The Reaper's Sacrifice

by Abigail Baker

  As I sat across from a Stygian that demanded respect for our kind, I did not dare feel so dismissive. I felt accountable for everyone who had gone before me in the name of justice. And I felt like an asshole for ever being so passive.

  “What can I do to help our kind?” I said, wishing I could summon forth the courage and strength it had taken Mama to face her Grim Reaper with absolute dignity. “Can I make people regrow appendages?”

  His stern expression fell away. “If you can, you’d win a lot of pub bets.”

  That drew me away from my heartache. “I didn’t think you had a sense of humor.”

  “You don’t know me very well. The Trivials are great soldiers, dull conversationalists. Delia is off in the Land of Makeup and Clothes. You’re a welcome relief.”

  “What about Percy?”

  “I dinna know what to do with the kid.” He grabbed his wine again—the one I was coveting—and sucked it down. “She’s a hormonal teenager. She’s trouble, but she’s my responsibility nonetheless.”

  Having once been a moody teenager, that explained it perfectly. Percy was not quite a woman and not quite a child. But she was also a sociopathic, soulless Stygian. It sounded like hell and a reason for a seventeen-year-old to act out, like by traveling to Montana to stir up trouble.

  “You said she’s something like your daughter now?” That was the wine and my inner seventeen-year-old grouch speaking.

  “Yes, but also an employee. Since they can stand up to Eidolons better than any living Stygian, Trivials help me protect Wrightwick. As you can imagine, Marin has made this place a target since the start of his tenure. I need Trivials to stave off his assaults.”

  He set his glass down, spinning it between his fingers again. It seemed a habit akin to my wriggling fingertips. But what it said about Errol, I didn’t yet know. I would find out.

  “Would you be wantin’ to lay down some ink? Consider it your first lesson from a Master,” he said after a few beats of awkward silence between us.

  “On you?” I nearly choked on my spit.

  “Aye.”

  “You aren’t worried that I’ll mark you?” My reputation preceded me, did it not?

  “I trust you. Interested?”

  My shit-eating grin was likely answer enough.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Some of my closest confidants are defectors. Know this, Stygians, there is no outpacing your disloyalty.”

  —Head Reaper Marin, Sunday Night Stygian Broadcast

  “Where do you get gloves with crucifixes on them?” If Errol weren’t such a gentleman, it would’ve seemed like he was making fun of me.

  “They were a gift from Papa.” I pulled on a neoprene glove, snapping it against my wrist like Bertha the nurse at a proctology clinic. “It’s probably good for me to think about higher, benevolent beings when I’m working on you. I wouldn’t want to mistakenly ink a Deathmark onto you.”

  “A fine reason to wear them then. I don’t think a skull would go well with my suit.”

  How appropriate that the spot he invited me to ink was on his left pectoral muscle, which popped with inspiring definition. Sly fucker. The small patch of skin on his chest was the only clear spot available on his upper body. Everywhere else that I’d willingly get personal had been inked.

  “What do you want? A flower or Kanji or MOM with a heart?” I quipped as he lay back on the table, stretching his long limbs prone.

  “A bumblebee buzzin’ around a daisy would look lovely.” He adjusted his head on the pillow I set out for him as he waited on my response to his jest. “I thought you were a jokester?”

  “I am, but you’re not allowed to be. Imagine how upset you’d be if I tattooed a bumblebee onto that beautiful chest of yours.” I said beautiful. I should not have said that. I shuddered with embarrassment. “What do you really want?”

  “You decide.”

  “I won’t tattoo you unless you know what you want.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that obstinacy was the forgotten deadly sin?”

  “Errol, you’ve had this suit of ink for God knows how long. I’m not about to ruin it because you’re trying to flirt with me. Make a choice that doesn’t involve a skull…or a bee.”

  He propped himself up on his elbows, flexing the muscles of his arms and chest. “Tell me something first. Why did you put a Deathmark on Reaper Baird?”

  This wasn’t the time or place to bring up my life’s biggest mistake. I couldn’t help but angrily sigh. I think I might’ve rolled my eyes, too, just to stress my annoyance.

