Dearly Departed

by Katie May

  Until Preston glides on through with a grace corporeal Preston sorely lacks because he’s a motherfucking Reaper.

  Yeah, I sometimes forget that.

  I reluctantly trail after him, my hand squeezing his so tightly I’m sure it’ll leave a bruise.

  If souls could bruise. What’s the logistics for that, anyway? Souls could die and obviously have their eyes burned from their bodies, but could they bruise? For example, if we were fucking, and Preston pressed his fingernails into my back…

  Down, Hadley.

  My vagina kind of reminds me of a Venus Fly Trap, only the flies are penises, and she’s capturing them left and right. This vagina? She wants all the cock. Reaper, Angel, and Ghost. Hell, even that Demon I had eye sex with. She doesn’t discriminate.

  And in answer to the bruising question. Yes. Yes, we could. Remember all those times I got beat up in combat training? Apparently, my brain turns to mush when I think about sex bruises, making me forget about the real ones.

  I cast a quick glance around the house once I enter, all thoughts of sex leaving my mind.

  The interior shows a sparsely lit living room decorated with pictures and portraits. A quick glance at one of the frames adorning the fireplace mantle reveals a family of five. Three kids ranging from toddler to teenager and two smiling parents.

  Something cold travels through my veins.

  “We better not be collecting the souls of fucking kids, Preston,” I whisper in horror. My stomach churns uneasily at the thought, rebelling. That is a hard no for me. Obviously, someone has to do it. Kids die all the time. I’ve seen it myself.

  But that person isn’t going to be me.

  “Don’t worry.” Preston gives me a warm, sympathetic smile. He looks tired, I realize. Deep bags shadow his eyes. I yearn to comfort him, to ask him if he’s okay, but I’m not sure if he would be receptive. “He’s expecting us.”

  “He?”

  We move down the hallway and into a simple bedroom. There is a bed dressed in gray and white sheets with twin nightstands flanking either side and a dresser against the far wall.

  The woman who was in the photograph is now holding the hand of an elderly man—not the man in the photograph. This one is significantly older with a bald head and wrinkled face. His pruned, lifeless hand is held tightly in hers.

  “I love you so much, Daddy,” she sobs. Tears stream down her face, twin tracks of black mascara.

  “Is that his daughter?” I whisper. My throat clogs with emotion as I stare at her huddled form.

  I can’t imagine what she’s going through. I had been on the other end of it though, and I know death isn’t something you can just come back from. You can try, of course, but it’s like climbing up a twenty foot ladder. The second you reach the final rung, you discover it’s coated in something slick. Your hand slips, and you plummet back to the ground.

  “Yes.” Preston nods, moving to stand on the other side of the bed. He looks despondently at the sobbing woman before glancing back at the man. “He lives with his daughter and her husband. His grandchildren. He’ll die loved and happy, with his family surrounding him, of natural causes.”

  I timidly move to stand beside him.

  “You know all that?” I ask in awe.

  He bobs his head decisively.

  “Reapers know exactly how their charges die. Or, in this case, how they’re going to die,” he explains softly, and his shoulders slump almost if that knowledge is a physical burden.

  “I can’t imagine living with that.”

  “And I can’t imagine living without that.”

  We’re both silent, staring at the man until his chest stops rising. The woman’s cries escalate, reaching a crescendo, and she curls her body over his. Her wails ratchet up a notch, and all I want to do is comfort her, comfort this stranger.

  “Is there anything we can do for her?” I question Preston, my voice raspy with suppressed emotion. When he turns to stare at me, I’m stunned to see tears in his vibrant eyes. He brushes them away with the back of his hand.

  “Our job doesn’t deal with the living, only the dead.” His eyes fixate on something over my shoulder, and he lowers his head in a semblance of a nod. “We help them understand what’s happening to them, where they are, and where they’re going.”

  I follow the direction of his gaze, heart jumping when I spot the same man lying dead on the bed also standing behind me.

