Devon shook his head. “You know, there hasn’t been so much as whisperings of one for, what... like decades now? Not since they put the guidelines in place and all that ‘predetermined destiny’ bullshit. Not to mention, the culling wiped out the rest.”
“Ah, the culling. Those were good times. There’s nothing quite like being interrogated for hours, or sometimes days, on end, in the hopes that you’d spill the beans on a friend. All so you could watch later as that friend was “put down”.”
Devon noted Zane’s sarcasm.
“Do you honestly believe all the Anguish Reapers were eliminated? Or is it possible, those who weren’t caught just went underground? Seriously man, think about it.”
Devon wasn’t denying it was within the realm of probability. He simply believed it to be highly unlikely. He also wasn’t denying some new ones had the possibility to crop up from time to time. How could they not? It’s a huge undertaking, having the power to remove a soul from its earthly confines. It’s bound to change a person, regardless of the careful “screening” process in place. Some Reapers were likely to take that power to the darkest recesses of their souls, allowing it to fester and metastasize into something unholy. However, in this case, it was hard to believe. Why on earth would an Anguish Reaper ensorcell Portia into sleeping with him? Right... Okay, Devon was sure that was the case. It wasn’t because she was just jealous of what Liv had and decided to take it for herself.
It was a serious accusation Zane was tossing around. One Devon wasn’t prepared to do anything about, without more proof. In the off chance it was true; a true Anguish Reaper on the loose was a problem of epic proportions. Their ensorcelling was a whole new level of terrifying. Empath Reapers ensorcell to remove pain, fear, and sadness, replacing it with peace. The Anguish Reapers are the exact opposite. They wanted to induce pain and suffering. When they encorcelled, it was for selfish purposes. To every yin, there must be a yang. Reapers had it in spades.
Where the Anguish Reapers become dangerous, was in the power itself. Their abilities not only worked on the living, dying, and Revenants, but other Reapers as well. Not to mention, there was an added mind-control element thrown in. Essentially, one Anguish Reaper could control a whole army of (un)dead minions to do their bidding. Hell, one could start a world war without lifting a finger.
However, all that aside, there was something off about Zane’s story. It was as if some key element was being withheld and, unless Devon got it, their conversation would be brought to an end. So he laid it out on the table, blunt and to the point.
“Do you have any other proof?”
“I have my intuitions.”
“Your intuitions? You’re accusing someone of being an Anguish Reaper, with only Portia’s word and a hunch?” Devon thought this was a far-fetched excuse from a man who’d been burned by a woman and was in some serious denial about it.
“Look man, I’ve had my suspicions for a while now and, after speaking with her, I know for a fact it’s the work of an Anguish Reaper.”
“You know for a fact? How, pray tell, might that be the case? Have you spoken to Drake to get his side of the story?”
“Well, no. Duh. I can’t exactly talk to him without raising suspicions.”
“I’m still not buying it. I don’t understand what any of this has to do with Olivia. So, you’re going to have to give me something more, man, or we’re done here.”
Zane sighed, leaned his head back on his shoulders, and then dropped back, to stare down at his shoes. Devon thought that Zane must have been having some sort of inner monologue, because he stayed that way for a long time. So long that Devon began to wonder if he’d nodded off, but Zane took another deep sigh and raised his head.
“All right, look. What I’m about to reveal to you, I’ve only revealed to a couple other people, and they were very trusted friends. The only reason I’m showing you is because I’m going to need your help and that I believe more innocent people will get hurt, unless the matter is taken care of. So, having said all that... I need you to swear that you’ll never breathe another word of this to anyone. Got it?”
Devon didn’t know anything about this guy, but he was beginning to think he had a real flare for the dramatic. Devon had already humored him this long, so he might as well see this ridiculous story through until the end. After which, he planned to kindly bounce Zane out on his ass.
“Okay.”
“Okay, what? I need you to swear it, man. I’m not kidding.”
