by AJ Rose
“How is it you just happened to be near that location when Alice took her last breath?”
“I’ve recently learned how to ski,” Mitch said with perfect innocence. “I thought I’d check out some new equipment at the sporting goods store so I don’t have to borrow or rent skis and boots anymore.”
“Uh-huh,” Cooley said, unmoved. “Did you like the Rossignols or the 4FRNT better? I know that store has quite a bit of both.”
“I never made it inside. I heard what’s-his-name, Duane, yelling for Alice to wake up. So I checked it out and found them just like I told the detective. Alice was unresponsive, and Duane was very upset. I didn’t know anything beyond her needing a doctor immediately, so I offered to help.” At least that much was true. After he’d accidentally bumped Alice in the parking lot to establish the soul connection, Duane’s shout had been his cue to step in while holding onto Alice’s soul to keep the body echo away. Despite being in proximity to her physical form, he was proud of how his psychic muscle was gaining control. “What brand of skis do you think is better?”
Cooley scowled. “You know, you’re around dead people an awful lot.”
Mitch only raised a brow and waited, not dignifying that with a response.
The officer leaned forward, stern and intimidating, though Mitch did his best not to be moved. “You know, if something… untoward should happen to Nate, don’t think I won’t be climbing all over you like a rash. If he ends up hurt or worse, your door is my first knock.”
Mitch relaxed. “I wouldn’t worry too much about your friend. Other than a twenty-minute chat a couple days ago, I haven’t seen him in more than a week.”
Despite his moment of weakness in the car after the cancer patient’s reap, Alice’s abrupt demise had reminded him how fragile mortals were. Letting down his guard with Nate would open him to a host of pain and would rob Nate of the normal life he deserved. There would be no need to explain, as Nate aged and Mitch did not, that they were in fact a couple and not father and son, or worse, grandfather and grandson as Nate reached his golden years. No need to lie or excuse abrupt cancellations with friends, beg off dinners, or explain eccentric behavior like pretending to be a hospice worker. Nate deserved better.
Keep telling yourself you’re doing this for him, and you just might get through. The voice that had bumped him during their first “date” at Italiano’s, that had tried to counter his natural skepticism about Nate being different, whispered from the depths of his scattered thoughts. Hell, he was so conflicted about the whole thing—determined to protect himself while at the same time wondering if he wasn’t simply playing martyr, denying a life that was actually possible out of fear—he’d have a host of voices in his head before he sorted this shit out.
Shut up, he mentally growled back.
“Cooley!” called one of the detectives who’d come in after the doctors phoned the police for the possibility of foul play regarding Alice’s death.
Officer Cooley glared at Mitch and walked away without another word.
Mitch flopped in a waiting room chair, Alice’s silently crying specter curled in a ball in the corner his only reason for sticking around. Her frantic parents entered the ER a short time later, and when they were taken to one of the family consultation rooms, Mitch waited a beat and followed, tugging Alice along. There was a vending machine near the entrance to the room, so while he showed Alice in to say goodbye to her family, he hovered over the chips and candy bars, pretending to contemplate a snack. Alice’s parents left first, presumably to be taken to identify their daughter’s body, but when the girl didn’t come after them, Mitch peeked into the room. She was in another fetal ball, this time on a couch. He sat beside her, resisting the urge to pat her arm in reassurance. She wouldn’t feel it anyway.
“I know this sucks. But your door should be coming anytime now that you’ve said your goodbyes.”
She didn’t acknowledge his words. Frankly he was only hoping her door would come, because it could get very awkward if she had unfinished business with her boyfriend. There was no way he could reasonably sneak around a police station, especially with Officer Cooley watching him. In fact, he thought it would be a good idea to report back to his supernatural bosses about the situation. Charles had told him in training, while it wasn’t always necessary to communicate with Divinity because they usually knew all the details anyway, there was sometimes no harm in sending in his observations for their records, if such things were kept.
After a few minutes of making soothing “It’ll be all right” noises at the anguished spirit, her door came, and she stumbled through without so much as a glance in his direction. He silently hoped she’d find peace wherever she went.
Dragging the screen on his phone to life, he called up his email, knowing perfectly well the one detailing Alice’s reap would have already self-destructed. There was, however, a contact email address that was supposedly just as secure. He’d never tested it. Calling up a new message, he tapped out a short description of his concerns.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
RE: Alice Watson case
Local authorities are beginning to question my involvement with a high number of fatalities. Because of the nature of the deaths, they have no way of linking me to them or discerning what type of involvement they suspect me of having. There is one officer who seems determined to find me a suspect in the cases I’ve been assigned, so his level of scrutiny is increasing. It doesn’t help he’s a friend of a former acquaintance. There’s no danger of exposure because the acquaintance is not aware of my nature, but there’s a connection I cannot control. It might be advisable to consider the officer’s suspicions in future assignments. Let me know if there are any pitfalls I need to be made aware of or if there’s anything further I should do.