  Up close, I can see a sheen to his skin that wasn’t there previously. Red blotches erupt on his cheeks, and thick, gray hair is now cascading to his shoulders. He smiles softly, rolling his shoulders back. That smile fades when he catches sight of his daughter crying over his body.

  “Danielle,” he murmurs, stepping towards her, but Preston blocks his path.

  “Robert Young?” the Reaper asks, voice soft.

  The man, Robert apparently, glances at him in confusion.

  Preston slowly lowers his hood, every movement methodical. I can see why he’s a Reaper. The man’s compassionate and kind. Patient and understanding.

  He’s the epitome of light in this world plagued by darkness.

  I watch as he talks to Robert. I watch as Robert cries into his shoulder, racking sobs shaking his body. I watch Preston comfort the older man, patting his back and murmuring words too low for me to hear.

  Preston is too good for this world.

  Too good for me.

  And it only solidifies the fact that I could never be a Reaper.

  Chapter 17

  BRAXTON

  Professor Malcom’s classroom is unlike any of the others at the Afterworld Academy. Instead of wooden desks and plastic chairs facing smart boards, his room is more… rudimentary, in an underground room with no windows to see outside his class.

  Cinder block walls make their way from floor to ceiling, making it feel more like a basement than a classroom. Stone benches usually line the center of the room, splitting in the middle for an aisle to pass through, but today they are spread around the perimeter of the class, allowing the middle to be empty for what’s to come. Ancient artifacts hang from the walls, but are safely tucked behind protective glass, you know, in case a Demon forgets to control his fire properly.

  Someone was smart designing this place. Either that, or previous classes burned the old decor to the ground.

  I glance around and see the others are just as anxious as I am. Merik is shifting where he sits next to me on the bench, and Darren has his dark eyes narrowed on the door. Meeting your Dearly Departed for the first time is no mundane thing. This soul will be directly involved in my life for the next year. Anxiety rushes through me. I wonder who it will be, who I’ll win—hopefully not that crude old woman. I don’t have the patience for her.

  The door to our room opens, and Professor Malcom comes barging through, his dark hair trailing behind him. He stomps up the stairs at the front of the class and places himself behind a cement podium.

  “Third years. Today, you will meet your Dearly Departeds. Just like you met your Demon mentors during your first year. Please show them patience and respect, but push them when they need it. Becoming a Demon is not for everyone. Many of your DDs will scare easily. Do not harp on them. Do not make them feel inferior because they can’t cope with the horrors that come with your position. Instead, encourage them. Support them. There are things at work this year at the Academy that haven’t been seen in two decades. Mentor your DDs, train them, because they could be fighting alongside you one day.”

  Low conversations pick up after his ominous speech. Whispers of his sinister warning and what it could mean. Of course I already know, having been shown by Karston only a few days ago. But the others, their minds are spinning with questions that have no answers.

  A knock on the door has us all turning around.

  “Come,” Malcom states, a moment before the steel door creaks open. Behind it, an Angel I’ve come to despise leads the new Dearly Departeds into our classroom. Amelia’s gaze fixes on Mal
com as she throws her hair over her shoulder and saunters into the classroom, her white wings flitting behind her.

  “Amelia,” Malcom addresses her coldly. Her face falls, and I have to stifle a laugh at her expense. That woman is infuriating. She’s obsessed with us Demons, making her way through us like a five-course dinner until she finds one to her liking. Unfortunately for her, none of us like her back.

  She’s a complete psychopath.

  I don’t know how she landed an Angel position. At least she’s not a Guardian or Earth would be fucking doomed.

  The DDs file in behind her, their eyes wide as they glance around a room full of Demons. I remember that tendril of fear I felt the first time I was met with the same sight. On Earth, we are taught to fear Demons, that they are creatures made from the Devil himself. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. The living knows little of how much we protect them.

  My eyes search each face as it enters, looking for one in particular. A face I’m not sure if I want to see or not.

