The Reaper's Embrace

by Abigail Baker

  “Going left.” Delia released my hand.

  “Going right then,” I huffed.

  “Duds and I will go straight.” Papa went for the riskiest trajectory like a proud bull. He used his shoulders and arms to clear his path, giving the impression that he was helping me along while I darted into a narrow alley lined with forest green Dumpsters and trash and puddles of water. Just above a spider web of power lines were rows of metal fire escapes. None of them were close enough to the ground for me to climb without help. And shoving a Dumpster underneath one was impossible. I was powerful, but I wasn’t a bodybuilder.

  I ran and ran, nearly losing my feet, until I slowed down to give my pounding heart a short reprieve. I couldn’t run forever. I finally looked back to assess the threat and determine my next move.

  Brent wasn’t following me, thank Hades. He was six feet tall. He didn’t fold effortlessly into the background.

  I had lost him.

  With any luck, so had Delia, Papa, and Dudley.

  “Hello,” said a husky female voice.

  I turned around and came face-to-face with that female Eidolon known to work for Xiangu. Up close, she looked to be about my age, but with seemingly more experience in street life than me. Her large dark eyes accentuated an elegant, tapered chin. This Eidolon was shorter than me by a few inches. She was muscular but thin like a gymnast.

  What made us similar was not just that we were Stygians, but that we both wore dreadlocks. She eyeballed mine.

  “Your hair,” she said.

  “I like yours.” I gestured to the ebony locks hanging over her shoulders.

  A slow lift of her eyebrow was her reply. I assumed from this that she liked mine, too.

  “You’re Master Scrivener Dormier,” she said. “You’re all over the news.”

  There was no better reply than to nod at the mention of my ill-fated celebrity status.

  “I’m Neema.” Spoken like a warrior about to slay me.

  This back alley was secluded enough to melt her if I had to defend myself. But I wouldn’t do that. No. Diplomacy was my best defense nowadays.

  “I’m looking for someone who can help me,” I said. “Someone who heals Deathmarks.”

  Neema’s eyes narrowed at the mention of Deathmarks. Her grimace told me she didn’t like the word “Deathmark.” Well, I didn’t like the word Eidolon, but I somehow managed.

  “I’ve heard you know Xiangu.” The instant the name of the Master Scrivener rolled off of my tongue, I regretted it.

  Neema reared back and growled something that I had to assume was a challenge. Seeing as I didn’t fight without my shotgun, nor would I melt her and everything around us, I threw my hands up to show that I meant no harm.

  This didn’t pacify Neema. Her chocolate eyes colored over a blood red, skipping the mid-level threat of yellow like an average Grim Reaper. Red eyes were an exclusive trait of Eidolons. Had I had any question of Neema’s birthright, now I had confirmation that she was indeed an Eidolon and ready to destroy me.

  “Please, I mean no harm.” I tried quelling the iciness building around her like an iron shield. “I need Xiangu’s help with removing a Deathmark. She’s the only one I know of who can—”

  My appeal dwindled into a yelp when I noticed that Neema wasn’t prepping to send me limb after limb to a very painful demise. Although, perhaps being dismembered by the Eidolon would’ve been preferable to what she obviously saw behind me.

  Brent’s chill was greater than Neema’s, his command superior. The black beast huffed frosty death at my backside.

  I looked over my shoulder as I had done for four straight weeks, each time uncertain if I’d make it out alive.

  More than anything, I wanted to throw my arms around his neck. Somehow, despite all the odds against us, I almost could believe that if I just kissed him, he would give up on this hunt, that he’d kiss me back.

  Brent and I had had little time together when we weren’t under duress. That made no difference. I loved him no matter our challenges. And I knew he loved me, too, and that somewhere inside of him, this pursuit was tearing him apart. I could not imagine if our roles were reversed, and I was the one compelled by instinct to destroy him.

  Stuck between two reared-up Eidolons, I had to make a decision. I didn’t know Neema, which meant I didn’t know her skillset or her motivations. But I knew Brent’s. He definitely had the power to kill me, and that was exactly why he was here. I chose to stand against him.