  I held the round eye loupe to the light and with a singular focus inspected the magnified needle for debris or distortion. And then, in spite of myself, I ended up spilling the entire story of my rebellion, from meeting Brent to our separation and my banishment.

  “When he was supposed to execute you after your rebellion, Brent dinna ferry you entirely over, though.” My infamous story never seemed to lose appeal or interest. It had become viral amongst Stygians, but I wished it would fade into the history books. “He has part of your soul. That must be difficult for you.”

  I threw the loupe I still held into my bag of tools, risking breaking it, and popped the needle into its proper place in the machine. “Because of him, I’m not dead. Difficult is relative.”

  “You are half-alive.”

  The fact that I exited Lethe with half of my soul was a subject everyone who knew me had avoided, for good reason. My usual reaction was to go for one of their emotional insecurities to deflect my story. Errol, ignorant of my sensitivity, was the first person to inquire in a long time. I appreciated his courage, even if it was unwelcome.

  “Being half-alive is all I know anymore,” I said. “I’m grateful for it.”

  “You only survive if Brent survives. Much like Nicodemus.”

  I revved the tattoo machine. “What do you want tattooed?”

  He lay back onto the table. “Surprise me.”

  “I’ve always wanted to tattoo a cute little bumblebee.”

  He raised his head, eyes wide.

  “Just kidding.” Once I had run a razor over his skin, shaving the hair to smooth out my canvas, Errol grew still and silent. Everyone had their way of sitting during a tattoo session. Some chatted incessantly, while others sat quietly. It all depended on the person, the piece, and the moment, each as unique as fingerprint swirls.

  I would periodically check the needle or the wells of black ink on my worktable, and then I’d check in on my client. He was transfixed. A couple of times I jostled his arm or asked him a question to be sure he was okay. He had always responded good-naturedly, but he seemed off.

  “I finished the bee,” I said. He didn’t laugh, but he did smile. “I’ll stick with the black-gray theme. I don’t think you want bright yellow to ruin the continuity.”

  “Aye.”

  “You all right?” Black ink bubbled around the needle as I started filling in the line work.

  “You keep asking me that. Are you, lass?”

  “I’m fine. I’m enjoying this––” A bolt of pain flew up my left arm and stopped short of my chest. It threw me back. My foot came off the pedal, and the machine dropped to the table at Errol’s side.

  He sat up. “What is it?”

  I pumped my fingers to work out the throb. “Muscle cramp.”

  He grabbed my hand, peeled off the neoprene glove, and ran his fingers over my palm before I could fight his advance. “Do you hurt?”

  “Fine. Just startled me.” I found myself staring into the rays of gold in his green eyes. These eyes were different from Brent’s—different, but not in a way that they could reconcile the undercurrent of loneliness. Nothing would ever fill the massive notch Brent had carved into my heart. Not that I wanted anyone other than him, but from time to time, my body considered alternatives.

  What else could I do, knowing that for the remainder of my life, by Marin’s decree, I’d live without ever seeing Brent, unless I negotiated in his fav
or with a Master Scrivener who was determined to bring him down? The option to fall for someone again was there; yet every day I remembered that there was no other lover I’d walk straight into Lethe for.

  “I should finish this another time. Steady hands make clean lines,” I said.

  “I’m one to agree.” He released my hand but didn’t back away from our proximity.

  The tattoo on his chest seemed a better place to look than in Errol’s eyes. What stared back was impressive—a geometric lotus flower, unfinished, but woven flawlessly into the remainder of his tattoos.

  The flower wasn’t intentional. None of it. I’ve never done anything quite like it—it’s like it had just appeared beneath my hands.

  So where had this come from, and why did I suddenly feel it was important?

  …

  In general, it was rare for Scriveners to interact with Eidolons, and rarer still to have five of them watching you with hawk-like fortitude. Catching one off-guard in a lonely corner of Wrightwick Manor in the late hours of the night, chatting on a cell phone, was a singular event that would likely never happen to me again.