  Bright, curious eyes meet my mine, but quickly look away as her cheeks redden beautifully. I can feel my dead heart racing in my chest. The girl in question fiddles with a lock of sandy blonde hair and chews on her lower lip nervously. Long, muscular legs peek out from under the too short plaid skirt, accentuated by knee-high socks and black, patent leather shoes.

  I can’t help but wonder what type of panties she has on underneath. My guess is black and lacy. I know that shouldn’t be the first thing I think about, but growing up, it was something my brothers and I always did.

  Some days, when we were bored, we would head over to the mall and people watch while sipping on milkshakes. We’d bet and argue back and forth about what style of panties the hot girls might have on as they sauntered past. And on really good days, we got to find out who was right.

  Those were the days…

  I find myself licking my lips as my eyes trail up those legs to her curvy hips and thin waist. Her breasts push the limits of the buttons on her shirt, and I can see the baby pink bra she wears under it. She’s the total package, with an hourglass figure most girls would kill for. And most guys will give their left foot to run their tongue up and down every dip of her body or watch that beautiful flush creep up her skin as she writhes in ecstasy underneath them.

  Fuck, this girl drives me as wild in her death as she did during her life.

  Malcom clears his throat and once again commands our attention.

  “Up first is Layla. Layla, would you please come forward and join me by the podium?”

  I look around to find said girl looking anxious, her eyes wide as she stares at Professor Malcom before scooting out of line and striding to the front of the class. Layla quickly squashes her anxiety and puts a calm face on as she climbs the stairs. With a hand on her hip, she spins and surveys the class expectantly.

  She shifts her weight as Malcom scrutinizes her, her confidence faltering for a moment. He offers her a wry smile before asking, “Who wishes to fight for Layla?”

  Every male in the class stands up, well, besides me. Her jaw drops, and she looks up at Malcom.

  “What are they doing?” she questions, one eyebrow cocked.

  “Fighting for the right to be your Demon Mentor, of course.”

  “But—”

  “Demons, take your positions,” Malcom calls, cutting her off. “Ready. Set. Fight!”

  An all out brawl takes place in the center of the room, and the DD’s back up firmly against the wall, trying to stay out of the way. Blood flies, and various cuss words mix together to form completely new phrases as the Demons fight for mentorship of one curly-haired Layla. Some Demons try and use flight to their advantage, but the ceilings are too low in here, so they can only hover for a moment. I duck when a body comes flying towards me and crashes into the wall behind me. I take a moment to ensure the safety of the DD I’m most interested in before returning my attention back to the battle in front of me.

  Quicker than I had anticipated, only Merik and Talyn remain. They circle each other like predators, their wings stretched behind them, fangs descended, and claws protruding from their fingers. Merik makes the first move and slices at Talyn, who jumps out of the way. Merik feints left then spins to the right and cracks Talyn on the back of his head with a closed fist.

  Talyn stumbles but doesn’t fall. Merik takes advantage of his disorientation and crouches to the floor, then spins with his leg extended, wiping Talyn’s feet out from under him. He crashes to the ground in a heap, and Merik roars his victory.

  “Congratulations, Merik,” Professor Malcom calls, while clapping his hands with fervor. “Layla, please join Merik and exit the class. He will take you to your first lesson.”

  Layla shoots the girl I’ve got my eye on a help me kind of look. She shrugs it off and shoos her off stage. Composing herself once more, Layla tugs her skirt, and with grace, steps down the stairs and over to a bloodied Merik.

  “Hey Layla. I’m Merik, and I’m looking forward to being your Demon mentor…” His words fade as he leads her from the classroom.

  “Up next is Garret,” Malcom announces.

  A burly man in his mid-forties joins Malcom at the head of the class. He tugs on his beard as he observes the Demons.

  “Who wishes to fight for Garret?” Malcom calls. More than half of the females jump at the chance. And a few of the males. Garret is built strong and would be a great DD to mentor.

  “Demons take your positions!” Malcom shouts, but I ignore him. My mind travels to the dead girl Karston took me to see, her charred eyes, her fractured skin. My thoughts drift to the conversation I overheard about the Darkness and the fact that it’s loose at the Academy this very moment.

