The Reaper's Sacrifice

by Abigail Baker

  Two gunshots rang out, louder and more piercing than the Eidolon’s wail. Wet heat dripped onto my head and shoulders. Gabriel crumpled and landed on top of me.

  Struggling to shove him from my body, I saw Errol rush to my side with a gun in his hand. His mouth moved with words I couldn’t hear. My pounding heartbeat drowned out all other noise. When he grabbed my arms and wrenched me to my feet, the sting of Gabriel’s attack was replaced with a flood of queasiness.

  “Are you okay? Talk to me!” Errol shouted.

  My throat was tight. My lungs were empty. In the doorway was a lump of a body oozing blood. Don. He had been shot like Gabriel. They were down, but not for long. Maybe minutes. Maybe less. Eidolons can’t be killed with guns.

  “Bloody hell, she’s bleeding. She’s in shock!” Errol went on.

  Chad bounded over Don’s massive lump and into the room. “Where’s the other one?”

  “Pierre?” said Errol. Other than Chad, Pierre was the last of my Eidolon guards from Marin—so undoubtedly he was in on this attack, too. He had to be somewhere nearby.

  Their reactions happened so fast that I couldn’t grab a hold of reality long enough to take it all in. My head burned. I was woozy. Everyone moved twice as fast as the words that I wanted to speak.

  “We’ve gotta stop Pierre and get the other two into custody before they come around!” Murray shouted from outside of my bedroom.

  “He’s here,” cried a voice from down the hallway. The crack of bullets followed.

  “Stay here, Olivia.”

  Errol, Chad, and Murray darted from my room, leaving me stumbling in their wake.

  Like hell I was going to stay back and let the chaos unfold without my help. I wasn’t about to linger in the company of my temporarily neutralized bogeymen. No, I took off and didn’t look back.

  Dudley’s claws beat an ostinato against the sloppy cadence of my footfalls as I raced around Don’s body, down the hall, and toward the spiral staircase. Sounds of shuffling, grunting, and bone-on-bone strikes reverberated in the foyer.

  From over the second-floor banister, I watched Chad nearly corner Pierre in the midst of his escape. Working together, Errol, Murray, and Chad tried to subdue him with the help of several Trivials, but Pierre either out-paced them or was unexpectedly strong, because he broke away and made for the Manor’s front door, swinging wildly at anyone who got in his way.

  He was out the door when my feet hit the bottom of the steps. I hadn’t a damn clue what I would do if I caught up to him. I was half Pierre’s height, but I’d go after him with all I had.

  From the sounds of thumping feet, I wasn’t alone in my chase.

  Pierre sprinted across the gravel driveway, leaped over the large stone fountain in the center, and made toward the darkened grounds of the Manor. In the distance was a thicket of trees. His trajectory was obvious, and his stride was long. He’d make it to the woods before I could catch him, but I ran and ran as hard as I could.

  Errol’s broken breaths echoed in my right ear. Chad was on my left side. It was Dudley who broke our ranks and raced ahead, his four legs carrying him with the speed of a greyhound in pursuit of a rabbit. He was a blob of white flying through the darkness.

  Halfway across the grounds, on the other side of the orchards, air got harder for me to take in. The more I ran, the faster my heart pumped blood out of my wound. My pace slowed.

  Pierre vanished into the redwood forest. Dudley’s white streak disappeared seconds later. Chad and Errol zipped past me in hot pursuit.

  Coughing, I dragged my feet over the grass, unsure if I should go back to the Manor or follow them.

  “Come on, Teacup.” Delia grabbed my hand. Her skin looked angelic in the moonlight. She dragged me into the wall of trees without much effort. “Let’s get that piece of ape shit!”

  Through the darkness came the echoes of male voices.

  Hand-in-hand, Delia and I tracked the sounds. My bare feet felt like they were cut open with every step through the brush.

  Dudley’s bark was a beacon, directing us toward them.

  Shoving aside branches and brush, we kicked through the undergrowth until we came upon Chad, positioned for an attack, Dudley next to him, barking and rearing up on his hind legs, and Errol kneeling over Pierre’s shoulders, which were pinned to the ground. Delia grabbed me around the waist just as my knees buckled. I was growing woozier by the second.

