The Reaper's Embrace

by Abigail Baker

  …

  The students promised Nicodemus they would try to get a message to Xiangu, although apparently she wasn’t easy for them to get a hold of—nor did she keep in regular contact with these young rebels. With both Hui and the students winding their way toward Xiangu to let her know she had visitors seeking an audience, we decided to go back to our hostel to regroup.

  The hostel we had been using catered to foreigners from across the globe. We had stumbled upon it by following around other young travelers who couldn’t afford the lavish accommodations of hotels in a big city like Denver. The hostel was nice enough. Most importantly, the place welcomed dogs, and the employees said nothing about Nicodemus’s odd dress of a floor-length gray robe and long white beard. Most people would assume he had come from the latest Comic Con, dressed as Gandalf the Grey. Thus far, no one had questioned his outfit, thank Hades.

  In the afternoon, I had expected to return to the bunkrooms to find peace and quiet as we composed ourselves and discussed our next moves. What we returned to was a hostel packed wall-to-wall with babbling, smelly young tourists with overstuffed backpacks and concern cut in their weary faces. Some bordered on raging hysterics as their friends offered consolation. The clerks at the front desk appeared as frazzled and troubled as their guests.

  Having been on the run for a month, I, too, wanted to break down into tears and beg my travel partners to take me home. This mass panic wasn’t from homesickness, however.

  Papa, Delia, Nicodemus, Dudley, and I lingered by the door, listening in on the many voices shouting, “They kicked us out” or “Threatened us” or “It’s totally uncalled for.” I didn’t know what they were grumbling about. Had the hostel owner kicked them out? Had someone come in and bullied them? What?

  Delia elbowed my side. “Good. That means we’ll have the bunkhouse to ourselves.”

  “Delia,” I grumbled.

  “We can push two beds together to make a king size. I love to stretch out. It’s important to a good night’s sleep.” She must have thought and planned this strategy ahead of time. “What do you think is going on anyway?”

  Like Papa, Nicodemus, or I would know. Whatever humans did on their own time was their business. We only cared when it came to their deaths or lack thereof. Still, anger and fear was rampant. The hostel owners were at a loss as to what to do. They threw their hands up, and one of them said, “Already called the police. We have to wait.” Papa, who never let anyone or anything stop him from the truth, moved through the crowd of angry tourists and backpacks to make his way to the large, communal room full of bunkbeds and a row of windows that looked out onto the tree-lined street. The room was a dormitory that cost ten dollars a night. It had been our home for the past week despite Delia’s constant, rampant complaints, and the spot that we had shared with most of the upset tourists.

  With Nicodemus and Delia trailing close behind me, I followed Papa into the dormitory to see what exactly had the tourists upset and angry. Had I not been a tattoo artist, had I not seen things that would give normal people nightmares, had I not recently faced off with the Head of Death and lived, I would have been scared, too. Sitting on the top bunks, bottom bunks, sprawled across window frames, or just standing with their arms folded was a collection of individuals who looked to have been plucked out of London’s 1980s punk scene. Mohawks and leather and chains and black clothes and dour faces greeted us. These folks were not the charming college kids from the Denver Library. They hadn’t appeared to open a book in their entire lives, and they looked ripe for a good fight if we demanded that they leave.

  I wasn’t in any mood to play games with punks causing a ruckus among the hostel’s guests. They would not kick out tourists if I had something to say about it. As I made my way around Papa to begin defending the upset tourists downstairs and my clan of allies, I came face-to-face with the dreadlock-wearing Neema, the Eidolon from this morning.

  Ah. So, these ’80s punks were Stygians. They had to be if they were with Neema.

  Hui stepped out from behind Neema. His eyes were turned downward, and they did not rise to meet mine as Neema began to speak.

  “Xiangu has received your message. She does not want to meet with you,” she said, her voice strong and low.

  Well. That was fast.

  I folded my arms across my chest, crunching the leather sleeves of my jacket. Papa copied my stance. Or maybe I copied his. It didn’t much matter. Our body language was clear—this business meeting had started whether we wanted it to or not. I felt Delia and Nicodemus’s presences behind me. Dudley pressed against my right leg. We were a tough group even if we didn’t look it. The group standing and sitting before us would learn quickly that we didn’t take shit and not wipe.