  Chad stood in the shadows, speaking softly into his phone. The red velvet curtains separating the hallways from his private corner provided sufficient cover as I edged closer.

  “The dog, yeah,” Chad whispered. “Why is it so important, boss?”

  As quiet and still as the Manor was, I couldn’t make out the voice on the other end of the phone. Was it Brent? Marin? Another one of Chad’s monster-of-death buddies?

  “She’s fine for now.”

  My best guess—Brent. He was the only one who’d ask how I was.

  “She’s taken a liking to Errol. Think she’s staying in his room tonight.”

  I curled my hands into fists.

  “I told her she shouldn’t mess with me.” He turned his profile toward me. “And she shouldn’t eavesdrop on people’s phone conversations.”

  Frowning, I stepped out from behind the curtain. Chad slipped his cell phone into his jeans pocket and turned to me with self-satisfied victory.

  “When did you notice me coming?” I asked because inquiring minds needed to know.

  “When you hit the top of the stairs, stomping like a damn elephant. Next time don’t be alive, Scrivie, and I won’t know you’re coming.”

  I turned and headed for my room, disgusted at myself for my lame spy skills.

  My bed was a full-bodied hug of memory foam where even a coffee-fueled insomniac could’ve found a peaceful night’s rest. But not me, not tonight, when I had a million pounds of stress dumped on my shoulders.

  I picked up my cell phone and found that Papa had returned my calls and had left several messages, each one somewhat broken and confusing. I had managed to piece together that Marin was acting strange, that Papa was trying to subdue him, that war was possibly brewing, and that Papa had seen Brent in Lethe. Papa had not bothered to say how Brent looked or if they had talked. I tried to call him back, but I just got his voicemail.

  By three in the morning, I had given up on getting in touch with Papa, as well as sleep. Dudley had found a spot far from my feet so that I wouldn’t kick him during my fussing. Smart pup. Now that I had given in to my restlessness, he was awake, too, staring at me from across the bed, bathed in indigo moonlight.

  “I shouldn’t be here, Duds,” I grumbled, spread atop the bed sheets.

  His tired eyes widened ever so slightly. He was tuned in.

  “I’m working with half of my faculties, and it’s exhausting. You know”—I propped myself on my elbows—“if I had known that refusing to put a Deathmark on Eve would’ve caused so much chaos, I would’ve handled it differently.”

  Dudley’s intent look lingered. Even if he hadn’t a clue what I was saying, he certainly appeared to try to understand.

  “I know, I know. I shouldn’t live in the past.”

  I fell back into my pillow. My eyelids grew heavy. Fickle sleep. One moment it was far, far away, and the next it had me tightly in its grip. Sleep waited until I had given in, content to be awake for the remainder of the night. And then he pulled me in. I closed my eyes.

  A door creaked a second later.

  I opened them again.

  What I saw nearly sucked me dry of air.

  Brent and Errol stood at the foot of my bed. Both of them. Side by side. They weren’t giving each other evil sidelong glances. That alone was enough to get my head spinning, but what begged me to sit upright was that they were both smiling and…naked.

  Was I asleep or awake? Holy Hades, what if I was awake?

  No, I couldn’t be. I shook my head violently. That would wake me up if I were sleeping.

  Errol’s eyes were a vibrant green, noticeable even in the moonlight. Brent’s were dark and predatory, as I remembered they’d been in the prelude to sex.

  My attention was easily drawn to other places that just about any woman found appealing.

  I shifted my legs against the covers to kick them to the bottom of the bed. Brent swaggered around to my left and Errol to my right. My brain reeled when they closed in on me.

  Brent knelt on the bed, causing me to roll toward him as he crawled in my direction, every muscle flexing from his shoulders to his legs. Errol remained to one side until Brent settled in next to me.

  It’s the wine. It has to be the wine. I’m dreaming. I need more wine!

  Desire collected in little beads of sweat on their flesh. My body was riveted by what was about to happen, even if my mind whirled with caution. Brent’s hand traveled over one of my thighs. I gasped; my legs twitched. The tips of his fingers hooked underneath my panties. My eyes rolled back. I needed this, something to remind me that I was alive and still a creature of passion.

