The Reaper's Embrace

by Abigail Baker

  “There are rumors that Marin is dead,” Neema said after several minutes of silence.

  Papa dropped his fork. The utensil landed on the floor between us. Dudley made sure to cleanse it of the slice of pancake before Papa picked it back up and set it aside.

  The five-second rule didn’t count when it came to dogs.

  “Why do you think that?” I asked, waving to the server for another fork for Papa.

  “His news broadcasts. They are not current. The broadcasts are generic enough that Stygians might not notice that they aren’t current. Haven’t you noticed he isn’t commenting on anything in the past few weeks?” Neema put a small bite of pancake in her mouth and chewed as she stared in my direction.

  She knew the truth about Marin. Or she thought she knew.

  “Well, if he’s dead, then shouldn’t we celebrate?” I said, dryly.

  “How did you get that Deathmark, Scrivener? As I understand it, you’re the only Scrivener with the skull as her Deathmark, yet you wear the skull. Seems to me you wouldn’t put one on yourself. So, who did it?” asked a pale, muscular brunette female Trivial at Neema’s side.

  I was about to answer with a lie because Neema and the others didn’t need to know the truth just yet, but I stopped to find Delia banging a fist on the restaurant window, her eyes wide with terror. Everyone in the room jumped to their feet. The shriek of an Eidolon echoed. Delia screamed, too. I felt panic rise up inside of my chest when I saw my adored redheaded friend fade into a blackness as if a dark cloud swept around her.

  Brent. Shit. He’s here.

  “Delia!” I roared, not giving any concern to those around me or the humans who looked out the windows thinking that the darkness and the roar of an Eidolon were tricks of the mind or a car crash or thunder and rain. They didn’t know what was happening outside and, thank Hades for them, they were better for it.

  “Dormier!” Neema roared in her piercing voice as I ran to help Delia.

  Several Stygians followed close behind me; the most important of them were Papa and Nicodemus. By now, Dudley knew what to do in these situations—hide.

  “Dormier!” Neema yelled again, but this time she was too far behind me.

  In the dim glow of street lamps, I spotted Brent’s signature spectral mist. Near him was a collapsed body on the sidewalk. Delia wasn’t dead, that much was certain, but she was down, and I needed to be sure she was okay. The only problem with wanting to help my friend was my lover waiting to dive in and finish his job as my Grim Reaper. It was a curious dilemma.

  But there was one option I considered for a second before I rushed back, past Papa and Nicodemus and the swarm of Trivials to come face-to-face with with the Eidolon Neema.

  “Help me,” I said and took her hand in mine. Papa, Nicodemus, and Delia would not be happy with what I was about to do, but they’d have to be in the end. It was the only way.

  She jerked back and furrowed her brow. “Do what?”

  “Help me catch him. We can Match and catch him.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we can go to Xiangu and get this entire mess resolved.”

  Neema’s eyes narrowed. She was considering the plan. Though I would’ve liked a verbal response, I was reassured when she took my hand back and dragged me toward Brent. This was her answer. Yes, she’d help. Yes, she’d Match with me. And yes, somehow, some way, I would walk out of this entire nightmare with my soul intact and Brent’s life redeemed.

  I was no Matching expert. Hopefully, Neema was, because although I’d Matched before, I wasn’t sure exactly how to start the process.

  Then, I felt her icy presence enter my body. Or I entered hers. Who knows? The logistics made little sense to me. All I knew was that it worked because she was an Eidolon, and I was a Scrivener. Joined together like one super-Stygian, we were more unstoppable than an Eidolon or Scrivener alone.

  Matching came with what I now called CAP: cold, agony, and pain. I was prepared for CAP when Neema side-stepped into me. But this experience was different. While, yes, the frostiness that made her an Eidolon was present and excruciating, I didn’t feel weighted down as I had when I’d Matched with Brent and Chad. This time, united for the first time with a female, my fire and her ice blended into a buoyant, lethal mix.

