by Erin Hayes
“There is another catch,” Lucas said, amusement threading though his words.
She slowly turned. “Now what?”
“You can’t mention this curse to anyone else. That includes your precious Andrew. If you do—instant death.”
She kept pressing forward, not bothering to respond. She was good at keeping secrets. It wasn’t her preference, but she’d do what was needed for self-protection and to fight for her future with Andrew. Their love was too new, too fragile to burden with this curse.
Tara trudged onward and reached the dirt road that lead to Andrew’s place—their place for the last couple of weeks.
Two beautiful, sexy, awe-inspiring weeks.
An unfamiliar tug cramped her stomach. What the hell? Despite the discomfort, a compulsion drove her to the nearest home, and she sprinted toward it. On the porch, an old man had tumbled from his rocker and onto the wooden floor.
“Are you hurt?” she asked, touching his wrist.
There was no pulse.
The cramping intensified. A tendril of gray smoke wafted from his chest. Tara knew what must be done, as if she’d trained for this moment all her life. She placed her hand on his chest, absorbing the smoke into her palms.
A tiny bell pinged and it vibrated in the pit of her stomach—a sign of completion. She had it. Her very first reaped soul.
The cramping stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Her palm tingled, and long, invisible nails raked against the tingling flesh. Was that the Grim Reaper taking his due? She had no clue. But it was done. One down—a thousand more to go.
Sirens blasted, and she straightened. Were they coming for the old man? Was anyone else inside his house?
“Hello?” she called out, opening the unlocked door. “Anyone home?”
The only sound was the artificial laugh track of a TV sitcom.
Tara returned to the porch and sat on the steps, waiting and watching as the ambulance came into sight and slammed to a stop in front of her. Who had called them?
Two EMTs rushed out of the vehicle and sprinted toward her.
“Sorry. He’s already passed,” she informed them.
“Damn. We’re too late,” one of them said, shaking his head in disgust and hurrying past her to the dead body.
The other EMT’s face flushed with anger. “What do you mean racing past me and reaching the soul first?”
“Soul?” Tara puzzled aloud. Had she heard the man right?
“It was my turn to reap,” the miffed EMT argued.
Tara rose and faced the two men, who glared at one another over the man’s body. “You’re reapers, too?”
“That’s just what we need. Another damn reaper in the area,” one of them answered as they both stomped back to the ambulance.
Tara followed him. “Wait. How many of us are there?”
“Dozens,” the driver responded curtly.
That couldn’t be good. Lots of competition. “How long do you think it will take me to reap a thousand souls?” she asked.
“Around here?” He gave a humorless laugh. “A lifetime.”
It felt like a prison sentence. How could she lie that long to Andrew? How many unexplained trips would she have to take at all hours of the day and night? A man like Andrew wouldn’t put up with such evasions and half-truths. There had to be a better way . . . and she would find it.
Chapter Two
Andrew awoke at dawn’s first light.
Today was the day. The battle that had been brewing for years would take place under the night’s full moon. Despite his eight-hundred-plus years of existence, he wasn’t a violent man. Not anymore. He’d spent most of his long life as a warrior and was sick to death of the fighting. The Appalachian Mountains had always called to him, reminding him of his youth spent in the Highlands. Here, he’d found comfort and peace in the rural backwoods He’d even made friends with his own kind. Over the last few decades, he’d built a tolerance to the company of another immortal.
It hadn’t been easy.
It started the first time he’d encountered another immortal and managed to suppress the desire to attack him. Since then, he’d met others who did the same. Was their kind evolving, or had they all finally learned to battle their own violent instincts as a survival mechanism? Andrew’s theory was that it was a mixture of both nature and self-nurture to overcome the craving for power at any expense. A biological component was now evident since a few females had joined their ranks. Unheard of. Astounding.
It had now advanced to the point where, at least on his part, he could even tolerate a witch.
Tolerate?
Hell, he loved Tara.