Sincerely,
Mitch Seeker
Reaper #64558, location Caperville, Colorado, USA
He sent the message and sat, staring at the opposite wall for a long time, suddenly so tired he couldn’t imagine years and decades and centuries of this, always looking over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t seen, always lying to explain his proximity to the dead or gain access to bereaved friends and family for the final goodbyes. How was this system of redemption—or punishment, since he didn’t honestly know if one’s door led to Heaven and another’s to Hell—in any way productive? Was it because the human race had become more adept at interpreting how lives ended? Was it because, in an age of technology, it wasn’t possible to hide as thoroughly?
Mitch didn’t know, but he did know he was angry. He was trapped in a life he hadn’t chosen and didn’t want, one from which he couldn’t escape. It would be so nice to be able to share this burden with someone. He had his father and brother, and to a lesser extent, his uncle, but he couldn’t reasonably expect to share his life with any of them. First, his father and uncle would die in twenty or thirty years. Second, his brother had a life of his own and had every intention of building a family, carrying on the family profession, so to speak. Morgan didn’t need to lean on Mitch. He had accepted Samantha not being by his side for the rest of his life, and Mitch assumed she had, too, or she wouldn’t have agreed to marry the man.
So is sharing the daily burden of reaper responsibilities with a partner freeing when in the end, you lose that partner forever?
He was so sick of going back and forth, and he was mad. Nate had made a life with someone seem possible, and then Mitch’s hopeful little bubble burst when he discovered Tate’s identity. It wasn’t Nate’s fault. It was the fucking asshole Seeker who’d gotten their family into this whole goddamned mess to begin with. Before, Mitch hadn’t really thought he needed to know the origin of his particular DNA evolution. Now, though, he deserved some answers. Would it do any good? Would he figure a way out of this predicament? Probably not, and he wasn’t even sure he wanted to entertain the idea, given that it would likely end in more disappointment. But understanding
it might help him cope.
Hauling his weary bones off the couch, he trudged to his car and pointed it toward the store. The bell over the door was too cheery for his mood, and when he spotted his dad’s salt-and-pepper head bent low over a book at the counter, he was hit with a pang of longing so hard, he nearly couldn’t breathe. His dad had normal now. Sure, he still performed the occasional reap when the volume was too much for Mitch to handle, or it was something more complicated than Mitch’s experience level, but he was done with the reaper life for all intents and purposes. Mitch wanted that so badly. The thought of waiting another two-hundred plus years to get it made him sick to his stomach.
“You okay?” Charles asked, looking up when Mitch hadn’t said hello.
“No,” Mitch admitted. “Can we talk?” Sadie came out from behind the counter at the sound of his voice and nudged his hand.
“Of course. You never have to ask.” Charles closed his book after placing a bookmark and pushed it to the side, giving Mitch his full attention.
“Not here.” Mitch indicated the public space, though currently empty. “I don’t want to be interrupted.”
Charles frowned. “Well, there is a storm coming. Doozy, too. They’re saying two feet of snow or more. The ski bums are beside themselves with excitement. But that’s a perfect excuse to close up early. I think we should hit the store anyway before all the panicked bread and milk buyers clean it out.”
Mitch almost laughed. People in Caperville were well used to snow dumps, so the kind of shopping he’d only ever seen on news websites, where shelves were emptied and stores looked like riot zones when the white stuff hit places like Georgia or Mississippi, didn’t happen here.
They made quick work of closing up, moving the hand on the “We’ll be back in…” sign to the following morning’s opening time, and leaving a note apologizing for any inconvenience and reminding customers the website for the store was open twenty-four hours a day. After a quick discussion about what food to procure and agreeing Mitch would spend the night at his parents’ place, they left Sadie in the car with her pile of blankets and a squeaky toy, and spent the next twenty minutes stocking up on what his dad called “bachelor food.” Blizzards in Mitch’s family were treated as holidays. The family spent time playing board games, eating bad food, and generally shutting out the world. Mitch loved big snows, especially knowing he could play hermit without the poisonous stare of the locals gossiping not-so-behind their backs.
After throwing a couple single-serve pizzas in the oven, Charles got them each a beer. Sylvia had eaten earlier, knowing her husband would be closing the store, and left for a Stitch n Bitch with her knitting circle. When the food was ready, Charles settled into his favorite chair in the Great Room after lighting a couple logs in the fireplace.
“What’s on your mind?”
Mitch took a long pull of his beer and settled on the end of the couch closest to his father. “How did we get into this mess?”
Charles laughed. “I assume you mean how did the Seeker men become reapers?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, the story’s been passed from generation to generation, so I’m sure it’s changed in the telling, but this is what your Grandpa Walter told me. In the 1670s, Phineas Seeker was as close to a doctor as the people of Norwich, Connecticut had. He was a simple farmer who had a knack for knowing which herbs could ease an itchy skin problem and how certain tree barks could ease pain or stiffness in joints. His reputation grew among his townspeople, and from the local Mohegan Indians he learned their traditions as herbalists to become one of the most well-known healers in the area. Some even thought of him as a shaman.
“Folk remedies of the time were thought of with a healthy dose of mysticism. What we understand now as scientific properties of plants as medicines, people back then thought of as magic or sorcery. Phineas was careful with those he healed, making no promises to entirely rid them of dire conditions with his herbs and poultices. He only attempted, and if they improved, he learned from that and wrote it down.”