  I grew rigid, part of me shuddering from the cold and the other part of me stiff from Neema’s power. This was the same feeling I had with Brent and Chad, with only a slight difference: Neema was not as strong as the two male Eidolons. Her presence told me so. But she had other skills that Chad and Brent did not. She was quicker and more agile. Seeing as those things applied to me, too, compared to my male Scrivener counterparts, I was positive this union between us would be impressive.

  And it was.

  Merged as I was with Neema, I wanted to do jumps and flips, to run miles up and down the bordering buildings’ facades like some fearless Parkour master. I did not feel like a thousand pounds of foreboding super-death in the flesh. No. We could effortlessly skitter across water or the rooftops of Denver’s buildings with impressive grace, yet at the same time strike a lethal blow as significant as that of any Eidolon.

  The mist solidified into Brent’s demonic form, and his black beast’s growl rattled the pavement under our feet. Those red eyes zeroed in on Neema and me. Brent understood the challenge. He was not afraid, as his instinct to heed the call of my Deathmark dictated his will. His skull-like face looked back at us, eager for its rightful prize.

  And I still yearned for him. In spite of all that ugly.

  He snarled out a final warning before striking out toward us with bloodthirsty intent. Each footfall shook the ground. His massive jowls opened in anticipation of sucking the life from all of us if he had to.

  What little I knew of Matching, I understood enough to find comfort and confidence in merging my thoughts with another being. We did not need to communicate verbally. Everything that we did, from the slightest twitch of a finger to back flipping when Brent took a swipe at us, was purely instinctual. It had to be because I couldn’t do a backflip.

  A swipe and then another. We diverted each attack with a flip or a grand leap to one side. This was our warm up, a chance to get familiar with our unique talents. Neema, as it turned out, was a gymnast. As for me, well, I was a sharpshooter.

  Landing on our feet with a wide and ready stance, and after avoiding one rather close up of Brent’s open jaws, we retrieved the shotgun from the backpack I’d abandoned nearby and aimed. The slide and click of the Mossberg followed by the blast of a shell was ear-splitting. Not that I expected the bullet to do much harm to him, but I was positive it would send a clear message.

  It did, though not as I had planned.

  Brent’s hollow red eyes grew brighter. The force from the howl that poured from him like a grim foghorn sent Neema and I flailing in separate directions, torn apart from the strength of Brent’s threat. The top of a bus stop shelter broke my fall. The awning covering a jewelry shop broke Neema’s. Our allies scattered into the street and behind cars. Fear was rampant. None knew what to do. And surely they wouldn’t throw themselves in front of a raging Eidolon just to save me. Perhaps they would for Neema. Then again, perhaps not.

  Unlike Chad, who had abandoned me the instant we were separated when we had Matched back at the battle at Wrightwick Manor, Neema lived up to her end of our hasty agreement. We quickly came together once more, then skittered up the side of an apartment building, clinging to the metal fire escape to gain height and, hopefully, an advantage.

  We need to use your heat, Scrivener, Neema said with her mind. We can trap him that way.

  I’m not sure how. I forgot Neema could hear my thoughts whether I wanted them heard or not, since we were technically one body.

  Figure it out, Scrivener.

  Never one to let my side of the deal go, I took on Neema’s suggestion without a clear strategy. Somehow, it would come to me. Everything happened like that. It was instinct that led me through my da
rkest moments, not experience. Besides, experience isn’t knowledge, they say.

  Once we reached the third floor of the gray brick apartment building, we looked toward the ground where our allies stood gazing up at us, and Delia remained on the cold pavement looking like a Raggedy Anne doll. Poor thing. The fire escape did not slow down Brent’s pursuit. This would have to be settled on solid ground, not hanging three stories above it. But descending the fire escape was not possible quite yet.

  The roof! Now!

  Together, we let out our own fiercely piercing battle cry. Higher in pitch than Brent’s or any other Eidolon’s, it felt like it came from the darkest corner of my broken soul. It told him to follow us to the roof. And he did.