He silently admitted that truth as he watched the sun crest over Booze Mountain. She’d stormed into his life like a fiery tornado and had broken down centuries of mistrust and reserve. He didn’t want to fall in love. The few times he had, it had been beyond painful to witness his lovers grow old and die. He’d stayed with them until the end, only to wind up alone again. Broken. He’d outlived his parents and siblings and cousins—none of whom shared the rare, inexplicable mutation of immortality. At last, he stopped trying to trace the distant descendants that remained.
One day, Tara would also die.
Andrew absorbed the truth of those words in his heart. He’d end up alone again. Love always led to loss and pain.
He rolled over in their bed and smiled at the sight of Tara sprawled out. For someone so petite, her outstretched arms and legs managed to take over half the bed—like a gigantic starfish. He liked that about her. Even in slumber, Tara reached into his space and demanded attention. Attention he was happy to provide. Andrew ran a hand down her hips and thighs, admiring the softness of her alabaster skin and the graceful curves of her slender body.
Tara practically purred and curled into him, her breath tickling the hair on his chest. As always, his skin burned at her touch. Heat and desire flooded his body, and he kissed the top of her scalp.
She moaned and brushed her lips against his ears. “Andrew,” she whispered.
The magic between them was raw, intense and undeniable. Despite their thorough lovemaking last night, passion again sparked.
Suddenly, Tara pulled away and slipped out of bed, clutching her stomach.
“What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
“No. I mean, yes. Sort of.” She stumbled to the dresser, pulled out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and started to dress.
His brow creased. “Where are you going?”
“I have an errand to run.”
“It can’t be that important. Come rest if you’re sick.”
“No. I’ve gotta run.” She slipped the shirt over her head and flipped her hair from under the collar.
He raised up on an elbow and frowned. “Problem?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” She shoved her feet into a pair of flip flops and gave him a quick kiss. “I’ll be back soon.” Her face clouded. “Before you leave tonight for . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Need me to drive you somewhere?”
“No.”
“Be careful. You drive too fast on that motorcycle of yours.”
She hurried out of the bedroom without replying, slightly bent at the waist. What the hell was so important that she had to leave at once?
He was no witch, but he sensed trouble.
Tara wanted to scream. She’d been so damn close to reaping another soul. By the time she’d arrived at 2435 Booger Hollow Road, the body in distress was being carried into an ambulance. Luckily, this time, the EMTs were evidently non-reapers. She followed the ambulance until it arrived at the county hospital. So this was what her life had been reduced to. Chasing ambulances like some cheap-suited lawyer. The pain in her stomach intensified. The person’s soul wavered between life and death.
Unmindful of the “Emergency Room Only Parking” sign, Tara parked her motorcycle in the semicircular drive by the ER entrance and followed the EMTs as they wheeled the stretcher inside. White-coated emplo
yees swarmed over the stretcher.
The cramping eased, but unlike yesterday, she felt bereft. Another reaper had beat her to the punch. But who? One of the doctors or nurses?
One thousand and one—make that one thousand souls—hung like a death sentence.
“Hey lady, is that your car?” A volunteer at the information desk scowled at her.
“Yeah, sorry. I’m leaving now.”
Quickly, she walked out and climbed back onto her bike. A scowling face suddenly appeared at her side, and she jumped, her skin tingling. It was the man from the front desk. “What?” she asked. “I’m leaving now.”
“This area is tough enough without a newcomer.”
It took a moment for her to comprehend his meaning. Damn. Did reapers hover everywhere like vultures? How many fool’s errands would she be sent on before she collected another soul?
Tara revved the engine and drove down Main Street, barely aware of her surroundings. Damn it, she was a witch. There had to be a way to use magic to give her an edge in this collection business. Think. She adjusted the chin strap on her helmet. The Piedmont Funeral Home caught her eye, and she impulsively whipped her Harley into the parking lot and stared at the small brick building.
