Rogue Reaper

by Riley Archer

  I was out of breath by the time I reached the trees. When I stepped in, a line of growls emanated from between trunks. At least ten glowing yellow bulbs—just enough space between them to be eyes—stared me down.

  When I stepped back, the growls quieted. I stepped in again, and they lit back up, threatening an attack. This was the most dangerous game of hokeypokey I’d ever played. I peered over my shoulder. The Glitch was lean but fast. And of course, coming my way.

  Damn it all. Magic dashed through my limbs like ice water. The Glitch wasn’t slowing down, and I imagined this is what it felt like when a bear charged. A demonic bear.

  I harnessed an attack of my own, swaying my arms around like I was practicing tai chi.

  The Glitch was ten feet away. Five. Four. Adrenaline spiked my hackles. I whipped the ball of magical energy at it without hesitation. It stuck to the inky chest area, freezing the monster in place.

  I focused on my breathing. The effort sat on me with the weight of an elephant, but I pressed heavy steps forward. I twiddled my fingers like a puppet master; maybe it took one to beat one.

  The Glitch pivoted.

  Sweat trailed my temple.

  Slowly but surely, the Glitch inched toward Atlas.

  My control teetered a tightrope, but my focus was steel. I wanted the Glitch to consume Atlas. I wanted it to obliterate sicko Glinda.

  I marched behind my unwieldy soldier.

  When I was close enough to make out his face, Atlas smiled and slow clapped. Then, a Grim from storybooks—full-on black cloak, shadowed face, and airy movements—emerged from behind the faulty shelter. The obedient Glitch didn’t stand a chance. When it was swiped away, the power I’d used on it zipped back inside me and knocked me to my knees.

  As bruised and beaten as I had been, I had never been more exhausted than this. I could barely move, which meant I couldn’t escape Atlas when he headed for me.

  I threw mental daggers his entire way over. He nudged my chin up with his knuckle. I’d have bitten it if I thought it wouldn’t give the psycho a kick.

  The moon lit his overeager features. “You’ve made me proud, Daughter of Grim. You are everything I’ve ever dreamed of.”

  Everything he’d ever dreamed of?

  “You …” My voice cracked. The arm I was propping myself on buckled, and I dropped. As I rolled to my back, the overly watered blades of grass itched my skin. “The ambitious reaper?”

  Atlas scooped me into his arms and carried me toward the manor. His lips brushed my earlobe as he whispered, “This has all been for you.”

  My resolve was as firm as frozen bread, but my body was soggy French toast and not in sync. I hung limp in his arms and hated every second of it. “Did you kill me?”

  Atlas hummed, intrigued by the question. “I saved you. From a life you were not meant for after your traitorous mother tried to rob you of your fate. One of my Priestesses would have raised you, but Tanaka … I don’t know why he recruited you or how he knew. But once you were a commissioned reaper, I could only watch from afar until the Ars Magia Veterum was acquired. I could only influence you with nibbles of magic, fueling your desire to find the Black Diamond Gentlemen’s Club. When we finally had the ability to entrap reaper souls and make them sing a tune of chaos to spirits—something a being like you is especially attuned to hear—it was time.” He stroked my cheek and fueled my desire to knee him in the nuts.

  He’d been spoon-feeding me nightmares, knowing I’d be hell-bent on finding my killer. Once I reported the damn Glitch call—the cry of a reaper’s soul—he knew I’d snatch whatever opportunity he handed me. He’d turned me into his panting lapdog, more than willing to wander into his crosshairs.

  His plan worked so well that I was clouded with disbelief.

  “Congratulations. I walked right into your club and your coven.”

  “The Black Diamond Gentlemen’s Club is merely a recruitment and networking center for the Blood of the Daughter of Grim Coven. It’s all the same.”

  His words played on a loop inside my thick skull.

  Blood of the … Black Diamond … Club. Coven.

  “It’s all the same.”

  BDGC. What a fucked up vocabulary lesson.