  We threw our body over the lip of the rooftop, now five stories above the ground. The view of Denver’s skyline sparkled in the night. The city looked peaceful and still. It was everything I preferred over the current, life-or-death nightmare following close behind.

  We gained our footing just as Brent sprung over the rooftop ledge. Blackness surrounded him and us. The major difference between us was the fiery shape of a woman inside Neema’s smokiness. For any Stygian who could see us, the sight must have been stunningly horrifying.

  “Dial up your heat,” she said to me. “That’ll subdue him.”

  “Are you sure?” Because I wasn’t about to get any closer without assurance from her.

  “Do it or die, Scrivener!”

  I had a reckless knack for running headlong into danger. But for the first time, I didn’t want to. So far, the habit had served me well. That would not always be the case, I knew. Probability told me that at some point, I wouldn’t win. Was this that moment?

  I gave Neema’s demand a second of thought. We would have to get close enough to touch Brent. I liked the idea of touching him in an entirely different, more sensual situation. This was risky. Perhaps Neema’s soul-sucking ability wasn’t as effective as Brent’s. Perhaps it wouldn’t be enough to neutralize him as I used heat to ensnare him.

  We were already engaged in action before I had the sense to split from my Eidolon ally and run away. Flying through the air, we collided with Brent. A swipe of our hand sent him spinning across the rooftop. He landed with a massive thud. We landed above him with the delicate grace one would expect of female Matched Stygians.

  Courage was beginning to surface as we sat above him, straddling his hips.

  “Now, Ollie,” Brent’s southern drawl said from within the beastly exterior.

  My heart launched itself into my throat at the sound of his voice. How could just those two words “Now, Ollie” cause me to go flailing into confusion and uncertainty? His voice was strained, but it was full of love—it asked me to love him back. I wanted to. I wanted to run into his arms and kiss him. Instead, I planned to capture him and use him for my gain.

  I hated myself for this. If I failed, if he sustained even the slightest of injuries on my account, I would never forgive myself.

  Brent’s words also told me that he knew what we were planning.

  Did he want it to happen?

  Was he hopeful that we’d end this hunt? Kill him so I could live? (Assuming he’d manage to give the piece of my soul that he held back.)

  “Yes, now!” Neema howled.

  No further communication was needed. With Neema’s and Brent’s help, my life was almost back in my hands. I only had to do what I felt was right. My mind raced with images of the Eidolons at Wrightwick. I would not do to him what I had done to my enemies. Somehow, I would have to employ restraint.

  As Brent struggled underneath Neema’s and my weight, the pressure from our Matched body intensified. Red fingers splayed out across his muscular chest. Fire poured from us onto him. The stink of burning meat was almost unbearable.

  I will not melt you.

  Brent writhed underneath us, nearly throwing us off of him. The effort was for nothing, however. He was growing weaker with each pulse of heat.

  Do not melt him!

  He let out a pained shriek. Those red eyes faded into gold and then into an ocean blue. The spectral mist that made up his monstrous shape began to recede, peeling away to reveal the man beneath.

  “Kill him!” Neema cried out.

  Her words wrenched me back from the brink—one I didn’t know I had nearly reached.

  “Kill him! He deserves it!”

  I won’t.

  “You’re almost there. Kill him, Scrivener!”

  “No!” I cried out and bucked Neema from my body. She stumbled onto the rooftop, her balance quickly restored after a few moments of unsteadiness. Her eyes were blood red, wishing that I’d do to Brent what she could not. I didn’t lure him up here and with her help just to see him die. That wasn’t my intent even if she wanted it. I would run from him for as long as I could before I would kill him.

  Nonetheless, I had to keep him under my control until Xiangu offered her help. If she offered it.

  Brent’s eyes were half open as he lay in between unconsciousness and wakefulness. The heat surrounding us made it difficult for him to breathe. His chest rose and fell in a quick cadence. I, too, couldn’t breathe, but not from suffocation of heat. I was straddling my lover who was also my death. I was exactly where I did and did not want to be. One little error could destroy me or him.