The flare for the dramatic was getting old... fast. “Fine, I swear.” Devon put up two fingers, confirming his “oath”.
Zane pulled the chair closer to the sofa, sliding forward in the seat. He reached across to place his hand on Devon’s knee. Devon sat up straight, alarmed by the sudden contact. Zane noticed his discomfort.
“Don’t worry, I’m not getting frisky or making a move on ya. I need the contact to show you this. Besides, you’re not my type.” He winked at Devon and closed his eyes. He was quiet, but cocked his head to one side a bit before moving it slightly to the other.
“What are you doing?”
“Shh... give me a minute.” Zane cocked his head, back and forth, a couple more times before he spoke again. “All right. Before I arrived, you were getting ready to have dinner, but you couldn’t find anything to eat.”
“Excuse me?”
“You were considering calling for takeout.”
“What the hell is this? Are you reading me?”
“Yes,” Zane said without hesitation. “Am I right?”
“Well, yeah, but you’re cold reading. This is an old trick used to con suckers and I’m not a sucker.”
“Shh...” Zane continued on, as if Devon hadn’t just called his bluff. ”For most bachelors, ordering takeout is common place, but you like to cook and always try to eat healthy.”
“You’re not saying anything you couldn’t have learned from Portia. You’re going to have to try harder if you want me to fall for this shit.”
“Fine.” Zane was becoming increasingly annoyed, as was Devon. He was just about to push Zane off, when the next “insight” came. “If you don’t believe me, try this one on for size. From time to time, you like to indulge, straying away from your healthy diet. Although you’d never admit it, and you’ve never told anyone... not even your best friend, your favorite indulgence is cold Spaghetti-Os, straight from the can.”
Devon’s eyes grew wide. Zane opened his eyes and slid back in the chair once again. It was one of Devon’s more closely guarded secrets. As far as dark secrets go, he realized it was nothing earth-shattering. It was certainly not like he murdered anyone but, with his group of friends, he might as well have. He’d be more likely allowed to live murder down. He had been rendered speechless. Zane had not.
“Oh, and I don’t possess a flare for the dramatic. Dick.” He clapped his hands together, cracking his knuckles out, further demonstrating how “wrong” that assessment had been.
“What—the—fuck?”
“Now, do you understand how I knew Portia was telling the truth?”
“You weren’t ensorcelling me to glean information. So, again I ask, what the fuck?”
“That’s my big secret. Before I was an Empath Reaper, I was just a plain old telepathic human.”
“What, like John Edward?”
“Dude, no. Nothing like that git. I’m the real deal.”
Devon had insulted Zane... apparently. Well, how the hell was he supposed to know? Their conversation had turned fruity, with a side of nuts, and he was having a hard time keeping up.
“Hold the phone. If you could do this all along, why didn’t you do it sooner?”
“I was too emotionally amped up. If my emotions get too high, I get blocked. And Portia wouldn’t return my phone calls, remember?”
Devon was riding the tidal wave of emotions this guy had brought into his home. Was he going to believe Anguish Reapers were out on the streets, causing mayhem and chaos? His
affection for Spaghetti-Os was true, but was that enough proof to get sucked into whatever this guy was up to?
“How do I know you can help Liv?”
“Look at me and search within yourself. You’ll find the answer you need.”
Okay, Mr. Miagi, Devon thought.
Even though Zane had gone all Zen-Buddha-master on him, he took his advice. As much as it creeped Devon out, Zane was right. He knew he could trust him. He didn’t understand how or why, but something instinctually told him it was so. Devon was not one to ignore those gut feelings.
“I’m in. What do we have to do?”
As it turned out, the hipster wasn’t finished with the revelations for the evening. Devon’s jaw rested on the floor as Zane explained he knew of a necromancer who was looking to exact some revenge and was more than happy to lend a helping hand to their cause. He wasn’t sure what surprised him more, that necromancers were real and Zane had been friends with one for over three-hundred and fifty years or that their magic could be applied to Revenants and Reapers. It seemed the necromancer, Demitri Hollow, not only found a way to control the dead, but also cheat death for his own purposes.