  Atlas carried me inside, his fancy shoes clacking against the spit-shone marble. This was an estate in every way. Gleaming high ceilings arched several stories high. A sparkling chandelier cast diamond lighting over each dustless detail.

  A man with an impressive mustache, wearing a waistcoat and bow tie, greeted us. “Mr. Atlas. May I be of assistance?”

  “Not tonight, Rupert. Our High Priestess is in a bit of disarray. But please send out invites for our VIPs to join us for dinner at the end of the week. I’d like an intimate introduction.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, Rupert.”

  We’d ascended the winding stairwell by the time I realized that by High Priestess, Atlas meant me. He opened a tall, embellished door and set me on my feet.

  I gripped the threshold. “I’m not your Priestess.”

  “Of course not. You would never be part of my harem. You’re meant to be their Queen.”

  Surprise, surprise. My chess analogy came back to bite me in the ass.

  “I will never be what you want.”

  Atlas held my chin, and I shook the touch away.

  “With some practice, you will be everything I want and more. A being who can control a Glitch can control the world. You can have everything you want.”

  My laugh was more hoarse than sarcastic. “I want to leave. I want to never see you again.”

  “I don’t believe that last part.” He stepped closer. I stood my ground, though I would have bolted if I thought I wouldn’t land face-first in the same motion. “I remember the way you taste, how hungry you were when you touched me, and … you don’t want to leave.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I would have touched any semi-attractive male in the same apartment as me.” Not entirely true, because Damian, but I pressed on. “And I most definitely want to leave.”

  “No, you don’t.” Atlas took a single step back and straightened his sleeves. “Because if you do, your mother will pay the price.”

  21

  The Trials

  If I’d thought the city apartment was lavish, I didn’t know how to describe this immaculate Victorian estate. Oh, wait. I knew exactly how to describe it. Prison.

  It didn’t matter how pretty it was. Escape wasn’t in my future. Not unless I wanted to doom the mother I never knew, if Atlas was telling the truth. It was entirely possible the threat was just another manipulation. My purse had made it back to me intact; everything was there, except the phone, including the Polaroid I’d taken from my baby book. I had no doubt Atlas’s devious hands had touched it. He’d know my mother was a weak spot of mine, and being the sick sadist that he was, I was sure he enjoyed nothing more than pressing it.

  Even so, I wasn’t willing to call his bluff. Not if it’d hurt her.

  I tossed and turned through the night and early hours of the morning on the four-poster bed. It was so comfortable that I wanted to set it on fire. Other than my pyromaniacal fantasy, I didn’t have much of a plan. The only one I’d devised was to play nice—okay, nice-ish—and hoard every little detail I could collect. When I spotted the High Priest’s—I would henceforth think of him as the High Priest of Shitheads—Achilles heel, I’d take an ax to it.

  Before noon struck, a lady maiden—or whatever rich people called the people who waited on them—entered the room and dressed me for the day. I wore simple yoga pants and an athletic pullover. The running shoes were a perfect fit. I didn’t have to guess what I’d be running from.

  Clouds cast the courtyard in shades of gray. Atlas stood at the center of the lush green field, wielding the devil’s instrument.

  I crossed my arms. “If only Reaper Collective knew what they’re paying you for.”

  “Not to worry. We’re working on making Reaper Co
llective obsolete.”

  Before I could dig into that loaded nugget, another death volunteer came out, this one with a shot full of something lethal. Atlas blew on his hellish whistle, the spirit mutated, and I harnessed my icy power to keep the thing from inhaling me. As soon as I took hold of the Glitch’s will, the Grim-on-call emerged and cut it down. Then another person came out of the ragged greenhouse, and the same thing happened again.

  It was a vicious cycle.

  Spirit, whistle, Glitch.

  Morbid volunteers burst into their spirit forms, and Atlas turned them into monstrous globs. I’d fight to control them, and when I finally did, the Grim put us both out of our misery.

  All right, not true. I was still miserable.

  The next day went the same. And the next.

  Time blended together in a lethargic haze, one where I had to turn off parts of my brain to survive. Everything outside of this field was a vague time-lapse: I ate. I drank. I tried to sleep and failed to get a REM cycle in.

