by Bee Douglas
“After you,” he instructs as the metal doors part. I’ve never been a fan of elevators, especially not ones that have a little give once you step inside. I half expect it to snap free from the cable, but it doesn’t.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer me. He just stares at the space above the doors, watching as the dimly lit numbers change the higher up we go. When the elevator finally arrives at the top floor, it opens to the foyer of the loft I woke up in a few hours ago. Within a building that seems to be centuries years old, this space is an anomaly. Floor to ceiling windows surround the outside wall, offering a vast view of the city outside. A modern bachelor pad with minimal furniture is encased inside the glass walls.
Kane walks with a stride easily twice the length of my own. I find keeping up with him to be more of a work out than it should.
“This will be yours for the time being.” His voice is deep, each word wrapped in a brooding tone. The overhead light illuminates the room. It’s where I had woken up in. A simple bed is in the center of it all with nightstands on either side. “Is there anything you need before getting settled?”
I shake my head. He gives the room a quick once over, then walks back down the hallway. I shut the door behind me; its soft click seems to echo. I sit my duffle bag on the floor and make quick work of changing. All the work I’ve done to keep myself together breaks the moment I slip in between the white sheets. I cry. I cry for the confusion I feel. I cry for all the threats. I cry for how much I already miss Hannah. I cry for the up and coming loss of time. But most of all, I cry for how helpless I feel. By the time my body gives way to sleep, my pillow is soaked through the tears and the sun peeks through the skyline.
7
Kane
I’d like to say that I went straight to bed once we returned to the loft, but that’d be a lie. The echoes of Eleanor’s cries carry throughout the space. No matter where I go, I can still hear them. All I can do is try and drown them out, which is why I settle in one of the living room chairs with a bottle of whiskey.
Irritation clings to my chest like a bad case of heartburn. Yesterday, once I returned from reaping Gunthrie’s soul, I asked Royce to come over. I couldn’t shake the events that replayed over and over again in my mind. I knew there was something different about Eleanor, but I just wasn’t sure what it was. I had piqued his interest, which is where I had gone wrong. He begged me to take him back to the bar. When I refused, he went straight to Griffin - a man I loathe more than anything.
There are hundreds of thousands of Reapers in the world. Most stake a claim in areas, while others travel around like nomads. In this particular city, there are three of us: Royce, Griffin, and I. Royce is tolerable. Griffin, on the other hand, is slimy and self-centered to the point of treachery. I doubt if he’ll ever be able to get the taste of ass out of his mouth from how often he’s kissed the princes’. His first instinct was to run to them, twisting every situation in his favor, which is exactly what he did yesterday. He ran with the gossip Royce told him, and now I’m playing nanny.
Royce had texted me sometime in the night, letting me know he’s headed south to Louisiana. Finding the coven is imperative. They are the only ones that house a witch with any experience handling Banshees. The last anyone knew, the La Croix Coven was uprooting their home in the bayou. What better place to find a coven of witches than the place they were last seen?
Part of me doesn’t want to let go of the anger and betrayal I feel toward Royce. And yet, I’ll be damned if what he said earlier wasn’t burrowing its way into the back of my head. Reaping is a monotonous job, but it’s something I succeed in. The tasks are simple: collect the souls destined for Hell, keep the human realm oblivious, and limit the amount of run-ins with Changelings. Babysitting doesn’t fall anywhere in those tasks. But after the witch is found, Eleanor can take hold of her powers and I can move on. For all we know, Eleanor might be the reason Reapers are no longer needed. While others may feel cut short of their sentence, I’ll be ecstatic. But for that to happen, I’ll have to board a Banshee for the time being.
The sound of the spare bedroom door opening pulls me out of my thoughts. Eleanor creeps in wearing a pair of pajama bottoms and a tank top. She jumps when she sees me, her puffy eyes going wide. She stares at the empty canter in my hand as I walk into the kitchen.
“It’s morning,” she points out, her voice dipped in judgement.
I glance at the clock on the wall. It reads nearly half past eight. “Glad you can tell time.” She mutters something under her breath. “Excuse me?”
She clears her throat and crosses her arms over her chest. The red blotches and puffy skin take away from the intimidating look she tries to pull off. All it does is draw attention to the fact that she’s not wearing a bra. “I said that you don’t have to be such an ass.” She must’ve noticed my wandering eyes, because her arms quickly drop and she lets out a sigh.
“You need to go get ready,” I tell her. “We have some errands to run.”
“Well you have fun with that.”
I turn my back, shielding her from the slight twitch my mouth gives. It seems that her supply of snarky comments is endless. “Do you want to get your freedom back?”
She doesn’t reply to that. In fact, when I look her way, her mouth is turned down at the corners. While it may have been a low blow, I don’t need to say anything else. She turns on her heel and marches back toward the spare bedroom.
Nearly an hour later, we are in the backseat of the town car. The last thing I need is someone butting their nose where it doesn’t belong, but I’m not going to hinder the way I travel. I don’t do public transportation.
“Where are we going?”
“A library,” I tell her. She looks at me, her emerald eyes squinting.