  “Talk to me,” Errol’s voice was ripe with fury. “Why did you attack her?”

  Sweat covered Pierre’s large forehead. His mouth foamed with blood.

  Errol’s hands broke out into an inflamed red glow I knew all too well.

  Pierre spat a gob of bloody mucus at Errol’s face. The Scrivener’s reddened hand struck his victim’s cheek in reaction to that disgusting assault. Pierre’s head rolled to the side with an explosion of teeth from a crumpled jaw.

  “What’s Marin’s plan, then?”

  I could guess. He had never wanted to negotiate—he’d just wanted to send in his Eidolons to infiltrate Errol’s stronghold and take Errol and me down, and likely as many Scriveners as he could, as well as gain control of the Phlegethon. No wonder everything had been so easy up to now.

  Dudley continued to yowl. Chad gave Delia and me a slanting glance.

  “I’ll make this more painful if you doona sing, Eidolon,” Errol snarled.

  Pierre said nothing. He wouldn’t talk. He’d apparently go to his death if he had to.

  The scarlet light around Errol grew. I stood in grim curiosity as I witnessed another Scrivener’s body, not just his hands, growing brighter. Errol wasn’t merely red, but undulating in oranges, pinks, and blues. Shimmering black ink appeared on what few spots on his body were visible—his hands, neck, even his eyelids. His eyes turned milky white.

  Errol did this effortlessly, when hours before, I’d had to see my dog get shot to unleash the same spectacle. Spellbound, I tried to get a closer look. But as I leaned forward, Delia’s grip on me tightened.

  The Master Scrivener clamped his hands around Pierre’s throat as if he were choking him, but his touch was so light that there were no indentations in Pierre’s neck.

  Black ink lines wriggled down Errol’s hands and onto Pierre’s neck. Those tattoos of his marched proudly off of his skin and burrowed themselves into his victim, reminding me of maggots writhing in and out of rancid flesh. Pierre could not fight back. He couldn’t move or wiggle or even scream. His lay beneath Errol, transfixed by the lightshow. Pierre’s expression reminded me of Percy’s that night in the woods in Montana—the night she pounced me and I burned off a portion of her long blond hair—blond hair that was now cut short into a bob. I understood now, as I watched Errol do what I had started to do next to the Phlegethon in the basement of Wrightwick.

  With each pulse, Errol’s body radiated more power, which moved the air and trees around us in magnetic waves. My dreadlocks whipped across my face. Clothes beat against my body.

  Delia pulled me closer, but I didn’t peel my eyes away from this Master Scrivener’s work. At last, I would know what it was that made Scriveners so dangerous, and why Reapers hated us so much. I would learn from this.

  An explosion of white light caused those maggoty black lines covering Pierre to dissolve his flesh, singeing the leaves and brush beneath him. Pierre was reduced to a collection of scorched bones under Errol’s grip.

  A deluge of energy sent us airborne, bending the trees at their roots, blowing twigs, dirt, and leaves in all directions. I threw my hands over my face as daggers of debris walloped me. Not a second later, everything fell silent.

  The forest around us was untouched. It didn’t appear as if a whirlwind had blown through. The only sign that anything had happened was the pool of slime around Errol’s legs where Pierre had been.

  This was so much more than Deathmarks. This was the Master Scrivener power Brent had warned me about that night I’d attacked Nicholas Baird. Yet the reality of it had not hit m
e until this moment. I had wrongly believed the lie that only Eidolons could take Stygian lives. Errol was formidable enough to kill Eidolons. And this display alone explained why Stygians feared him, why Marin had exiled me, and why he sought to exploit Master Scriveners or stamp us out forever.

  Master Scriveners could keep Grim Reapers and Eidolons in check.

  Delia hoisted me upright with strength unexpected for such a thin woman. On my feet and lightheaded, I glanced about. Chad was standing, but unsteady, and wearing “holy-shit” in his small, gray eyes. Dudley hid behind a tree trunk, evidenced by his white tail popping up through the brush.

  Errol’s eyes rolled back to green, and his skin returned to normal, Scottish pale white. Yet he slumped, appearing exhausted.

  “Will you be gettin’ her some help, then?” he murmured, his hair shading his eyes.

