Reaper of Souls

by Rena Barron

  I finish haggling over the price of a dresser at sunset. I’m ready to call it a day when a troupe of dancers in shimmering dresses dips around me, bells draped around their hips. I’d forgotten about the street fair tonight, and before I can slip away, I get caught up in a crowd. The energy is infectious as musicians crop up on every corner. The music is a mix of bold, shattering beats, strings, and percussion, one song rolling into the next.

  A whistling sound fills the air, pops, then a rainbow of sparks bursts over the crowd. The colors blend in with the magic already flowing in the night sky, and the effect is a canopy of brilliant light. I can sense magic around me, too, in some of the people of tribal descent. Most of it is faint and fleeting as onlookers bump into me.

  Bystanders hold each other and mourn the tribes. They weep and rock side to side. Some sway to the music as tears streak down their cheeks. At first, I think it’s a mistake to be here—that their anguish will overwhelm me—but I find comfort in our shared grief.

  I walk through a group of dancers wearing Zu masks, turning in wild circles around each other. Most of the masks are fake, and the symbols on them don’t make any sense, but one stops me in my tracks. It pulses with white light as the boy wearing it braces his fists on his waist and shakes his hips.

  His eyes lock with my own, and he points to his chest. I shake my head, but it’s too late. He struts over to me, fire dancing in his gray eyes. “Dance with me, pretty girl?” he says, his voice heavy with drink.

  The mask pulses with light from each of its symbols. I frown, realizing from Beka’s memories that it’s a warrior mask—not one of the imitations sold in the market. A crow with outstretched wings covers the forehead with three small suns along the brow. Tiger stripes mark both cheeks. The mask hums with a name; it’s a whisper in my ear that drowns out the noise from the celebration. Rassa.

  “You’re not Rassa, are you?” I ask, hesitant, not wanting to assume, but no Zu warrior would disrespect his mask by wearing it for a street fair.

  The boy laughs. “I can be Rassa tonight if you’re into that sort of thing.”

  “How did you get that mask?” I ask, ignoring him.

  “It’s quite striking, isn’t it?” the boy answers. “I bought it from a merchant.”

  I have an almost uncontrollable urge to snatch it off his face, but I force my hands to stay still. It’s a show of disrespect to wear another warrior’s mask, or even touch it without permission. How could a merchant in Tamar come to possess a real Zu mask? Had someone raided the tribe after the battle and stolen from the dead? I wouldn’t put it past some of the scavengers in the market, who’d sell their own arm if it’d return a big enough profit.

  The light of the mask pulses brighter when the boy leans close to me and asks, “You want to get out of here?”

  I force a smile. “Can I see your mask?”

  “Ah, now we’re getting somewhere,” the boy says, reaching up to untie the mask. He goes on, but I don’t hear him as he hands it over.

  When I touch the mask, I can feel its magic vibrating against my palm. A Zu’s mask is more than a show of prowess; it’s a story-keeper and holds impressions of its owner’s memories. “Can I have it?” I look up at the boy, who frowns at me. “I’ll pay you for it.”

  “Why do you want this mask when there’re plenty in the market?” he asks.

  It wouldn’t be worth my time to explain it to him. “I like your mask,” I say with a false smile. “I’ll give you a silver coin for it.”

  “A silver coin for a useless mask?” The boy laughs again.

  “I take it that we have a deal?”

  The boy shrugs, and I reach into my pouch. He accepts the coin and raises an eyebrow, expectantly. Before he says something else absurd, I slip into the crowd.

  Once I’m back at the shop, I sit in the salon with my legs crossed and the mask in my lap. I clear my mind and focus on the magic vibrating inside it, listening for the whisper of its story. I draw myself deeper until all I hear is the throb of the mask like a heartbeat. Flashes of images fill my vision. So many come at once that I almost sever my connection, but I brace myself and sink into Rassa’s memories.

  I’m in another place—on the edge of a Zu encampment. I stand in a line of tattooed and masked warriors armed with sickles. The cool mountain breeze sends chills down my spine, and I dig my fingers underneath my mask to scratch my face. I hadn’t had time to sand down the inside before we heard of the demon attack near the Temple, so it keeps itching.