  And that’s when I realize...

  I’d do anything to become her mentor. The desire to keep her safe, to keep her body close to mine overwhelms me. Her safety is parallel to none. The only person I can trust to keep her safe is myself, and no one will be able to keep me from what I want.

  Several DDs are auctioned off, and the fighting continues as the smells of sweat and blood permeate the air. I replay the advanced fighting techniques I’ve learned in Mr. Thumb’s class and plot my victory.

  “Up next is Hadley.”

  Hadley’s cheeks redden again.

  Adorable.

  That plump lower lip of hers sinks back into her mouth as she chews on it anxiously. I envision my own teeth tugging on it, while my fingers thread through her wavy hair.

  “Who wishes to fight for Hadley?”

  Not wanting to seem too anxious, I wait for others to enter the center before I stand and join them. I can feel her eyes on me, watching. I glance up at her under the dark hair that has fallen over my eyes. I could swear her breath hitched when our eyes connected.

  Yes, beautiful, I feel it too.

  I stretch my neck and shake my limbs before crouching down into my fighting stance. Almost as many Demons are fighting for her as there were for her friend Layla, but they don’t stand a chance against me.

  I’m the head Demon for fuck’s sake.

  “Ready. Set. Fight!”

  I don’t attack right away. Instead, I let the Demons who have more brawn than brains duke it out. The thudding sounds of fists slamming against bodies is like music to my ears. Grunts, howls, wails… Each one means one more Demon down, one less competitor whose ass I’ll have to kick. The number of Demons dwindles. Surprisingly, Talyn has taken out more than half of them, even after getting fucked up by Merik. When there are only four of us left, I jump in.

  Tired from the initial brawl, they don’t stand a chance against me. I swirl around them like smoke, blinding them with speed before I make a move against them, causing them to crumple to the floor. Like a dancer, I fight gracefully. Each and every move thought out before I execute them.

  My fists connect like blasts of lighting. My feet lash out like the tail end of a whip, taking each victim by surprise. I’ve barely begun to sweat when the l
ast Demon falls, leaving me the victor.

  I crack my neck and glance up at Hadley before striding over and offering her my hand. She pauses for a moment before tentatively placing hers inside mine. The second our skin touches, I almost shudder in pleasure. I’ve been thinking about this moment since our eyes first met two weeks ago across a grassy field. I didn’t hold her gaze then, the shock of seeing her in the Afterlife was too much for me.

  I give her much smaller hand a squeeze and say, “Hey, Hadley. I’m—”

  “Braxton,” she finishes for me.

  I raise my eyebrow at her in question. “So, you’ve heard of me?” I ask her as I lead her from the classroom.

  “Get ‘er dunn, tiger!” that crass old lady shouts at us as she thrusts her hips.

  “Don’t mind Saggy Aggie,” Hadley tells me. “She’s harmless.”

  “About as harmless as a crazed Hellhound,” I mutter. Hadley frowns at me as the door shuts behind us.

  “To answer your question. Yes. I have heard of you.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, then continues, “I was told about you from a certain annoying Angel by the name of Jake—”

  “Fucking Jake,” I curse, interrupting her.

  She slaps me on the chest and busts out laughing.

  “You call him that too?” she inquires, giggling. “I thought Preston and I were the only ones.”

  The sound of her laughter brings a smile to my face, but I quickly staunch it. I can’t let her see the effect she has on me. I need to maintain complete control when I’m around her, otherwise, I’ll fall for her all over again.

  I can’t let that happen, even if I want it to.

  I barely even process that she mentioned the Fucker’s name. Preston. If that’s his bedroom talk, I’ll have to have a nice, long conversation with him on the proper ways to woo a woman. Mentioning another man’s name and “fuck” in the same sentence is not the way.

  But that would involve actually talking to the asshole, and I would rather cut off my balls. The last thing I need is for him to fight me for Hadley’s affection.