  I shoved Neema backward to keep her out of this fight. She growled. Her red eyes brightened with irritation.

  There was no time to apologize for being gruff. I retrieved Miss Piggy from my trekker backpack, put the gun’s stock against my hip, turned, and aimed at my lover’s chest. Buckshots wouldn’t kill Brent. The only way I could kill him was to melt him. I had already melted Marin and Chadwick-the-Eidolon-sidekick. I could do it. Easily.

  But I wouldn’t.

  So I used bullets to offset his threat. They’d piss him off, surely hurt him, but he couldn’t expect anything else from me because, like yesterday and the day before and the day before that, I would not die today. And neither would he.

  I squeezed the gun’s trigger. A bullet blew through his abdomen. And a part of my heart crumbled away.

  I shot my lover. I shot him!

  What kind of Stygian was I?

  Brent staggered backward, putting a hand to his stomach. Just as Neema had flashed her own red rage, so did he, but through that lovely beard, he smirked. He had to kill me because, after all, it was his duty. He had to finish me by the laws of Styx. An instinct possessed him to do it. But deep down, where his true personality dwelled, the man who loved me wanted me to live. He was rooting for me, while his savage side did what it was born to do—ferry Stygians whose time had come. When he’d first started his pursuit of me, he had told me to run. Now, that smirk was meant to tell me that I was doing a bang-up job of averting Death. Keep up the good work.

  I could not imagine a point at which shooting my beloved with bullets would ever become acceptable or fill me with momentary relief. Still, I cocked the shotgun and fired again. The bullet zipped through Brent’s right shoulder, nearly splitting open the lotus I had tattooed on him a month earlier with the power of my bare hands—a Master Scrivener’s healing mark that had saved him inside of Lethe. His blue flannel shirt frayed from the blast of gunpowder. The wound stunned him. But that was it.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to him because I had to. Tears welled in my eyes at the sight of him bent over, blood spraying onto the pavement. So badly I wanted to rush to his side and comfort him. I took a step toward Brent when Neema released a shrill battle cry.

  As sure as I had been that she’d align with Brent because, after all, both were Eidolons, she didn’t. She didn’t side with me either, which would have been nice. Before I knew what hit me, Neema thwacked me on the side of the head with a foot, demonstrating that she was far more agile than I could ever hope to be.

  I went down hard on the oil-covered pavement. With me out of her way, Neema attacked Brent with a level of speed and cunning that took both Brent and me by surprise. Neema’s skill at combat was masterful. Her grace deserved applause.

  Brent tried to counter her thrusts and kicks, but he couldn’t keep up. He was simply too big, his arms and legs too long to block Neema’s unusual speed. A swing here. Another there. Neema circumvented every one of Brent’s parries.

  Neema’s interruption afforded me an escape. I climbed to my feet. The direction that had been previously blocked by her was now clear. After stuffing my shotgun inside my backpack, I climbed to my feet and bolted. It was clear from the nightmarish screeches and pounding of feet on pavement that I was, again, the object of pursuit. Having one Eidolon on my hindquarters was bad enough. With two, my odds of escape were cut in half. But like anything since the day Marin had put this Deathmark on me, I kept fighting. Or in this case, running. I could do that, even at this altitude. I mean, I
had to, right? Thin mountain air or no, I had few options.

  The end to the alleyway came fast and dumped me onto a street much like the one on which The Koffee Klatch resided. But this time I was faced with a walking traffic jam of shoulder-to-shoulder bedlam that was headed in one direction. Panic grew in me. How would I outrun Brent and Neema now? All Brent needed to do was grab onto me—my hand, hair, whatever. He could easily accomplish this feat here in the masses of people moving toward—

  A parade?

  Chapter Three

  “There have been a rash of murders happening in Styx.

  Head Reaper will do nothing. The rebels must stop this.

  We have no choice. Innocent Stygians are dying!”

  —Message to the rebel cells

  For a moment, I didn’t know what to do. There were more people in this one section of the Mile-High City than all of Quebec combined. Would the crowd be a benefit or hindrance for me? Did I get on my hands and knees and crawl to keep hidden? What in the hell could I do when there were people everywhere and massive floats streaming through the city streets?