  My initiation into the warrior caste was supposed to happen at the first snowfall of Osesé. Had I gone through the initiation, I would be with the warriors who left two days ago to fight the demons in the foothills.

  “We are the last line,” says our commander as he paces back and forth in front of us. His voice echoes across the mountain; it puts fire in my bones. “We must give the rest of the tribe as much time as possible to escape before the demons arrive. Heka willing, our ancestors will join us in battle. We will die as warriors!”

  I see the tail end of the group fleeing from the mountain, disappearing around a ridge. Even if I die today, my mother and little brother will live. I have to believe that we’ll buy them enough time, but the demons appear at the foot of our village moments later. There are so many that I can’t see the end of them. My older brother squeezes my shoulder. We will fight to the end together.

  The mask slips from my trembling hands, and the memory fades. It lands with a heavy thump on the floor. I dig my nails into my knees. Rassa saw hundreds of Zu fleeing their tribe before the battle. Does this mean . . . does this mean that there are survivors out there somewhere? My heart races as I snatch up the mask and come to my feet. Some of the tribal people found a way to escape my sister’s wrath.

  Seven

  Rudjek

  How many lies will I tell before I’m no better than an alley rat scratching the bottom of an empty barrel? One, two, three, four, until my tongue bleeds. What’s one more in a sea of lies when I have good reason? Arrah doesn’t need to know there are demons still in the city preying upon poor Tamarans. They’re my responsibility now. And it’s in everyone’s best interest if she stays far away from those foul creatures.

  I can’t shake the feeling that they’re either out for revenge or here because of her magic. She was strong enough to kill their mistress and survive the Demon King’s dagger—that has to mean something to them. Arrah is the only person left alive who could release the Demon King. Do they mean to coerce her into doing it? So far, thankfully, the cravens have reported no signs of any demons near her.

  Dust stings my eyes as we stroll through the crowds of the East Market. My guards keep the merchants at bay, while Majka and Kira pass out silver coins to desperate hands. The coins were my father’s idea to win favor. That’s the advantage he has over our Sukkara cousins. They think mingling on any level with the common people is below their station. I have no doubt that’s how my father found it so easy to seize power.

  I wave and smile at the people yelling my name from behind a wall of soldiers. It irks me that my father wouldn’t let me leave the palace without them. How quickly he’s forgotten that I won the swords competition in the arena three years in a row. Twenty-gods, I helped defeat an entire demon army. I didn’t train this hard for so long to be a stage prop in a commandant’s uniform.

  When I was a boy, people would hardly look at me, but I made it my business to catch their eye. It always seemed to put them at ease—especially when they saw my family crest. Now they only look upon me in desperation as we move through the market with purpose. Since the first report of demon activity, two more people died during the street fair last night. Both attacks were in isolated areas. The demons had to know that under most circumstances, the City Guard wouldn’t bat an eye at the poor dying. But these aren’t normal circumstances, and my father is a cautious man. The Guard paid money to keep the incidents quiet, but it’s only a matter of time before the news spreads.


  “Bless you, Crown Prince,” says a woman wearing a wreath of daisies around her neck.

  “We are thankful for the Almighty One’s kindness,” interjects another, fooled by my father’s false generosity.

  “Be well,” I reply, but my attention is elsewhere.

  An awareness pricks at the back of my neck and stretches down my spine. A rush of anger fills my belly. I can feel all magic—even the occasional magic that floats in the sky. Ah, but demon magic has the strongest pull and the foulest smell. I grit my teeth against my urge to draw my shotels here in front of all these people. That little weasel of a god Re’Mec made cravens this way—so we could help the orishas suss the demons out.

  My target stands on the edge of the crowd wearing the skin of a Tamaran merchant. He’s a stout man with broad shoulders and hair in cornrows. I curse under my breath as the tingling at the base of my skull becomes a dull ache.

  “We need to take a detour,” I say calmly as every muscle in my body coils tight in anticipation. “Take a right after the cassava merchant.”

  The three gendars leading our procession do as told without question. Fadyi and Jahla move closer to me. Taking their cue, Majka and Kira do the same. A faint glimmer catches my eye, and I look up to see Raëke crouched on the edge of a roof. She looks too comfortable for one teetering on a shingle.

