The Harvest

by Vicki Pettersson

  Grif jumped. Did she actually see him?

  “Shit,” he muttered, letting the curtain fall. It was Nicole’s humanity. He was wearing her life-force, sharing it, as much as she was his.

  “What?” asked Nicole, sounding startled.

  “Nothing,” he muttered. They needed to move anyway. “You ready yet?”

  “Not quite,” she said quickly, halting his turn. “You’re not peeking, are you?”

  Grif just made a sizzling sound through his teeth. The rummaging started up again, more frantic.

  “Can I ask you something?” she managed, though breathing hard. Each exhalation jerked at Grif’s chest, like some-one was cross-stitching his heart. He’d have to return to the Everlast for a jolt of energy before his next Take. “Why can’t I remember who . . . My death?”

  “Because it was violent,” he said shortly. No need to sugarcoat it. She knew, even if she didn’t want to say it. “It’s the Everlast’s way of protecting your soul so you don’t relive it over and again. You’ll go through a process called incubation, which will rehabilitate you to forget your earthly years.” And, he didn’t add, forever conceal the horrors associated with her brutal death. “Then you can move on to Paradise. It’s all meant to keep you focused on moving forward, not looking back.”

  “Like you?”

  No. Not like him at all. “You done?”

  She blew out a breath, causing a particularly hard jerk on his heart, and made a sound of assent. He turned to find her in front of the dresser, leaning against it, looking uncertain. She’d replaced her hooker-wear with jeans and a tee. Both were still too tight in Grif’s opinion, but classic enough to defy most eras. Her hair had been tamed into a style that made her look only half-dead, and at Grif’s half-hearted thumbs-up, she staggered back to the bed, exhausted from the blood loss.

  “More to the left,” Grif instructed, squinting one eye as she attempted to resume her previous pose. “Perfect.”

  He climbed aboard once again, inhaled deeply, and withdrew his own energy, the needle in his heart disappearing instantaneously. Solitary silence reigned inside of him again, though it brought with it an unexpected sidekick: loneliness.

  Damn it, he thought, as he stood, wiping at his mouth to hide his shaky breath. He’d have left her as she was if he’d known he’d have to feel that. But as he rubbed his chest, the last of the energy tethering Nicole’s soul to her body fell away, and she rose again from her deathbed.

  “Better?” he asked, swallowing hard.

  If she heard the shake in his voice, she didn’t show it. “Much.”

  Then, though she hesitated, she reached out and put her still-warm hand in his. “Thanks.”

  “All in a day’s work.” And despite the ache in his heart, and the ghostly memory of all his mortal pain, he shook it off and led her away.

  Proof that he really was an angel.

  Though ostensibly leading the way, Grif allowed Rockwell to go first. As he’d told her, he was a gentleman, and though he was careful to keep her close—last thing he needed was for the kid to get lost in the moon shadows—he gave her enough space to keep her from feeling flanked, like a dead woman walking.

  Another calming tactic: the use of doorways to pass from the Surface and into the Everlast. Or if a door wasn’t available, a window. Some sort of passageway a human mind could latch onto to ease the transition. Opening the door to find the cosmos splayed before you like a celestial buffet was shock enough, so it was best if the Take didn’t notice it until it was too late. So Grif kept his hand at Rockwell’s back, and waited for her gasp as he used his celestial power to will the door open at her touch.

  Yet Grif was the one who jolted at the sight of the grungy hallway. He jumped again when it began to bend, rippling in the same way pinned sheets moved in the wind.

  That wasn’t right. In fact, it was all wrong.

  “Get back,” Grif told Rockwell, as the ripples merged across from them to form a giant, diaphanous bubble. Features began emerging in the bulge of that apex, pressing through wood grain and peeling wallpaper until they became recognizable as an enormous face.

  Rockwell stared at the emerging face like it was part of a magic show, wonder and delight replacing wariness. After all, it was her first glimpse of sinless sentience. All she saw was a brilliant smile forming in the wood chips. A nod of welcome in the dip of the giant head. A shimmering film of gauzy Everlast to mask the staggering appearance of one of God’s most awesome creatures.

  Grif saw fangs and a predatory gleam in an incendiary eye. “Get back!”

  But Rockwell had already forgotten him. Once a newly gleaned soul glimpsed a Pure—in any form—the Centurion who guided them to the Everlast was just a leaf in the forest of their memory. Utterly forgotten.