  Errol’s hand followed the same path on my opposite thigh.

  “Is this what you want?” Brent said to me, voice rich and thick.

  “I could stand for this,” I said with a laugh. My eyes fluttered closed.

  “You want Errol?”

  My eyes snapped open. I went from wanting Brent’s fingers to move inside of me as Errol watched on, to staring up at Brent and then Errol, whose fingers stopped where they were. Errol gave Brent a look like the two of them planned this part, but the next move hinged on my response to the loaded question.

  Nervous, I dove for the sheets at my feet and pulled them up around my chest, forcing both Stygians to retract their hands. “Of course I don’t want this…I mean, I want you, Brent.”

  “You’re dreaming of us both. That’s something,” Brent added.

  “It’s a dream. That’s all it is.”

  “I’m not a dream.” He was right, and then I worried that Errol had the ability to communicate through dreams as well. The blankness in his green eyes, however, spoke otherwise. This Errol was just a manifestation of my subconscious. Brent was not.

  “You can have a life with Errol, though. You’d just have to let go of us,” he said.

  I knitted my brow. “You mean I’d have to let go of you.”

  “There is nothing wrong with moving on, darlin’.”

  “You know what’s wrong? You pushing me away the moment Errol came into my life. What the hell is the matter with you? Do you really think I’d put you aside?”

  Brent moved over me, the bed dipping where he pressed his hands on either side of my hips. Errol had faded into mist that quickly floated away, to somewhere I didn’t notice. But Brent came closer and closer, his face mere inches from mine.

  “I only want you to be happy,” he whispered. His breath was warm against my lips.

  “When we finally get to be together, I will.”

  “It may never happen.” His eyes darkened as he moved nearer.

  “Not if I have any say, and I get shit done.” Our lips brushed when I spoke those words. I gripped the fitted sheet, twisting it into white florets, just as I heard the distant unlatching of a door. My eyes snapped open—for real this time.

  Motherf
ucker!

  Brent vanished now that I was wrenched awake from a dream I would’ve stayed inside of for eternity. Instead of my Eidolon lover, Gabriel stood at the side of my bed, his eyes bright red and hungry for a different kind of late-night bedroom soirée.

  Dudley was on all four feet, snarling.

  A hint of a smile tugged on one side of Gabriel’s cheek. I had never seen Gabriel smile.

  “W-what are you doing here?” I stammered.

  He sneered, and those Eidolon red eyes intensified. I had seen enough to know I had to stop this immediately. A swift kick and my foot made contact with his groin, crushing his flaccid parts. He threw his head back and wailed, the loudest noise I had heard from Gabriel.

  I rolled off of the far end of the bed and crouched on the floor in a panic.

  Down feathers exploded when Gabriel threw a fist into my pillow and ripped it in half like a rejected, angry animal. The moonlit room filled with white, snowy feathers.

  I had the sense to use my heat as my defense, but just as I rose up from the floor to attack, my upper chest exploded in agony. I screamed, growing dizzy and coughing, eyes blurring instantaneously. What felt like someone had run a dull saw over my skin was a slash from the claws of an incensed Eidolon.

  I wiped away tears of pain to see Gabriel rear back and then stride around the bed with his shoulders squared, ready to do things to me that I wouldn’t allow. Dudley was nowhere to be seen. His barking was distant. There was no time to search for him. There was no place to run. My side of the bed butted against a window, and the only way to the door was too far—I’d be ripped to pieces before I made it halfway across the room.

  Gabriel drew nearer.

  My hands were maddeningly dull and cool, so I patted at my sides for some sort of weapon. My brown hiking boot was next to the bed. When Gabriel came into my view, I threw the footwear and clocked him on the cheek, throwing off his hunt just long enough for me to tackle his knees. My teeth made contact with his right thigh. I bit down as I encircled his calf muscle with my hands—which finally had drawn forth their heat. His screech was both blood-curdling and rewarding.