  I can’t kill the demon in front of my father’s men. If I’m injured during the fight, my body will heal immediately. It was the first thing that Fadyi taught me, but I haven’t learned how to control it. My father can’t find out what I can do—or how it’s possible. Instead, in the thicket of the crowd, I duck out of formation and take Fadyi with me. “The rest of you continue on your tour through the market. This will only take a moment.”

  “Crown Prince,” says Captain Dakte, that usual bitter edge to his voice, “I would advise against this course of action.”

  “My father bade me to hunt down the demons discreetly, so let me.” I’m still annoyed that he’s my second-in-command. Father refused to relent when I argued against choosing him. “Do you wish to disobey the Almighty One’s orders, Captain Dakte?”

  He doesn’t answer, so I consider the matter closed. Raëke, now leaning against a merchant’s stall, tosses me a dark cloak, her too-big eyes a little off-center. I wink at her, eager to fight, but I must keep my head about me. The demons aren’t to be underestimated. I was overconfident at Heka’s Temple, and it cost the craven twins, Ezaric and Tzaric, their lives.

  I catch the cloak, and in moments it’s across my back and the hood is over my head. It feels as rough as a burlap sack and scratches my skin, but it covers my elara so that I can better blend in with the crowd. My father would never approve of me breaking protocol, but, then again, he wouldn’t approve of anything I do. Might as well live up to his expectations.

  Raëke stays behind to make sure no innocent people stumble in my way. Neither Majka nor Kira looks too happy with me for leaving them with the other gendars. I slip down the alley following the demon while Fadyi circles around to block his path. I am alone except for a white cat scuttling across the rooftops, keeping pace with me. That would be Jahla. Even when the cravens shift, I can tell them apart. It does help that Jahla seems quite fond of her white hair, although in her natural form, she has no hair at all. I’m glad I didn’t inherit that trait. I’m rather fond of my gorgeous curls.

  I catch the demon’s saccharine scent again halfway down the alley. It reminds me of Efiya—that memory is a stubborn scar that refuses to heal. Mud splashes on my pants, but I hardly notice. The alleyway smells of fish guts and piss and decay. Not for the first time, I wish that I could transform into a faster creature. Something that has four legs instead of two—or sprout a pair of powerful wings.

  When I step out of one alley into another, I’m not surprised to find the demon waiting for me. He’s smoking a tobacco pipe with his eyes closed, his back against a wall, savoring the taste. The dank air smells like cloves and cinnamon, but the decay is strongest here. The shacks are crowded so close together that the eaves block out the sun. When I see the first body, I curse—then I see them all lined up against the rotting walls. Dead Tamarans sprawled out in muck, their faces bloated and discolored. One, two, ten, a dozen. Two dozen. How could no one have seen this massacre? Twenty-gods. Did he do this alone? I push down my rage. First, I need answers, then I will make him pay for what he’s done.

  “Hello,” I say, tightening my hands on my shotels.

  The demon doesn’t open his eyes as he takes another puff from his pipe. There’s a tattoo of a disk on his left cheek. It’s a sign that the original owner of his body was a devout follower of Kekiyé, the orisha of gratitude. I grimace. I still have no love for the gods, especially those who conveniently decided to sit out the battle at Heka’s Temple.

  When he finally opens his eyes, there’s where the similarity to a Tamaran ends. His eyes are green, but not like those of some Yöomi or Northerners. His irises glow with an iridescent light. “Business or pleasure, boy?” he asks.

  My jaw flexes before I can stop myself. It isn’t because he doesn’t seem to recognize who I am. It’s the arrogance in his voice, so assured that he has nothing to fear. He wears a straight sword at his side, not that he needs it. “Both,” I answer with a cutting smile.

  The demon takes a closer look at me, his gaze lingering on my swords, the cloak, and the finer clothes beneath it. His eyes go wide as he sees beyond my disguise, beyond the flesh. He sees the part of me that awakened after death.

  “Filthy beast.” He spits on the ground. “You’re far from home, craven.”