When I don’t say anything else, she nods her head. “I didn’t realize there would be studying involved with any of this.”
“If you did,” I ask, “would you have changed your mind?”
She doesn’t like that question. In fact, wetness forms in the corners of her eyes as she stares out the window. A tinge of regret bubbles up once the words leave my mouth. Before I can even mutter an apology, she whips her head in my direction.
“I didn’t ask for any of this.” Her voice levels as she speaks. Aside from when I carried her unconscious body, this is the closest I’ve been to her. Her eyes aren’t just green. They have this ring of yellow that make them look as if they’re spiraling. “Whatever it is that needs to be done, I’ll do. You don’t have to patronize me.”
The car eventually pulls up beside the city library. Large stone columns support the structure.
“Let’s go,” I tell Eleanor. I stay a step behind her as we walk up the steps.
Inside the two story library, there are stacks and stacks of books. People are everywhere: sitting down reading, perusing titles, waiting in line to check out. They have a wide variety of reference material on the second floor; I checked while waiting on Eleanor to finish showering.
“What are we going to be looking for?” she asks as we wait for the elevator to take us to the second floor.
“Books.” The short comment comes out without a second thought. And apparently I’m not the only one in the world with a temper. If anything, Eleanor’s quicker to snap than mine. She opens her mouth to say something, but I hold a hand up. “We are looking for books. Reference, lore, fictional. Whatever we can get our hands on about Banshees.”
This seems to pacify her. The look of murder dissipates from her eyes. “Why is it that you all have no clue about this thing?”
“There hasn’t been a Banshee around in years, at least not in my time. In all honesty, I thought your kind were some mortal myth we’ve all just entertained,” I explain. Two others step in the elevator with us. Eleanor at least has the smarts to put her questionnaire on hold. But the moment we step off, she starts right up again.
“You said ‘in your time’?” I nod.
Based on the overhead signs, the reference section is tucked away in the back corner. Eleanor follows close behind me. “You’re only in your twenties or something, right?”
I smirk at her naive observation. “Sure.”
“There has to be someone else that knows more about this,” she presses. When I don’t answer, she tries another route. “Who were those men that you took me to?”
“Death,” I say. She lets out a groan. When I don’t hear the echo of her footsteps behind me anymore, I turn around. She stands with her hands on her hips, a scowl painted on her face. “Are you always this much of a pain in the ass?”
“Are you always this much of a dick?” she fires back. This whole thing is going to be a lot more of nuisance than I thought. I backtrack the space between us. She tilts her head up to look me in the eye. “I want answers.”
“And I want you to be compliant. I guess we’re both shit out of luck.” Her nostrils flare. Several people have turned their attention to us. Fuck. This is exactly what I wanted to avoid. I need to keep her out of sight. Obviously, this isn’t the way to do it. “You find something that might be useful. I’ll answer one question.”
She keeps her gaze locked on mine, as if trying to figure out if I was lying to her or not. Finally, she relaxes and I follow her as she charges to the stacks, her motivation refueled.
While I browse the titles, Eleanor plops herself down on the worn carpet. She begins pulling books out of their homes and skimming the pages. This is how we pass our time. Occasionally, she jumps up and hands me a book. They all seem to say the same thing: a Banshee is a harbinger of Death. It’s rather amusing though watching how worked up she gets.
Almost two hours in, I round the corner to find Eleanor sitting in the center of a book fortress. There are rows of empty shelves around her. She looks proud of herself as she hands me one of the books to skim. It gives information about the Banshee in the Celtic culture. It goes on for a good several pages.
“Alright, Eleanor, what’s your question?”
“It’s Nora,” she says matter-of-factly. “Those three men you took me to, who are they? And don’t say death, because I know that’s not true.”
“They are Death,” I tell her. Her mouth thins to a hard line. Checking that no one is close enough to hear, I bend down next to her. “In short, those men are Death. They are the Princes of Hell. Every human on this earth dies, and those that have led a sinful life are imprisoned in Hell. The severity and the details are drawn up by the knights, but the princes make the final decisions. They control all aspects of a sinner’s death.”
The color in her face drains as I answer her question - my side of the deal being upheld. As her eyes roam my face, I keep quiet, letting her process everything. Her voice comes out with a slight shake when she says, “You’re being serious. Heaven and Hell are real?”
This girl has absolutely no idea what she’s been sucked into. It doesn’t come to a shock to me that a woman in the medical field questions the after life. There have been instances where a mortal has caught wind of our world, but it hasn’t escalated more than superstition or imagination. Nevertheless, she’s a Banshee. She doesn’t have any basic knowledge - the ins and outs of our world. The way this girl stares up at me, eyes wide, I want to tell her everything. To share with her the secrets that have been withheld from her.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, I watched this girl take the hand of a much older woman and show her a rare kindness. She’s consumed by innocence. But her voice when she sings has such a haunting quality to it, one that stems from experiencing a fair share of darkness. Who’s to know what she’s been through?
While I decide against giving her a full history lesson of the after life, I hold up the book in my hand. “One book. One question.”