Charles lowered his voice, and Mitch automatically leaned forward to hear. “But there came a plague to the land in the mid-1680s, and many of the residents of Norwich were struck by it,” Charles intoned, getting into the telling of the story. “This was something bigger than Phineas had ever seen, and he didn’t know what to do. The sick were complaining of crawling sensations on their skin, as if ants were burrowing in. They suffered vertigo, headaches, painful muscle cramps, vomiting, and diarrhea. It was one thing for the symptoms to be entirely physical, but there were also hallucinations, mania, and delirium. In some, their fingers and toes would go numb, the skin peeling and becoming gangrenous. The tissue would die and become useless. Whatever this was appeared to be eating them from the outside in. For some, it affected their limbs; for others, it stole their minds. We know now it was ergotism, caused by a fungus that grows on wheat and rye. But back then, Phineas was at a total loss, as were the Mohegan elders to whom he turned for advice.”
Mitch shivered, imagining himself in such a time, feeling responsible for the health of a town without more than a few plants and passed-down knowledge of folk remedies in his arsenal. “What happened?”
“Phineas was desperate to help them, especially when his son began showing signs of the disease. When the herbs and plants he so trusted failed him, he recklessly turned to witchcraft. The townspeople already thought he practiced it, and if it meant finding a solution to stave off the disease, he figured it was worth it, whatever the price. So he studied a healing spell, waited until the proper moon phase to perform the incantation, and gathered the roots and plants he would need for the offering. When the time was right, he called for spiritual help to heal the sick of this horrific affliction spreading through his town and family.”
“That doesn’t sound awful,” Mitch said. “He was trying to help people, save his child.”
“Exactly,” Charles agreed sagely. “The spiritual help he summoned did heal the sick, including Matthias Seeker. It wasn’t miraculous. People healed in a manner that made them believe Phineas had done his job with his usual remedies. He wanted it that way so they wouldn’t be aware he’d used witchcraft, a crime punishable by death. Pleased with his success, he wondered if there were other ways for witchcraft to be useful.
“At first, he merely studied, not risking experimentation in case something went wrong, but over time, he felt his knowledge was sufficient to begin practicing. In the beginning of his trials, he limited himself only to healing rituals, and since most of them included roots and herbs, it wasn’t too far from the realm of his herbal methods. He simply told the townsfolk he was praying in a different language if they questioned the incantations he invoked. For a while everything worked well. People were healthy, and he rose in the esteem of his neighbors as someone important, a pillar of the community.
“It was when he expanded into prosperity spells that a change began. All of nature holds to a balance, and Phineas’s use of magic upset that balance. Where he helped one farmer’s crops recover from blight, someone else’s suffered. The unexpected financial gain of one man brought loss to another. This family’s bounty became that family’s burden. Though he never used the spells for personal reward, the spiritual source of his work took its toll, and Phineas grew concerned. He knew, even if no one else did, he was the reason the scales tipped in favor or rejection of those within his circle of influence. He tried to stop.”
“Tried to?” Mitch asked, fascinated. “Why couldn’t he?”
“It turned out the name he invoked as a spiritual source of power wasn’t that of a deceased witch looking to watch over practitioners at all. It was a demon. Phineas had made a deal with the devil…. Well, one of the devil’s minions anyway.” Charles leaned forward, looking grave. “The only thing that saved Phineas Seeker from an eternity of servitude in Hell was the interference of an angel. We know her as Katherine.”
Mitch recoiled in surprise. “The one who ass
igns us reaps?”
“The very same,” Charles confirmed.
“So she’s the reason we’re all like this?” he asked, his earlier anger seeping back in.
“She’s the reason we even exist. Make no mistake, son. Without her intervention, the Seeker family would be relics in the annals of history. Phineas Seeker had one child, the boy whose life he’d so desperately wanted to save during the plague. When the demon came for Phineas to pay his due, Phineas was told if he did not comply, all the good he’d done would be undone and magnified tenfold. Those who had been healed from the sickness would die, and their descendants would have genetic deficiencies for generations. Those whose lands had been fertile and plentiful would see the soil rendered inhospitable by floods and pests for centuries. Everything would come crashing down on Phineas’s head, but not just his—on those who’d trusted him, too. The Seeker family would have been executed for Phineas’s mistakes as an example of the evils of witchcraft, and you and I wouldn’t exist. Katherine saved us all.”
Mitch conceded the point with a begrudging tilt of his head.
“She offered Phineas an option. All his male descendants would be pressed into service to Katherine at the beginning of their twenty-fourth year and a facet of her power transferred to us. We help mankind without exacting a price from the souls who cross our paths the way Phineas’s unknowing neighbors would have paid. Our duty is to safely see those souls to their next destination as payment of Phineas’s debt.”
“Didn’t the demon Phineas owed have a problem with that?” Mitch asked. “I mean, that guy didn’t get what he wanted, so how is it we don’t still owe him part of Phineas’s debt?”