  “Are you Xiangu’s gatekeeper?” I asked after a good, long pause.

  “Who was that male Eidolon chasing you?” Neema volleyed. Several of her punk groupies straightened their backs when she asked. They were readying themselves for something, like a fight, I would presume. It would’ve been an unfair fight, but then, the five of us had seen worse.

  Fighting, however, was not my endgame. I wanted peace. I was sick of fighting.

  “That Eidolon,” I said through clenched teeth, “is my personal Grim Reaper. He will finish me if I don’t get Xiangu’s help.” This seemed an appropriate moment to pull up the sleeve of my leather jacket to expose the Deathmark. When I did this, Neema looked at it, cocked an eyebrow, and then turned to Hui and another Stygian and whispered.

  “If it’s your time, it’s your time,” she said with a smirk.

  “I know that. But I’ve still got a lot of work to do. I need Xiangu to remove it.”

  “Xiangu only removes Deathmarks in exceptional cases,” hissed a man with a familiar air about him. I had never met him, that much was certain. He was tall, thin, wore his chin-length black hair down and partially dangling in his face. To be honest, he was beautiful. Black leather accentuated his ghostly pale skin. Charcoal eyes peered at me between strands of dark hair. He reminded me of Errol in some way, until he stretched his arms and legs a little longer and taller than normal and erased all connection between the two men. It was, from my experience, the mindfuck of a Trivial. He was a Trivial like those back at Wrightwick still defending the damaged Scrivener cultural and historical stronghold in California.

  I feared little nowadays. His presence didn’t trouble me.

  “What’s your name?” I asked him.

  The Trivial did not respond. He glared, willing death upon me, I guess. Perhaps he could succeed at it too, seeing as I was so close to my grave, I could taste the dirt. But I didn’t back down. Instead, I gave him a flash of red-hot fingertips to emphasize that I would not be fucked with.

  “Demons don’t give their names because it weakens their power,” said the Trivial.

  “Well,” I laughed. “You’re no demon even if you think that skull-and-crossbones T-shirt makes you an honorary one. So what’s your name, kiddo?”

  Neema, whose arms were folded across her chest, seemed pleased with this interaction. She was sizing me up, which was fine. I was doing the same to her and her comrades. To trust or not trust…it was a matter of survival.

  “Call me James.” He didn’t look pleased with giving me his name.

  “Was that so painful?” Delia quipped.

  “Regarding my worthiness with Xiangu, I assure you all, I am an exceptional case.” I brought the subject back to me. The more time spent posturing, the more time Brent had to catch me, so we had to get on with it. Ollie first, dammit!

  Neema and James exchanged words again, ones I couldn’t hear. As I waited for their chattering to end, I noticed Papa giving the Trivial a stern look. He certainly remembered their attack in Montana and their known lack of ethics or morals. He knew they were Stygians born without a soul, so they didn’t necessarily abide by the rules of Styx. As for me, I remembered that Trivials were being hunted down by Marin’s best Eidolons, Brent included at one time, and the
n exterminated. But even though they were sociopathic, it was the Trivials who helped protect Wrightwick from the army of Eidolons that had tried to destroy it on Marin’s orders. Trivials might lack souls, but they did have the capacity to do what is right.

  “That Eidolon chasing you. What’s his name?” James asked.

  My throat tightened. I didn’t want to answer for fear that this one knew about Marin’s genocide against the Trivials. If he did, then he likely knew of Brent’s unwilling part in it to serve Marin on my behalf. Marin had hated the Trivials because of their unpredictability—he couldn’t control them. He also couldn’t kill them: The only ones capable of annihilating them were Eidolons.

  Papa nudged me because he must’ve understood why I hesitated. He probably felt my heart pounding my ribs, screaming, “No! No! Don’t tell them!”

  “His name is Brent Hume.” Those words felt like lead slipping off my tongue. Whispers amongst the entire group of punks rippled from one side of the room to the other.

  James’s dark eyes narrowed. “A murderer.”

  “Well, technically, aren’t all Eidolons?” Delia claimed.