Her shoulders sag, but I can see a different level of determination. She’s intrigued. I just hope she’s careful for what she wishes for.
...
By the time we leave, an array of pink and orange colors bleed across the sky. Between the both of us, we carry a decent amount of books. I sent Singh a text half an hour prior, and, like always, he is waiting outside.
But the car isn’t the only thing that catches my eye.
A burly man walks along the foot traffic. He should have blended in - just another face in the crowd, but the face of an Accursed is one I’ll never forget. Eleanor and I don’t blend in as much as I’d like either, because he makes direct eye contact with me.
“Eleanor,” I say, keeping my voice low, “I need you to go to the car.” She looks at me, her brow furrowed. “Let Singh know I will be a few more minutes.”
Shaking her head, she keeps walking.
“Odd place to find you,” the Accursed says. The way he crosses his arms makes his shirt stretch even tighter around his arms. Fucking tool.
I shrug. “Stranger things have happened.”
He eyes me and then turns his attention to the car. Singh had gotten out to help Eleanor with her pile of books. Briggs, the Accursed, looks at the ones I carry. “Going to school?”
“Just helping a friend.”
“You don’t help people, Kane.” He rolls his eyes. “And you don’t have friends.”
“That you know of, Briggs.”
His lips form into a thin line. “What are you doing with the girl?”
My patience starts wearing thin, but I do my best to remain as level headed as possible. “I took a page out of Royce’s book.” His eyes narrow. “We’re allowed to play as long as we don’t touch.”
“Watch yourself,” he growls. Surveying the surrounding area, he pays close attention to the town car. He makes sure to look me in the eye once more before going on his way.
“Who was that?” Eleanor asks.
I collapse in the backseat of the car, the books forming a mountain between us. I don’t answer her question. People like Briggs are too much for her to handle right now.
8
Nora
The man who stopped Kane when we left the library put him in a pissier mood. I honestly wonder if waking up on the wrong side of the bed is an occasional phase for him or his lifestyle. But then again, he was sitting in the living room with an empty liquor bottle when I woke up this morning. Maybe he doesn’t sleep in general. The scowl that’s taken over his face wards me off from asking questions. At least for now.
To my delight, a sort of truce has been drawn. With each book I found with helpful information, he allowed me to ask one question. After the first, I began realizing just how serious he is about all of this. I found myself trying to justify everything he told me.
Based on what I learned, most thought the word death referred to someone dying. According to him, those three men from yesterday are Death. They’re princes that rule over Hell: Belial, Satan, and Leviathan. They give all final approvals and orders for everything that happens, especially over condemned sinners. The princes used to rule under Lucifer and his bride, Lilith, but not anymore. Kane was hesitant to touch that subject.
Speaking of Kane, he’s a Reaper. They are sent out to collect the souls destined for Hell. He at least apologized for kidnapping me – he had orders. And apparently, Banshees apparently are extremely important to the after life world.
“But until you have unleashed your full potential,” he tells me, “it’s better to keep you hidden. There are people out there that would rather have you killed than allow you to have any type of control over your powers.”
I guess that’s why I’m such a hard time coping with all of this. All my life, I’ve been Nora McKinley. I work too hard and don’t receive the recognition I deserve. But now, if word gets out that a Banshee, even a dormant one, has been found, my life will be at stake. More than that, they could threaten Hannah’s life more than Death already has. While Royce, the man from the other night, is out trying to locate some witch, Kane and I need to try to uncover anything useful.
Kane is the first one to speak once the car stops. He simply asks i
f I want help carry my share of the books. Normally, I would’ve declined, deeming myself more than capable. But Kane doesn’t seem the type of person to offer help often. Plus, the couple of dozen books are dreadfully heavy. I load him up, adding more books to his pile than my own. Even then, by the time we make it up to the apartment, my arms are strained and sore. I sit the stack on the floor in the living room and they land with a loud thud.
“You’re welcome to the food in the fridge,” Kane calls over his shoulder as he disappears down a hallway.
Kane’s fridge is stocked. There are several things to drink, fruits and vegetables; the fridge at my house has never been this full. Honestly, food has never been a huge thing with me. I’m a snacker - picking up bits here and there. I know several people that turn to food under stress, but my stomach shuts down at any signs of it. I can’t remember the last time I sat down and actually ate. Despite having my pick of food, I choose an apple. The granny skin is firm and cool in my grip.
By the time Kane comes back out, I’ve already tossed the core in the trash and one of the many books is splayed out in front of me as I sit at the island. All day long, he wore jeans and a black Henley. He changed into slacks and a sweater, the rolled up sleeves show the sinewy muscles in his forearms.
“Date night?” I ask. It’s none of my business, but the blanched expression he gives me is amusing. “No one lounges around their house in cashmere.”
He looks down at his clothes. “Lounging.” His mouth forms the word slowly, as if tasting it for the first time. “I won’t be lounging at home tonight, Eleanor. I’ll be working.”
“Killing people.” If I hadn’t been looking directly at his face when I made the comment, I would’ve missed the way he winced. “And it’s Nora.”