Within a few hours, the plan had been laid out before Devon, which further convinced him Zane might be certifiable. The plan was ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’ crazy, but if there was a chance to get Olivia back, Zane could’ve said they were going to strip down naked, rub honey all over their bodies, and shake their junk in hell for a bunch of demons and Devon still would have been on board. Nothing Zane told him was easy to hear, but it further solidified his conviction and commitment to the plan. Even if it failed, and they couldn’t get her back, Devon could exact some revenge on the piece of shit responsible. That’d be something.
Zane put a tremendous amount of thought into their plan. Devon wasn’t necessarily needed, but it had a lot of moving pieces and would be difficult to execute solo. Devon was curious why he’d brought him in, when Tore seemed the more obvious choice. Zane said there were reasons, but refused to elaborate any further. Devon eventually let it go because, if he was going to trust Zane, he also had to have faith that the guy knew what he was doing.
When Zane had said he had suspected Anguish Reaper activity for a while, he wasn’t kidding. He meant decades upon decades, in fact. There wasn’t a Reaper family tree in existence that didn’t have a Reaper gone bad, hanging around somewhere in its branches and, apparently, the trait could be “hereditary”. The more darkness within the line, the more likely it was to produce it. This knowledge made Devon question how some seem to have dodged the bullet, while others swallowed it willingly. When he put the question to Zane, the answer was simple: Choice. No Reaper was inherently evil, just as no Reaper was inherently good. They’re both just as they were when they were alive and human. Each could choose which path they’d travel. Devon thought that Liv would get a kick out it, since it was very much like the force from her beloved Star Wars films. If this insane mission went accordingly, he hoped he’d get to hear her laugh about it soon.
Chapter 26
Drake
The memories were starting to overwhelm Drake, just as they’d done many times before. He was strangled by them as he stared out over the veranda. That slab of concrete was the place where, during the dinner party, Olivia told him what an asshole he was and where he kissed her after the symphony. When the mood struck, they’d had sex out there on a particularly warm May night. No matter how hard he tried to push the memories down, new ones came to the surface to take their place.
He tore his eyes away, but it didn’t matter. Every inch of his flat was a reminder of her, somehow. The kitchen reminded him of when she tried to make dinner and burned the chicken, setting off the smoke alarm. She had to climb on his shoulders to turn it off, because they couldn’t reach it otherwise. The living room reminded him of the rainy day they snuggled up on the couch, watched movies, and napped away the afternoon.
His studio wasn’t even safe. One morning she woke to find him already there, creating another painting for her, inspired by her. She watched him for a while, before deciding she wanted to give it a go. It wasn’t long before she made a mess and was covered in paint. Now, he couldn’t bring himself to step foot in there. He hadn’t created anything since she’d been gone. Years of creating, yet he no longer felt the urge because he’d lost his muse. A beautiful soul to inspire the heart in his work was what he had always dreamed of. He found her, only to throw her away, and now she haunted his every step. He was tortured by a ghost he couldn’t exorcise. Lost in the abyss of grief; he didn’t believe there’d be any hope of crawling out again.
His weary body climbed the stairs to the bedroom, exhausted from another painful day of romancing his phantoms. Crawling into bed, he began his nightly ritual. He laid the only framed picture he had of her on the pillow next to him and dialed the voicemail on his mobile. He set it to speaker, laying down the phone next to the photograph.
Olivia’s voice carried through the small device, harassing him about his good friend Alexander Graham Bell and how disappointed the inventor would be by his phone etiquette. It was the final message she’d left and Drake listened to it over and over every night. He had it memorized, start to finish, every tiny inflection of her voice, and the little giggle at the end when she said she was on her way up, before the line went dead. He gazed at the photograph for a long time thinking, Bloody hell, I miss you so much. It’s destroying me.