  “Do you know who I am?” The voice ground deep and low with the sinew of the splintering walls.

  “No,” Nicole said dreamily, stepping forward.

  “Yes,” Grif replied and reached out to grip Rockwell’s arm, but she’d begun the Fade and merely shuddered as his energy invaded hers. Gaze locked on the Pure, she stepped directly into the undulating hall.

  This wasn’t right. “Stop, Nicole! It’s an angel!”

  The hallway cocked sharply at that, casting Rockwell to one bowing side. The face grew more prominent, as if pressing against a thinning membrane . . . and Grif realized that was exactly what was happening. The Pure wanted something, but wouldn’t, or couldn’t, breach worlds to get it.

  Its chin sharpened. “Use my proper title,” it said in that slivered voice.

  Grif swallowed hard. “A Pure.”

  “I am of the order of the Powers,” it hissed. “The first of the created angels, kin to the Dominations and Virtues, controller of demons, and guardian of the heavenly pathways.”

  “Whoa,” said Rockwell.

  But the voice, with breath as hot as a furnace, was directed at Grif. So was the fiery gaze. “Do you know who I am now?”

  Grif knew only one angel in the order of the Powers. “Anas.”

  Keeper of the Gates, the chosen Pure who shepherded mortal spirits into Paradise proper. It was said Anas was the first angel that uninjured souls saw after death, though to say she welcomed them into heaven was giving her too much credit. From what he’d seen, she mostly ignored the human souls, chin high and gaze distant as they passed through the Gates.

  But Grif wasn’t at the Gates. Anas—and her big, bulging forehead—was on mortal turf, so he reached forward to pull Rockwell back.

  But the mouth opened, and the Pure inhaled, lifting Nicole Rockwell from her feet. The woman was like a rag doll sucked into a tornado, gone in an instant, jerked into the fanged mouth, and a throat that was black and specked with burning stars.

  Grif stepped into the hallway to follow after her.

  “Not you.”

  And the walls shifted with a whipping exhalation. Blown from his feet, Grif tumbled back into the mirrored motel room, and the door rocketed shut.

  Heart pounding, Grif just lay there for long seconds.

  When nothing else happened, he wiped at his eyes, which were suddenly gritty and dry. In fact, his whole etheric form felt like it’d been sandblasted by the hot, needled breath. Even still, instinct and stubbornness had him stupidly rising to the fight. Rockwell was his Take.

  Crossing the room, Grif motioned to the door again, willing it open with his celestial power. The door didn’t budge. The cosmos didn’t appear.

  “Fine.”

  And dropping his head and arms, Grif fisted his hands so that his wings flared with a rip of the silky air. Gossamer-black, dripping dew, sprung directly from the Everlast itself, the wings rose and plunged like a waterfall of spears. He whirled, propelling himself forward until the wingtips caught the door and sliced it from existence.

  Anas awaited.

  “Disobedient! Child of wrath!” Her face was inches away, contorted with rage.

  “No need to get personal,” Gr
if told her evenly, though the membrane between worlds was now stretched so tight she looked like she was being smothered in plastic.

  Anas hissed, and her fangs elongated, the sound of wood stretching. “Breath . . .”

  “Oh, that?” Grif got it now. He was in trouble for joining his energies to Rockwell’s, for reanimating her body with his. He shrugged it off. “That wasn’t breathing. I was just trying to help.”

  “You donned the sinful flesh—”

  “It wasn’t really a sin. More like a lapse of judgment—”

  “You have breath!”

  “I gave it back.”

  “And now flesh!”

  He drew a blank until he recalled the grit in his eyes when she blew him back. He looked down, panicking. “You gave me . . . skin?”

  Her snarl grew to a fanged smile. “You cannot enter the gloaming, Child of Sin. You have no place in the Everlast.”

  “That’s Child of God to you.” Grif’s eyes narrowed. “And I have wings.”

  “Ah, that’s right.” She grinned so widely that wood grain punctured the plastic. “I’ll take those.”

  And she plucked his wings from his body—his flesh—then pushed him so hard that decades rushed by, along with burning stars and rioting universes that roiled around him like debris as he fell . . . fell . . . then landed with a jarring thud.

  Rockwell’s corpse bounced as he landed on his back, on the bed. Unmistakably, on the Surface. It shocked Grif into losing the breath he didn’t even know he possessed. Then the pounding began in earnest, starting at his shoulder blades, where his wings should have been. It spread like lava through his core and into his limbs, nothing like the lapping low tide of the pulse he’d shared with Rockwell. This was a red monsoon. His veins throbbed and surged as they . . . what?