  I was learning to make big, life-altering decisions on a whim, but this parade had me perplexed. The best I could do was shove my way through the masses of people all vying for a good view of the floats going by. Children congregated near the front. Shorter adults fell in line behind the kids. Bursts of red and gold streamers flew overhead as the revelers celebrated. Dancing dragons surrounded the floats that were covered in bright, happy colors, and women dressed in traditional clothing for the Chinese celebration of winter solstice waved to the crowd. Everyone was full of cheer and contentment.

  I, on the other hand, was just trying to outrun my own horror-film stalker.

  Desperate to find someplace safe, I ran for a small opening between two children. It would be enough for me to jump the low barricade that kept the revelers off of the street. I could dart between the floats and fade into the crowd on the other side. Just when I was about to leap, a hand grabbed mine. My whole body tensed. It felt like ice tore through my legs, causing them to go rigid from either fear or…worse, an Eidolon’s death-grip.

  My eyes met Hui’s, the teenager from The Koffee Klatch. He recognized my panic. The cold I felt from his touch was just my body crippling in fear, not the icy chill of an Eidolon. Once I calmed a little, I realized that Hui’s hand was warm, exactly as a Scrivener’s would be. I flooded with relief to be connected to this Stygian and even more relieved when he pulled me through the crowd toward a float covered entirely in red satin. He lifted a bunch of fabric hanging down from the podium on the top of the float and told me to climb underneath. I didn’t ask questions. I slipped inside the cramped space that just barely fit the both of us between the float’s platform and the dangling silk. Hui followed me. Panting, we tucked our knees to our chests and waited as the float carried us away.

  After a moment to catch my breath, I looked at the kid. He faced forward, staring into the red curtain draped in front of us. He seemed to be avoiding my gaze. Maybe he was uncomfortable. Maybe it wasn’t every day that a rebel Master Scrivener blew through his corner of town, running from Styx’s most powerful Eidolon.

  Outside, there was cheering and the thud of massive drums. Outside, our little safe haven was loud. Between us, there was too much silence, so I said, “Thank you.”

  He gave a subtle nod and then, with a sidelong glance, he said, “How did you get that Deathmark?”

  I laughed because I couldn’t help myself. How in Hades could I tell Hui the truth, particularly when all of Styx believed Head Reaper Marin was still alive and kicking? I didn’t want to scare the kid. Clearly, I needed his help.

  “A really awful Scrivener gave this to me,” I said.

  Hui’s brow knitted. “Why would they do that to you?”

  “Because I was trying to do what’s right.” Cryptic answers seemed the best diplomacy.

  “What happened to the other Scrivener? Did he get away with it?”

  It was only now that I realized we were still holding hands. Hui’s grip melted into mine. I knew I was safe with him at my side and, I suspected, he felt similarly about me. Why else would he have helped me? I squeezed his hand to let him know we were still connected.

  “No, he didn’t get away with it. But he’s why I need Xiangu’s help,” I said, returning to my mission to get the Deathmark removed. If Hui was her pupil, then he was my only connection to her right now. “Will you help me find her?”

  …

  The shop where Papa, Delia, and I had agreed to meet if we were separated held an interesting and colorful collection of prayer beads and flags, books on Buddhism, and various other objects that seemed appropriate to this touristy area of Denver. Fortunately, the shop was far from the parade, but that didn’t provide a ton of comfort knowing how skillful a hunter Brent was. I would never relax or go on vacation or sleep through an entire night so long as he was after me.

  I approached a collection of gold-plated Buddhas with round bellies and brimming grins. This was the best place to stand guard and hide as I waited for Delia and Papa.

  The shop owner stared at me without inhibition. His eyes were heavy. He wanted me to buy something or leave. When I refused to look his way, he cleared his throat.

  “What does it mean?” I pointed to the wall of Laughing Buddhas.

  “He is a symbol of joy and supreme happiness,” he said without a smile or a fleck of supreme happiness of his own.

  I stood face-to-belly with one large, reclining, laughing Buddha. “I could use a little joy right now.”