  His eyes snapped to her, and then, I noticed something soften. Was she familiar to him? Was she attractive to him? Or was he about to unleash that eerie Trivial mind trick? Instead of speaking back to her, he remained silent, staring Delia down as if he was memorizing every nook and cranny of her perfect face.

  “Xiangu may help you, Scrivener, if you bring her Eidolon Hume,” Neema said.

  My brain grew foggy with anxiety. “What for exactly?”

  Neema stepped toward me. She had a smaller frame than I did, but I knew her strength far exceeded her size. Eidolons were one of the most powerful types of beings in Styx. Though Master Scrivener powers were different, they were as equally threatening.

  “Xiangu will only remove that Deathmark if you turn in Eidolon Hume to the Trivials for the crimes against them.” Neema’s eyes glided to the group behind her. It was in that small gesture that I realized this roomful of punk groupies were mostly Trivials, too. Neema was an Eidolon. Hui, silent and obedient, was a Scrivener. And their Trivial posse was, just as Errol Dennison’s had been, their army.

  To save myself, I’d have to betray Brent. The thought made me sick inside. I would have to play my cards carefully, so Xiangu and her followers would not get close enough to him to do any harm. I would somehow, someway, get what I needed first. I would have to, or Styx might never be in balance again. I hated myself for doing this, for even considering it given how dangerous it was for Brent, but I managed to spit out the words, “You have a deal.”

  “Good.” Neema’s face cracked the slightest of smiles. “Now let’s get some pancakes.”

  Chapter Five

  “War doesn’t decide who’s right, but only who’s left.”

  —Anonymous

  Neema and the Punk Posse insisted that we discuss our agreement over pancakes and coffee at an uncomfortably cramped breakfast place called Waffling Around 24-hour Restaurant on East Colfax Avenue. From the long line that filtered out of its front door, the place seemed rather popular among the locals. Neema’s crowd, however, had no problem pushing past the line of hungry souls to insist upon a table for fifteen in a private back room. Turns out, the owners of Waffling Around were two Stygians who gladly catered to other Stygians.

  Of course—Stygians love sugar. It literally gives us a high that Marin had declared illegal centuries ago. Not that it stopped many from indulging on the down low.

  Before joining the posse for breakfast food at ten o’clock in the evening, Nicodemus insisted that we fall back to have a quick conversation. Now was the last time before we sealed Brent’s doom over syrup and pancakes. Neema didn’t approve of our hesitation. I had no interest in bowing to her will. She would not hold such sway over me. Not yet, anyway.

  “Make it quick,” she hissed and then disappeared into the private dining room ahead of us. She had made a point to slide the set of pocket doors closed around her pointed, red-eyed stare. Delia was the only one of two to show a reaction with a heavy sigh.

  “That one is a curious little bee,” Delia remarked.

  “Marin was not a Reaper as we know.” Nicodemus went straight into business. “Millions, if not billions of souls have not made it to the Afterlife because of this. We are going to need a Head Reaper who can take on this responbility of moving ferried souls into the Afterlife. Once we reach Lethe, we will need several Eidolons to clean up after Marin’s shortcomings. We need Brent and Neema and any other Eidolons out there.”

  “If we turn him over—” Delia started.

  “We aren’t turning him over,” I said. “I only agreed so that we can get to Xiangu. She won’t get near Brent before I have a chat with her first.”

  “Oh my. That’s cunning.” Delia cocked one eyebrow. “I like it, Teacup. Playing dirty.”

  Papa nudged himself into the circle. “We aren’t compromising Ollie’s life.”

  “This is what troubles me, Stone,” Nicodemus said. “I don’t see how we can save both Brent and Ollie. I fear we might have to make a choice. While I worry for Ollie’s safety, I also worry for the future of Styx. We absolutely cannot let another corrupt leader or group take over.”

  My heart began to pound harder than normal. This was not the sort of conversation I imagined having in the middle of a busy restaurant in Denver. Deciding who was more important to Styx seemed better fitted to late-night drinks inside a smelly bar in the seedy side of town, rather than a breakfast cafe.

  As for my death, it would surely come. So would Brent’s. Everyone in the restaurant, including us Stygians, would one day pass on. But who was more important? I put my hand on the Deathmark relentlessly calling to Brent.