She couldn’t explain the compulsion to enter. If the competition was so heavy at the hospital, what hope was there that a soul would arrive here intact? But magic tingled at the base of her neck, and Tara knew to follow her instincts. What could it hurt to enter the building and take a look around? Grabbing her purse, Tara climbed out of the car and entered the funeral home.
The air-conditioned air hit her as she glanced around. Looked pretty typical. Vases of orchids and lily of the valley were everywhere. The carpet was dark and thick. Bibles and boxes of tissue were discreetly set on mahogany tables. The floral-covered sofas and love seats were arranged for intimate seating.
Nobody was about, so she idly strolled the room, gazing at gilt-framed oil paintings of Jesus and angels.
“May I help you?” a deep voice asked from behind.
The carpet had muffled the man’s approach, and his presence startled Tara. She spun around.
A short man dressed in a navy pinstripe suit stared at her from behind dark sunglasses. The top of his head shone white as an angel from the chandelier above. His light pink lips curled upward. “Well?” he drawled.
“Oh—I—well, there’s been a recent death in my family. Might I have a brochure of your services and prices?”
“That’s not why you’re here.”
“Excuse me?”
He motioned her to follow him down the hallway, and she entered his tiny office, which was crammed with papers and books but devoid of personal artifacts. The nameplate on his desk read Azrael Hollings, Director. Wordlessly, he began typing on his computer.
“Mr. Hollings?” she began.
He held up a finger for one moment, then began clicking away again. Tara leaned back in her seat and waited until the whirl of the printer erupted. Azrael folded his small hands on the desk and faced her. She could see her wide eyes reflected in his sunglasses.
“I take it you’re a witch cursed to reap souls.”
“How did you—”
He waved a hand dismissively. “Takes one to know one. You’ll learn. Reapers recognize one another by a tingling in our skin. If you look harder, you can train your eyes to catch the faint, gray aura that clings to us. The longer you’re at this, the easier you’ll recognize the signs.”
Her arms and neck did tingle—now and when she’d encountered the others. She’d attributed it to nerves over her unfamiliar task. Tara squinted her eyes and considered the man before her. Yes, a wispy, gray smoke swirled around his body.
“I’ve placed wards around this property,” Azrael continued. You sensed the magic and were drawn here. You need my help to find unreaped souls.”
“Can you help me?” Wait. Had she learned nothing this past year after being suckered into Lucas’s coven? Of how easy it was to be drawn into another powerful person’s sphere of magic? “The better question is why would you help me?”
“Like you, I am cursed. I don’t know the details of yours. Not my business. But my curse was for forty years, or until I reached a certain quota. With our combined magic, we can work together. I’ll let you know when souls are set to expire in Georgia, Alabama, and Florida, providing you with enough of an edge to beat out the horde of other cursed reapers. It will require extensive travel on your part, but in a year or so, you could collect about a thousand souls.”
A whole year away from Andrew. How could she possibly explain that to him? “And what do you get out of this arrangement?”
“The soul business operates much like a multilevel marking company. I’ll get a partial credit for whatever you collect.” He picked up a paper from the printer and held it out. “Deal?”
Tara scanned the surprisingly simple terms of the document and picked up a pen.
“Deal.”
Beneath an ancient oak in the hollow’s clearing, the witches stood in a circle clad in long, white robes. At the center, a bonfire burned brightly, and a protective blue light enveloped the outer edge of their formation—a protective force field against their enemies. Those who tried to enter were zapped like flies. Yet their enemies’ magic and strength were also powerful, and they persisted in attacking the barrier. Where magic met magic, sapphire bolts erupted and crackled, streaking the night sky like errant neon spears.
Andrew’s right palm throbbed where he grasped his broadsword. Less than thirty minutes ago, he and the others fighting on his side had each pulled their swords through the witch’s fire for added power. Methodically, Andrew sought out the enemies who kept creeping out of the woods and advancing toward the circle. He had to do his part and strike down those advancing. Already, the witches’ force field grew a bit dimmer. If the enemy managed to tear a hole in the field, they might capture the high priestess and a woman rumored to be coming into extraordinary power on this midsummer solstice night. If she was seized, all was lost.