  “You can if you pay for it.” His message was clear.

  “I need to think about which Buddha I want first.”

  Nested between boxes and a case of jewelry was the shop owner’s small television. I hadn’t had much time in the past month to actually sit and watch TV. Computers at local cyber cafés provided me with updates from Styx’s headquarters. But something about the broadcast intrigued me.

  “Take your time,” he replied, “but not all day.”

  “I don’t have all day.” I tried to be discreet as I edged toward the television, listening in as a voice rattled on about “grim news” and “terrorists.” This wasn’t a human speaking, although their rhetoric these days was filled with similar key phrases, a firm reminder that the thinnest veil separated our worlds. Similarities were to be expected.

  While humans saw their own cable or streamed shows on their televisions, Stygians could only see programming from Styx through those same sets. Without special rigging like my Interceptor, a science project of mine that had gone forgotten on the roof of the Château Frontenac, there was no method to overriding the broadcasting system Marin had set into place long ago. So now, even if I had wanted to watch human television and all its doom and gloom—you know, presidential elections, shootings, Kim Kardashian’s hindquarters, blah-blah-blah—it wouldn’t happen.

  All I had ever used the Interceptor for was to watch hockey. Well, that and interrupting a live Stygian broadcasting to plea for Brent’s life, which was why I had moved it from my place to the roof of the Château.

  I recognized the Stygian news reporter from when she’d stand in for Marin on the rare occasion he wasn’t available due to an obligatory poop break or to dole out justice to lawless thugs like me. Like Marin, the newscaster possessed the same theatrics necessary to captivate a world of cynical Stygians.

  “It is with great relief that Head Watchman Alistair reports from Quebec City that there were survivors in this latest attack on Headquarters,” she said, flicking her blonde hair over her shoulders. “What we can be sure of is that Head Reaper Marin is indeed alive and healing from the injuries that he acquired during the unsuccessful terrorist attack.”

  My heart crept into the back of my throat and then convulsed when the newscaster delivered Marin’s falsified fate.

  “Is that the one you want?” said the shop owner.

  I became aware that I was clut
ching a gold Buddha, one small enough to tuck in my jacket pocket. I set the trinket on the glass countertop as I kept my attention on the television.

  “The Head Watchman has asked for Styx’s patience as he and his team search for the perpetrators. He later added that Head Reaper Marin wants the terrorists brought to justice immediately, and he is giving Styx one week to bring him the leaders of the terrorist movement, Scrivener Dormier and Eidolon Hume, or he will mandate martial law.”

  The shop owner gazed, pointedly, as I stared slack-jawed at the television.

  “I’ll take this one.” The tiny gold Buddha with the quirky smile appealed to me and my pocket book. I had no use for a souvenir, but if this laughing Buddha stood any chance of bringing me joy and supreme happiness now or in the near future, I saw no reason not to bring him along for the ride. I slapped money on the counter and tucked the newest member of the fugitive squad into my jacket pocket.

  The timing of the return of my allies was impeccable. Dudley trotted ahead of Papa, who was covered in sweat. Delia appeared to have barely exerted herself. She sported a collection of bracelets that I hadn’t seen on her before our split. So she went souvenir shopping? The woman’s dedication never failed to amaze me.

  Papa threw his arms around me, a way of saying “thank Hades,” and quickly eased off when he spied the staring shop owner.

  “Wasn’t sure splitting up was a good plan. Glad you made it, Babygirl.”

  “Glad you three did, too.”

  “How did you get away this time?” Delia asked, playing idly with her new bracelets.

  “With a little help from Scrivener Hui, I escaped through a parade nearby.”

  Delia stopped picking at her jewelry. “The kid at the coffee shop who kept staring at my boobs?”

  “Yep, that’s the little pervert. He said he’d help me get to Xiangu,” I added.

  Delia and Papa exchanged uncertain glances. They didn’t trust this lead, I could tell. It was too easy, too soon into our visit to Denver. With the shop owner eavesdropping, I wouldn’t tell them about the Stygian newscast asking for Brent’s and my heads or martial law. They’d find out soon enough.