  What?

  “Fill with blood.”

  Grif turned his head and found Nicole Rockwell’s eyes fixed on him, though her pupils were overtaken by surging flame as Anas stared from the dead girl’s body. His heart leaped again, and his veins pulsed and rushed and, yes . . .

  Filled with blood.

  And the yearning ache he’d felt while inhabiting Rockwell’s body crested in his chest. Rearing against the pain, Grif felt new flesh stretching over bone. A scream lodged against his unused vocal cords, and he fell still, closing his eyes, trying to hold it all back.

  “Breathe,” Anas instructed through Rockwell’s corpse.

  Grif gasped and shivered. This was the animation of skin coupled with life force. This wasn’t just the innate desire to live. This was rebirth. This was life.

  Clamminess lunged to seize the new oxygen in his lungs. It was only the experience of having been alive for thirty-three years once before that kept the confining flesh from being revolting. Maybe when it warmed, Grif thought, he wouldn’t feel such a need to run from himself.

  But blood still clotted most of the virgin veins, and his heart had to struggle to move it. Its amplified thump hammered like the lead bass in a marching band.

  “Breathe.”

  The word banged like a pot off Grif’s competing thoughts. Worse were the spasms ripping through his chest. Fear, insecurity, guilt, and sorrow all huddled in newly exposed corners, naked, cowering things, frightened children trying to pull the covers of the Everlast up to their chins.

  But the protective coating was slipping away. He knew it, and it was why—even without a true heartbeat or thawed blood or a sense of self and place in the universe—he began to shake in his new flesh. “No . . .”

  “Breathe,” Anas hissed again.

  “It hurts,” he managed, squinting into her fiery gaze.

  “Being clothed in sin does, yes.”

  “I can’t . . .” The shake of his head, side to side, set the pots to clanging again. He had no idea how he heard Anas’s voice above them, only knew that she said, “It will hurt more when you die again.”

  And a knock sounded at the door.

  He stilled, looking at Anas.

  “You must flee,” she said, eyes still burning, breath still scalding. Still merciless.

  “Why—”

  She cut him off. “There’s a window in the bathroom. Go while you can.”

  “But I—”

  “But you’re lying next to a murdered woman. And you, Griffin Shaw, are alive.”

  He couldn’t comprehend it, but the burning skin, the pulsing blood, the breath in his chest . . . “It’s too much.”

  It was all too much.

  Another knock at the door, louder, accompanied by annoyed voices on the other side.

  Anas was right; the time for privacy was over.

  “Just enough then,” Anas said impatiently when he still didn’t move. She pursed Rockwell’s blue lips. Everlast washed over him in a cooling balm and he could sit, and then stand.

  “It won’t last.” And the burning eyes dulled, then snuffed out completely, leaving behind Rockwell’s black, sightless pupils.

  Yet the small hint of Everlast had cleared his mind and Grif could see what Anas had, and what anyone else would when they entered this room: a man standing over a woman’s blood-splattered body.

  Whirling, he darted into the bathroom, and wedged open the small, single-paned window. He heard the door to the room open just as he clambered through, and reached the rusting ladder right before screams sounded behind him. Half-falling, half-jumping, Grif hit the ground seconds later, and ran from the voices and the building. He ran blindly. He ran until the sliver of Everlast wore off.

  He ran until he could run no more.

  About the Author

  The New York Times bestselling author of The Signs of the Zodiac series and The Taken, and former showgirl, Vicki Pettersson was born, raised, and still lives in Sin City, where a backyard view of the Strip regularly inspires her to set down her martini and write.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Also by Vicki Pettersson

  The Signs of the Zodiac Series

  The Scent of Shadows

  The Taste of Night

  The Touch of Twilight

  City of Souls

  Cheat the Grave

  The Neon Graveyard

  Celestial Blues

  The Taken

  And Coming Soon...

  The Lost

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The Harvest originally appeared in the print anthology Holidays Are Hell, published in paperback in 2007 by Harper Voyager, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

  Excerpt from The Taken copyright © 2012 by Vicki Pettersson.

  THE HARVEST. Copyright © 2012 by Vicki Pettersson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub Edition NOVEMBER 2012 ISBN: 9780062249739

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