His attention wandered. Tara hadn’t returned home since her abrupt departure this morning. Where was she? Had something happened to her? It weighed on his heart. She should have returned by now. Through the darkness and smoke and flashes of blue lightening, he found himself searching for a flash of red hair. What if he’d made a terrible error in judgement? What if Tara hadn’t broken with Lucas as she’d promised? Was she one of them—the enemy?
Black smoke erupted nearby with a deafening roar.
His neck prickled, and twigs snapped from behind. Swiftly, he whirled around. Another immortal ran at him, his kilt snapping in the breeze and his long hair flowing. They might all wear the same clothes, but the violent hatred blazing from the enemy’s eyes gave away his intention. This particular immortal was not of the newer breed willing to coexist with others.
But Andrew had noticed the danger too late. The blade of the man’s sword sliced him from his right shoulder to his right hip. Pain sluiced through his flesh. Andrew dropped to the ground, rolled onto his back, and raised his own sword, but the other immortal was upon him. The man raised his broadsword and smacked it against Andrew’s weapon. The strength of the clashing swords reverberated through his body, rattling through his internal organs like thunder. But he held on. Already, the restorative healing power shared by all immortals had begun to heal his wound.
Andrew’s sword glowed and pulsed in his hand.
“What foul witchery is this?” the enemy asked, pointing at the sword.
Andrew scrambled to his feet and crouched, preparing to duel. He hadn’t engaged in a death match in months, but he’d had hundreds of years of practice. He’d kill the enemy or die trying. It was the old way.
“Drop your weapon,” Andrew ordered.
“Never.” The other man laughed and narrowed his eyes, seeking the perfect moment to strike again.
Damn it. Andrew collected his thoughts, not easy to do when every cell and
synapse in his body and brain buzzed with the desire to kill. Old patterns remained, but he’d learned to contain the primitive urges.
The immortal suddenly lunged, thrusting his sword at Andrew’s midsection. Andrew parlayed the blow, and the death duel began. Their broadswords clanged so loudly that the familiar sound filled his ears and echoed through his mind.
Thrust, retreat, parlay, spin, duck—only to start over. It was as if his life were one long, choreographed dance. Bit by bit, Andrew gained the upper hand. The infusion of witch’s magic in his weapon had been critical in this fight.
“Admit defeat and join our side,” Andrew said, drawing deep breaths. He had to give his foe one last chance, just as another immortal had once done for him. “There is a new way. A peaceful way.”
“Damn your peace,” the man said with a sneer. “I’ll have your head and your power. The old way is best.”
Some would never learn. They lived merely to destroy other immortals and cut off their heads. It was the only way to kill one of their kind and the only way to reap their power. A deadly game repeated until only one man was left standing.
As for Andrew, he was sick of the violence and the need to rule. For now, he wanted only to love Tara until the end of her days. The sadness and loneliness would follow after her death, but at least they could have a few decades together. That was the only way to suffer through immortality, to plan in terms of a normal human lifespan.
He was through with words. They were wasted on those who refused change. Andrew went on the attack, slashing his sword and connecting with flesh. Blood oozed from the enemy’s neck. He’d been so close to taking the man’s head.
But his opponent narrowly escaped his death blow and delivered a hit of his own. His broadsword sank several inches into Andrew’s chest. The pain blinded him, and he stumbled backward. His left foot caught under a jutting tree root, and he fell to the ground.
The enemy sprang. Andrew could smell the man’s sweat and felt his hot breath bearing down. A second later, his scalp burned like fire as his enemy grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked on it. The immortal’s free hand raised in the air, the blade bloody and sharp. Another second and it would whoosh down in an arc, delivering a mortal cut to the neck.