeared to me as his human self.

  At first I wanted to spring off the bed and into his arms, but this wasn’t a lucid dream. I had no say over it.

  “Dennison…” He started and then paused. “You should give him a chance.”

  “Your letter said to trust no one,” I squeezed out words through my tight throat.

  “I mean, you should not be afraid to become close with him. You need to move on.”

  My heart, previously racing, came to a sudden stop. “What?”

  “We can’t exist like this, Ollie. Move on. You have my blessing.”

  “The fuck�
��?” The heartbeat picked up again and it was racing with fury. “You said you’d make it work. We would make it work.”

  “I said I’d try.” He didn’t move closer to me. The inky blackness began to swirl around his arms and legs again.

  “Brent—”

  “Learn what you can from Dennison. Don’t think twice if you develop feelings for him. Go with it.”

  “Brent, no!” I shouted as loud as this dream would allow. I didn’t want him to go, but as quickly as he’d manifested, he began to fade again. Too soon he was nothing but a transparent apparition, covered in blackness with just those two blue eyes peering out. I grabbed something at my side—a down pillow—and hurled it where Brent had been standing as I barked, “I’m not going with anything, you son of a bitch!”

  The pillow plopped against the wooden door just as Errol pushed it open. Dudley flew off the bed and raced across the room barking. The Master Scrivener was in the doorway, hands at his sides, as Dudley snarled from feet away.

  “I dinna realize we were already callin’ each other pet names, lass,” Errol said with the slightest hint of a smile. I, on the other hand, rubbed my eyes, as the vestiges of impromptu sleep washed away into alertness.

  “Sorry. Just a bad dream.” I slid off the edge of the bed to try standing after waking up in such a flurry of noise and activity.

  Errol’s hands were on his hips, emphasizing the flask hanging from his belt loop. His gaze moved with purpose from Dudley and then to me. “I have somethin’ I want to show you. Please, come with me, and bring your little mate.”