  Selfishly, I wanted to live to see him succeed and perhaps even become Head Reaper himself. He was capable, and his heart was strong enough to take on the job if it were presented to him. I wasn’t ready to die, either. I wanted to see a new Styx and celebrate with my loved ones. I wanted a future with Brent.

  But it might come down to a choice between us, if my plan didn’t work. The thought of losing the one I loved squeezed my heart like a vice. I couldn’t imagine life without Brent.

  “There is no question. We will save Ollie first,” Papa said, clinging to preserving my life at all costs, costs that could destroy Styx. “We know of two Master Scriveners. There are many Eidolons who can take Marin’s place as Head Reaper.”

  Of course, Brent held a piece of my soul, so I’d die if he died before giving it back to me. Or, he’d come back to himself in his final moments and hand my soul back before passing on, because that’s just who Brent was when the Deathmark compulsion wasn’t turning him into a raging maniac Eidolon. For me, either was preferable to being without him, assuming we went to Elysia. But for Styx, I knew what had to be done.

  “Maybe there’s a way we can save us both.” I returned from the pits of despair to share a poorly developed plan. “Let’s convince Neema to help us catch Brent. With two Scriveners and two Eidolons, we can Match, corner him, and then Papa can slap restraints on him.”

  Delia bopped me on the back of the head. “Would you stop with that nonsense?”

  “Seriously, Babygirl. It’s getting annoying,” Papa growled.

  “Well, it’s our only option, Papa. We can weaken him enough to bind him, and from there, he’s lost control. Between all of us, we can protect him from Neema’s group, especially if we get backup.” Hot metal binds would keep Brent in check. It was barbaric, even if it would only be for a short while. But none of them had any better ideas.

  “Wouldn’t it be smarter to get Neema to take us to Xiangu first?” Papa said.

  “Sure. But what if Brent gets to me before we ever reach Xiangu? Or what if Xiangu helps me and then turns around and destroys Brent? Let’s not forget Brent still has part of my soul.” The first time we’d confronted Marin, Brent had ferried part of my soul out of my body and into h
is—as a way to ensure that Marin couldn’t kill me. Only the Reaper who starts ferrying a soul can finish the job. Even a true Head Reaper can’t interfere with the process. “If he dies, I die, too.”

  Papa nodded in agreement, the vein bulging in his forehead. He understood, but he didn’t like it. Neither did I.

  “Well, I guess I see what you mean. We convince Neema to help, we Match, we throw a black bag over Brent’s head, whack him upside the head with a tire iron, and tie him down.” Delia’s exuberant reenactment of this plan with her arms was engaging. Her enthusiasm was scary.

  “Have you done this sort of thing before?” Nicodemus asked.

  She shrugged. “Oh, not me. But doesn’t it sound thrilling?”

  “Do I get to hit Brent on the back of the head?” Papa said.

  “Who else but you, Papa Bear?”

  Papa shrugged. “I’m in.”

  “Stop it!” Nicodemus shouted a whisper. “No one is capturing anyone. It is too risky.”

  “For the record, we aren’t actually turning Brent over,” I stated in spite of Nicodemus’s argument.

  Everyone’s silence meant agreement. But it also meant uncertainty. How would we protect Brent and me? How would this bring Styx back from the brink of implosion?

  “Delia, do you think the Trivials at Wrightwick will help us?” I asked.

  She bit her bottom lip, evidence that she gave the answer serious consideration before saying, “They know what Marin did to Errol.” He’d Matched with his Eidolon henchman Chad, and their combined demon had pumped lethal energy into my mentor, killing him.

  “Then you need to contact them immediately. We’re going to need their help.” I handed her my cell phone before descending into the chaos of food servers and cheerful patrons dining on all the foods that would make any sugar-loving Stygian drool out of the corner of his or her mouth.

  I kept part of my attention on Delia, who went outside of the restaurant with my phone. Every moment or so, she would peer inside and give me a look telling me she was working her magic. Or I hoped she was. Meanwhile, the rest of us sat down at the table in our private dining room. Dudley curled up by my feet with the obvious hope that I’d sneak bits of food for him. The conversation over our meal was terse, like that of a bickering family forced to spend time together during the holidays. The forks clanking on our dinner plates made more sound than our sporadic conversation.