  The entirety of my white T-shirt was soaked in blood. I felt the stained fabric and the skin underneath, assessing the damage.

  I hadn’t just been struck in the chest as I had thought. Gabriel’s lashing had gone entirely through my body, a tunnel that burrowed right through muscle, bones, and soft tissue.

  And I squeaked in shock before I grew faint and collapsed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Traitors are spawned when oppression is king. Let that be warning of how deeply rooted is our discontent.”

  —HermesHarbinger.com

  A dull, nauseating ache lingered from Gabriel’s attack. Blinking sleep away from my heavy eyelids, I surveyed my bedroom, which was illuminated by the early morning glow peeking through the curtains.

  As I moved my fingers to gauge my strength and mobility, a hand compressed around them. Errol. He was perched on the edge of a chair that was inches from my bedside.

  “Good mornin’, Olivia.”

  I said something garbled that, I hoped, sounded like good morning…or thank you.

  “Gabriel scarcely missed your spine. That could’ve done permanent damage. You shouldn’t have run after him.”

  My muscles and bones quivered from pain. My chest was heavily bandaged, but I could feel that my body was already repairing itself at lightning speed. “I fight back. It’s what I do.”

  “An attack from an Eidolon can do considerable damage. You can’t fight back quite as easily if you lose your ability to walk.”

  I had not considered what Gabriel’s assault in my bedroom could’ve done, and to be honest, I didn’t very much care. Judging from the movement in my legs and feet, I could walk. “What about Phlegethon? It could’ve healed me if he’d killed me.”

  His furrowed brows shaded his green eyes. “The River is not flowin’ like it once did. We must be wise about how and when we use it. If we make smart decisions, we dinna need it.”

  I didn’t press him for more details. The look in his face was revealing. Errol wasn’t infallible. He had made mistakes. And he had depleted something more valuable than gold.

  “You turned Pierre into fondue.” I would never eat melted cheese again.

  His fingers stroked the back of my hand. “I had my suspicions about the Eidolons. Murray guarded your door tonight. He stopped Don, but Gabriel got past him and into your room. Pierre was the next line of attack in case Gabriel and Don slipped up. I did what I had to do.”

  I tried to move but stopped when my back and chest protested. “You melted the flesh off an Eidolon’s bones. That goes above and beyond doing what you had to do.”

  He forced an awkward laugh.

  “I want to learn how to do that,” I added.

  “You were about to on Don when he fired on Dudley. All you had to do was keep usin’ the energy you were summonin’. It takes a great deal of strength, a feat not meant to be repeated in a short amount of time.” After a pause, he leaned into the chair, unraveling his fingers from mine. “When you are ready, I would like you to call Stone, but dinna tell him what happened. Go on as if nothing is wrong.”

  My pulse quickened. “Why?”

  “Don and Pierre had two flasks of the Phlegethon. I think they were out to get the water and you before hightailing it back east. But I can’t be certain. I want to speak privately with the remainin’ Eidolons, specifically Chadwick, before we decide our next course of action.”

  “Errol,” I said as I tried to prop myself up on my elbows. “The river…Marin wants it.”

  “I know. He always has.”

  “No, I mean, he sent me to get a sample and bring it back to him.” I expected Errol to lose his temper and melt the bed and dressers in my room just for the hell of it. Instead he simply nodded like he knew all along. “You don’t care?”

  “I knew long before you arrived that Marin would attempt this, either through you or his Eidolons.” He sighed and gave me a weary smile. “Just do me a favor and keep this between us for a little longer, all right? If you tell Stone, word could get back to Marin, and then he might make another move. Best we keep this quiet for now.”

  No one stood over my shoulder telling me who to believe or what to do. But for this once, it would’ve been nice to have a third opinion. Where was Nicodemus? Or Brent? “But Papa might be in danger if Marin is up to something.”

  “I only ask for a day. Those Eidolons will require some work to get them to speak. Simply tell Stone you are fine, had a little setback, and that you’ll be home soon.”

  The Eidolons were perhaps dangerous traitors, but they still held souls, and I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of torturing them. Like it or not, I had to protect everyone involved to keep those I loved safe.