  By day four, it was easier to take control of the Glitches, but forcing their movements still took a massive toll.

  Today, after three, I was down for the count. I panted over the ground, my slick hands pressed into the perfect grass. When Atlas approached, I dug my nails into the dirt.

  He circled me like a gleeful coach, happy to see his trainee beaten to a pulp. “Good job so far today. You’re improving your stamina.”

  “Maybe you should work on improving yours,” I spat. I was too tired to come up with a better insult.

  Atlas knelt near my head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The sunlight hit the whistle dangling from his neck just right and blinded me. The blazing twinkle felt like a hint. A dare.

  Should I make a grab for it?

  “That’s not something I need to worry about,” he said as he tucked the whistle under his collar. “But I’m glad you still have an interest.”

  The acid in my stomach flipped. “I don’t,” I spoke through gritted teeth.

  Butlers and lady maidens encroached upon the courtyard with stretchers. I forced myself to my feet and watched as they carried the fresh bodies into the woods, just like they had the previous days.

  I cracked my neck and tried to shed my fatigue. “I’m surprised you give them a proper burial.”

  “They’re gifts,” Atlas said matter-of-factly.

  I raised a brow. He was sounding a lot like Madam Okiro.

  “For the werewolf pack that guards the estate.”

  I stifled a gag. My first thought was gross. My second was the realization that werewolves had boxed me in when I tried to escape. I’d just thought they were grotesquely trained bloodhounds.

  Atlas clucked his tongue at my dirty fingernails and ushered me toward the mansion. “We will pick this back up another time. It’s time to prepare for our guests.”

  They weren’t my guests. I inhaled the string of insults tickling the roof of my mouth and let him herd me. But there was no way I was going to keep playing Miss Submissive—though I was a hundred percent certain that was one of his kinks—without knowing my mother was okay. I wasn’t Madam Okiro or any of the BDGC weirdos. I wasn’t going to risk it all for a corpse.

  I stopped dead in my tracks. “I want proof.”

  “Proof?”

  “Of life.”

  “That’s philosophical of you.” Atlas kept going.

  I bore an inferno of a glower into the back of his head. “Don’t you watch TV? It’s a standard thing to provide in hostage situations.” I hadn’t seen anything that covered hostages who were bartering on behalf of another hostage, one they had no memory of, but my request still seemed solid.

  When we entered the manor, an entourage awaited us. A crowd of lady maidens beckoned to me. Atlas took my hand, and I cringed. If he noticed my revulsion toward him, he chose not to show it.

  “Get cleaned up. Our guests tonight are important. Your original investors, you could say. Behave, and I will provide your proof.”

  Investors. Like my existence was stock exchange.

  Before I had a chance to respond, Atlas snapped his fingers, and the lady drones swept me away with their proper and demanding hands.

  My skin was raw from scrubbing. My scalp radiated heat from all the pulling and twisting. It had ended up in some kind of updo, but without a mirror, I had no idea if it looked like I was going to prom or to hang out in Whoville. When the youngest of the ladies finished the full-on makeover that left my lashes feeling like heavy curtains, she spun my chair, so I faced the dress I was supposed to put on.

  It was as extravagant as it was revealing.

  “Are all the wicked witches of the land having a ball?”

  I was ignored and pulled from the seat. They tugged the robe off me, which should have left me feeling totally vandalized, but it didn’t. They had just cleaned out my nails—and toenails—while I sat in a bathtub, so modesty had long flown out the window.

  “The evil fairy queen is getting married, isn’t she?” I asked as I stepped into the lacy black ballgown that was sheer between the floral frills. It was basically strapless but had a long shawl that wrapped around my shoulders and cascaded to the floor and beyond. Then I realized something.

  If an evil fairy queen was getting married, she’d be wearing this.

  “Stop!” I yelled.

  The ladies begrudgingly paused.

  “I am not walking into an ambush gothic wedding, right? Atlas isn’t going to try to marry me?”