  As I draw my shotels, the metal grates against the leather sheaths, the sound echoing in the alley. “Not as far as you think.”

  The demon charges at me in a blur of shifting colors. His mouth stretches wide enough that I can see down his throat into the blackness inside. All the tension in my body from a moment ago melts away. I am ready for him. When he is within arm’s reach, I crouch and spin both shotels in an arc that tears into his belly at two separate points. He stumbles back, his hands pressed against the blood gushing from his wounds.

  “You little bastard,” he barks. “You’re going to regret that.”

  I laugh, unimpressed by his threat. “Tell me where the rest of your demon friends are, and I’ll let you live.” Perhaps he knows it’s a lie by how unfeeling my voice has become. My instinct is to kill—to destroy the filth that invaded my land, tortured my people. The ones who helped Efiya destroy the five tribes—and a part of Arrah with them.

  “Why would I do that?” The demon smiles as he pulls out his sword. His wounds heal before my eyes, and he straightens himself back up. Two more demons step into the alley behind him. Both wear the gray smocks and rubber boots of dockworkers, and they draw their swords, too. I sense another two at my back—five in total. Good. Now it’s a fair fight.

  The cat poises to leap from the rooftop, and a black-and-gray eagle lands on a garbage bin. I shake my head almost imperceptibly to my guardians—my friends—to tell them to hold off. I must take these demons on my own; I need to be stronger. The eagle—Fadyi—cries out a sharp shriek of disapproval but does as I’ve asked.

  “Oh, you don’t have to tell me.” I shrug. “You demons are quite predictable. Where there’s one, there’s always a nest of you nearby . . . rather like rats.”

  “I tire of you, boy,” the merchant demon snarls.

  “And I of you,” I say as all five attack at once.

  I spin my shotels, slicing two across their chests, but the other three dance out of my way. One of the dockworkers’ blades bites into my shoulder. I yelp in pain as the filth of his magic enters my blood. I whirl my other arm around and decapitate the man. His head lands in a puddle of dank alley water that darkens with his blood. Let him get up from that. I bite back the pang of satisfaction I get from killing him. I can’t let myself become tainted by their bloodlust. The fire in my shoulder fades, and the pain die
s as my body heals.

  There used to be a running joke among the gendars that the Almighty Kingdom had no enemies bold enough to strike. My whole life, I’d foolishly thought it true, until the demons disabused me of that notion.

  That joke blurs in my mind as I become something else. I am one with my shotels. I only see flashes. The clash of swords, the crunch of bones, the ease with which flesh splits and bleeds. When it’s over, my pulse is throbbing in my ears. I have a gash in my side, deeper than the first cut. It will take more time to heal. My shotels drip blood, and my breath comes out hard and loud. I retreat to a corner inside myself where I can hide from these egregious acts.

  The white cat and the black-and-gray eagle are gone. Now Jahla and Fadyi stand in the alley, peering upon me in the shadows. Jahla’s ice-white hair and pale face remind me of the Northerners from Galke. Fadyi looks more like a Tamaran than I do.

  “You can’t keep losing yourself in the fight like that,” Fadyi says, ignoring the last demon gasping for air at my feet. “You lose too much precision with little gain in return.”

  “Well,” I bite back, “I got the job done, didn’t I?”

  “While expending more energy than needed,” Jahla points out, unimpressed.

  I sheath my shotels and squat beside the demon who’d been pretending to be a merchant. With so much blood loss and no souls to feed on, he won’t be able to hold on to his stolen body. “I warned you it would be easier to answer my questions from the start.” I grab his chin and turn his face to me. “Where are the other demons, and why are you in Tamar?”

  The demon coughs, and blood coats his lips. His eyes roll into the back of his head. “Piss off,” he spits.

  I dig my fingers into one of his wounds. The stink of his fading magic makes my stomach turn, but I ignore it. The demon yelps, his whole body trembling. “Efiya is dead,” I say, sensing that I don’t have much time left to get answers. “Are you here for Arrah?”

  The demon smiles, his teeth rimmed in rot. “We don’t need her for what’s to come. Shezmu will open the gate and reunite our forces, and then we’ll destroy your pathetic world for good. You can do nothing to stop it.”