  “I’ll do what you ask,” I said, grudging, “but I will not—shit!” I pointed at the red bleeding through his muddied blue T-shirt.

  He pulled off the garment. The fresh ink that I had laid down hours ago undulated. Blisters bubbled around the line work.

  “You have a staph infection from hell,” I said.

  He put his fingers to the tattoo, and the reddened lines cooled into pinks and oranges. “I’ve had enough work done by Master Scriveners to know this is normal.”

  I wasn’t certain I believed him. Even when I had palmed a Deathmark onto Baird, it didn’t look septic, just pissed off. “I hope I have some kind of curative power, because I don’t think that is going to heal clean.”

  He chuckled hard enough for his chest to bounce. The fiery lotus bounced, too.

  Murray popped his head into my bedchamber on cue with our tense laughter. “Errol, I must speak with you in private.”

  “Anything you have to say, Olivia can hear, my friend.”

  With a reluctant sigh, he said, “Percy is missing.”

  …

  A great portion of my day was spent in bed. Any attempt to sit up or roll over or stumble to the bathroom and my back objected. I’d never had an injury serious enough to stun me for quite this long. Of course, before I’d become a Master, a hole this large in my chest would have killed me.

  For this reason, I had plenty of time to note how my room—the scene of the crime—had been cleaned to appear as if nothing had happened. Blood had been wiped away. Bodies removed. My room was now as pristine as it was before the attack.

  Dudley, who did not give notice to the eeriness, occasionally brought me the yellow tennis ball that Nicodemus had given him yesterday. I’d throw it, and he’d race across the room, fetch it, and bring it back. Despite the mild pain the motion caused, I welcomed his company, since I had limited mobility.

  But the time had finally come for a bathroom visit, one I just couldn’t put off any longer. I lumbered toward the bathroom with my hand on my chest, bent forward, spewing complaints.

  “I thought you could use some company.”

  Dudley scuttled underneath my bed at the voice. I spun around with the only object I could grab in a half-second—a comb on the vanity table.

  “Delia.” I lowered my plastic weapon, gasping from my too-fast movement. “You scared me.”

  Carrying a square, red leather box with brass latches, sh
e walked across the room to me. “Sorry to frighten you, Teacup. Errol asked me to check on you.”

  “How nice.”

  She gave me a once over. “Your hair. It’s disastrous.”

  Delia had an amazing way of making me self-conscious when I hadn’t cared before.

  “Come. Sit. A lady deserves primping now and again.” She herded me to the vanity table. Before I sat, she curled her fingers around my bicep, keeping me from finding reprieve in the table’s cushioned bench. “Would you like a pillow for your bottom?”

  “I was stabbed through the chest, not my butt.”

  “Simply want you to be comfortable.”

  “I’m not made of glass.” Just in pain.

  “Well, then sit, Teacup, and let me fix this confusion of a hairdo.” She slammed me onto the bench. I winced, which I prayed she didn’t see. In the vanity mirror’s reflection, I spied her simper as she ran her hands over my dreads.

  “Do you mind a little product?” she asked.

  “I’m not—” Hairspray billowed around me. I pulled the collar of my shirt over my mouth and nose, coughing until the cloud of hairspray dissipated.

  “This will calm those frizzies and smooth out… What do you call them?”

  “Dreadlocks.”

  “They are dreadful.” She lifted one of my dreads with obvious bewilderment. “I know you prefer these, but I’ve been dying to brush them out since I first laid eyes on you.”

  “You can’t brush them out. Please…”

  Her cherry fingernails parted each lock, one-by-one. Admittedly, it felt as nice as a massage.

  “Just keep doing that,” I purred.

  “I won’t brush them, Teacup. But let’s make them pretty.” She had been plotting my makeover since we first met. Best to let her try, so long as she didn’t destroy my hair.

  “Thank you for helping me last night,” I said.

  She took a dreadlock, spritzed it, ran her fingers down its length and then moved onto the next. “I like you, Teacup. It’s been a long while since I’ve met another female Scrivener. The last one barely spoke. The one before that was too interested in hitting on Errol to pay any bit of attention to me. You are perfect. A doll I can dress up and decorate. I can’t wait to show you the dresses I’ve picked out for you. You’re an American size four, am I right?”