  “With you looking like that, I might be tempted.” Atlas appeared in the doorway, practically dripping in silk. Or whatever men’s dark suits were made of. He fiddled with shiny cuff links. A strappy shoe would have been handy just then. “But no. Your presentation should match your standing, and now, it does. She looks ready to me. Ladies?”

  They shuffled out around him like little mice.

  “Do you have a reason for being here?” I crossed my arms. “Bringing my proof of life maybe?”

  Atlas came close enough for the scent of his aftershave to invade my senses. He held out an elbow. “Come with me.”

  I didn’t loop my arm through his, but I tucked my ego away—again—and followed him.

  He noticed my bare feet and paused. “Need assistance?”

  I smiled my sweetest. “I would rather scale a glacier barefoot, thanks.” It was pretty clear that this manor belonged to Atlas, so at least I knew the cool tiles were clean.

  We were in the other wing of the estate before he held a door open for me.

  I brushed past him, and he lingered back. If he expected me to say thank you, he was shitting himself. Chivalry was dead, buried, resurrected, and buried again.

  The room was plain, if not abandoned. Everything was covered in sheets. Atlas tugged off the covering on the center table, exposing a crystal ball. I couldn’t hold it in. Laughter sputtered from my mouth.

  “I’m not interested in my fortune. Your presence alone is enough to know it’s bleak.”

  “Ellis.” Atlas pressed the edge of the table. The long muscle in his neck twitched, his cool composure wearing thin. “I never meant for things to be this hard for you. You were supposed to be raised knowing who you were and what your purpose was, but your mother took that away from you.”

  I tried to laugh again, but it came out as a shrill breath. “So, you murdered me?”

  “You had matured as a human by the time I found you, your magic buried deep inside. You wouldn’t have listened. But if one of my Priestesses had raised you after your death, your magic would have been accessible.”

  Accessible? I shook my head. “Controlled, you mean. Because I’d have been a brain-eating slave.”

  “Not a slave. Easier to manage perhaps.” Atlas stepped closer, his finger trailing the edge of the table. “I had to keep my distance for obvious reasons, but I’ve kept a close watch. It might not be apparent right now, but I care for you, Ellis. More than Tanaka ever will.”

  He knows. Th
at secret crush was, somehow, not so secret.

  My cheeks burned, disgust wavering into shame and then back into my default anger.

  “No. You’re a control freak on a mission. Why not just murder me again? What do you want with me?”

  “You cannot raise a commissioned reaper. A born one, yes, but that opportunity is gone.” Atlas considered me and then tinkered with the crystal ball. “And I told you, whoever wields the power of Glitches can wield the supernatural and human worlds. That influential force is at your fingertips.”

  “All right. What do I need you for?”

  Atlas’s eyes sparkled; he was amused. He pulled the glass ball to the edge of the table. “Dictatorship or not, you need organization. You need a government. You need a fortress, backup, and training. And, you must first produce your weapon before you can use it.” He tapped the bulge in his pocket.

  The evil whistle.

  In his mind, I was stock, and Glitches were bombs. He was building one hell of a corrupt corporation.

  “I have prepared all that for you.”

  I huffed, partly entertained, mostly horrified. “Why, aren’t you altruistic?”

  He flashed his perfect teeth. “Of course, I will sit at your side.”

  “And if I’d been a zombie?”

  His knuckles grazed my cheek, and I went rigid.

  “The rewards reaped would have been much less gratifying.” He sounded soft and sincere.

  When I met his gaze, dark hunger sparked in his expression. His attention flitted to my lips and lower, and then he stepped back.

  Gooseflesh cascaded down my arms. I almost wrapped the shawl-veil thing around me to cover myself, but it was sheer and wouldn’t cover a thing. And even if it were mere nausea, I didn’t want Atlas to think he had any kind of effect on me.

  “It’s almost time for your entrance. You wanted to see your mother?”

  I pushed my tongue into the sharp cusp of my canine. He was dead serious, regretfully easy on the dead. I sighed and lowered myself to the ridiculous object.