Afterwards, he held her pillow to his face, hoping to catch her scent still lingering there. It was the distinct smell of roses and snowdrops, which reminded him so much of the motherland, so much of home.
When Drake could no longer hold his eyes open, he shut off the phone and drifted to sleep. There was no peace to be found there, either. The first night she was gone, he dreamt of her. She screamed at him. He couldn’t hear what she said, but the look on her face sold the suffering behind whatever her words had been. He tried repeatedly to reach out to take hold of her, but she continued to slip through his fingers. She pulled farther and farther away until she dissipated before his eyes. From that night forth, it was hellish nightmares of her in agony with no way for him to stop it.
He always woke with his heart pounding, drenched in sweat, and doomed to repeat the whole process over again. There were days that he was so angry at his inability to move past the loss. Why had no single loss before ever touched him the same way? It was hard to admit, but that included the loss of his wife. As much as losing Cleo hurt, it had never felt as if half of him was missing.
He’d had other relationships besides Katarina in the years since he’d become a Reaper, but he always stacked them against the early years with Cleo. Those were the happiest years of his life and nothing else ever came close to comparing. Nothing, that was, until he met Olivia. It was only then that he realized his relationship with Cleo had never been perfect and, if he hadn’t been such a starry-eyed romantic, he would have seen it sooner.
Cleo was never there, not completely. He had been a rebound relationship for her. She’d been devastated by her previous breakup and fell into the arms of an awaiting friend. Nothing more. They were never meant to last and, if he hadn’t been such an idiot in love, he would have known that. Cleo spent her last years miserable and trapped in a marriage with a man who was supposed to get her over the previous man she really loved. Drake supposed it was just another regret to add to the pile.
...
It had been another long day; Drake watched the sun set through the picture window in the living room. The apartment grew dark, but he refused to turn on any lights. He’d woken up that morning with one objective. It took ten hours, but he was about to complete it. He held his phone, listening to her voice, until the prompt came on again, asking what he’d like to do. To replay the message, press one. To save the message, press seven. To delete the message, press nine. He listened to Olivia one last time and then pressed nine.
Message deleted.
D
rake held the phone tightly, clenching against tears. He stood quickly, sending the chair flying out from beneath him, and threw the phone as hard as he could at the window. A web pattern spread from the point of impact as the phone hit the floor. He ran to retrieve the chair and threw it to finish the window off. It flew out onto the veranda, as the shards of glass rained down.
The next stop was his fully stocked bar, where he drank straight from a bottle of whiskey until he passed out. The dreams began almost immediately. Only this time, when she cried out for him, he yelled back. The pain on her face was exquisite, but unlike the dreams before it, he knew this time it was only his subconscious manifesting his own pain in her guise.
“Drake.” Olivia tried to reach for him, but he backed away.
He was cold in his response. “I want you to stop haunting me. Do you understand? Enough is enough! I can’t keep doing this.”
“Please don’t let me go,” she cried, but he continued.
“Sometimes I wish I’d never met you. All I have left is pain and misery... sorrow and darkness. I have to make a choice. It’s either you and all the hurt, or nothing.” She reached out to him again, but he backed away once more. “I choose nothing.”
Tears sprang to her eyes but he stoned his heart, refusing to allow emotions to get the better of him.
He woke the next morning determined to complete the task of eradicating her. He collected the few little items of hers from around the flat: a toothbrush, some clothes, the book she’d been reading, which still sat on the nightstand, and the framed photo. It was all stuffed into a box, along with the pillowcase. He took it downstairs and asked the doorman to get rid of it all. When the man asked how Drake wanted the items disposed of, to which he replied he didn’t care so long as it was gone. He came back up to the flat and called someone to repair the window.
As he swept up the glass, he pushed down the rising memories. Olivia was gone forever and it was time to move on... regardless of how empty it made him feel.
Prayer for the Dead (Revenants in Purgatory) Page 20