  I was physically and emotionally exhausted before I melted Marin. Now, I was clinging desperately to the frayed threads of energy from weeks ago. There was no way I could keep Brent contained for very long, which meant I needed to plead for Neema’s mercy now more than anything.

  I returned Neema’s expression with a softened brow, and said in a voice that bordered on pathetic, “Please, Neema. No one has to die. Just take me to Xiangu, and we’ll get this resolved peacefully. I promise.”

  Chapter Six

  “Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world,

  for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!”

  —William Butler Yeats

  Xiangu, as it turned out, was not in Denver. Although she traveled to Denver on occasions, she preferred a remote lifestyle to bustling cities, a sentiment I understood well. Perhaps it was our gift as Scriveners that made us introverts. Errol had lived the same bucolic lifestyle. Even Marin, who dwelled inside Quebec City, still managed to exist far from people, cars, buildings, and chaos.

  Xiangu was transient. This made her more interesting to me for the simple reason that she had made her way in the world of Styx by staying on the move. Having mostly lived my life in one place, I was attracted to this possibility of traveling from city-to-city, countryside-to-countryside, doling out Deathmarks to unwitting souls. In many ways, this style seemed far more effective to population control.

  Seeing as Marin established his power by hiding underground, holed up in his self-imposed prison, Xiangu’s path of traversing the globe gave me hope that I, too, could travel while still helping Styx.

  Of course, my future wouldn’t mean much if I wasn’t around to see it blossom into fruition. Xiangu’s first impression of me would have to be spotless, that is if my reputation didn’t precede me. Which I was sure it did.

  In a jacked-up, steel gray, 1990 Volkswagen Golf, Neema, James, and the brunette female Trivial I had come to discover was named Monkey—I didn’t ask—led us out of Denver and westbound toward the jutting peaks of the Rocky Mountains. Several more cars filled with Xiangu’s loyal crew followed behind that 1990 Volkswagen. In one of those cars was Brent, subdued and burning and probably in excruciating pain. Keeping him in the invisible, heated binds was draining on my own energy. I didn’t have to be touching him or even in the same car as him. I only needed him to be within fifty feet or so. Whenever the distance grew wider, I felt my grip on him waning. It was important to stay close, but not too close.

  I would not be able to keep him contained forever, that much was certain. If Errol and Marin had figured out how to ensnare Eidolons for longer than a few hours, I was
not privy to their skillset. I had outplayed Marin, but that did not mean I had half of his power as my own. I just got lucky.

  Luck has a way of running out, though.

  As he rode on the back of my motorbike, following the convoy, Nicodemus held onto my leather jacket like a trusting friend would. His fingers almost unraveled the leather seams. Dudley was settled comfortably into the tank bag, his ears flapping in the breeze.

  Papa and Delia rode behind us in Errol’s sleek black Porsche, keeping a safe but up-our-ass distance. The roads we took weren’t highways, but two-lane thoroughfares that wound up and down steep grades and around bends. After a few hours, we reached the alpine mining town of Ouray—so said a road sign before we rolled through the quaint place. I hoped we would stop here, exhausted from the driving and slightly lightheaded from altitude. We didn’t, however. We continued onward, passing a sign that welcomed us to the “Million Dollar Highway.” Little did I know about this highway and, to be honest, little did I care to remember.

  Every bend around the mountainsides was a game of chicken, with no guardrail and cliffs high enough to make a person’s stomach turn over and over. Would a car or bus or truck come barreling around the corner at us? Would we fly off the edge of the mountain road?

  Anyone who feared heights would not enjoy keeping pace with an Eidolon in an unusually powerful Volkswagen. But when death was the other option, it was a simple, albeit white-knuckle, choice.

  Neema had told me just before leaving Denver that Xiangu would help me without question. I would’ve liked to believe her entirely, but I knew, or perhaps my gut knew, it wouldn’t be that easy. I, too, would be cautious of how and when my skill was utilized. And if I was Master Guru at something as potent as healing Deathmarks, I’d make damn sure I was removing them from the right people.