Soul Fire (The Eden Hunter Trilogy Book 2)

by D. N. Erikson

  “Yeah, that’s fine.”

  “And don’t kill him.” I nodded at the gel-haired guy, who was still breathing—barely. “Douchebags don’t deserve to die.”

  “It ain’t up to me. You know that.”

  Truer words had never been spoken. Aldric’s word was the law around these parts.

  That was why I was here, after all: fulfilling the warlord’s weekly quota, stuffing my conscience in a box. Bound to this life for an eternity.

  Luckily the dead—regardless of how they died—didn’t need their souls.

  Having returned from the afterlife once before, I knew that wasn’t true.

  But I told myself that anyway as I wove through the smoke-filled casino, back into the bright light of the early day.

  2

  “How much longer is this gonna be?”

  The pair of stone-faced FBI agents blocking my path up the red cliffs didn’t respond. Their hands rested firmly on their service pistols, every fiber of their stiff postures screaming, Just try it, bitch.

  These assholes had clearly forgotten who had called whom.

  Hint: I wasn’t out here to get an afternoon tan. A murder demanded my expertise.

  Not very urgently, though, given the wait.

  Rayna had made the call at around five in the morning. I’d gotten out to the eastern steppes at about seven.

  It was now past noon.

  This didn’t strike me as being “fast tracked” through anything.

  A sharp autumn wind flung gravel at my cheeks. The faint smell of sea salt and sand lingered on the nippy breeze. As I stood on the edge of the cool, red-dusted plateau, staring at the placid South Pacific shimmering hundreds of feet below, I could state one thing with absolute confidence.

  I’d had better first days of work.

  You’d think after two months of paperwork and bureaucratic red tape, my consulting gig with the Bureau would have been a done deal. But here I was, pacing back and forth across the jagged steppes, growing more irritated with each passing minute.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised.

  It was the government, after all.

  My pocket vibrated, and I fumbled for my phone. But the screen displayed no recent messages, and the buzzing continued as I scrolled through menus.

  Which meant it was coming from my Reaper’s Switch. I dug the knife out of my pocket. The four-inch stainless steel scythe buzzed in my hand like a wasp. Actually, it was a switchblade, studded with obsidian and silver to cut through even the toughest supernatural flesh. Its purpose was the same as the curved instruments of death clutched by the hooded caricatures of fairy tale and myth, though.

  It harvested souls.

  And it only buzzed when very powerful creatures were around—like a certain rain goddess who didn’t like me much. But I didn’t think Lucille was hanging out here. And if it wasn’t her, then another powerful creature lurked in the steep cliffs.

  The buzzing certainly wasn’t from the all-star team sharing the plateau with me. Other than the pair of agents blocking the way up, I was stuck on this small shelf with two forensic techs. A petite blonde straight out of college measured a boot print. An apocalyptic ash blacker than a starless night mingled with the fine-grained red dust.

  It dawned on me that the silver-haired corpse had been covered in a similar dust.

  Perhaps that was the murder demanding my “expertise.”

  I couldn’t tell you for sure, since I wasn’t authorized to go any further.

  The blonde said, “Hey, Hendricks, you hear about our new consultant?”

  Hendricks, a goofy-looking middle-aged fellow whose face had never aged with the rest of his body replied, “I heard we wanted her for murder a couple months ago.”

  I perked up and stared at Hendricks, who was carefully bagging a shattered syringe with a latex-gloved hand. He tucked the sealed bag inside his FBI windbreaker.

  “I heard she did it, but we couldn’t make it stick,” Blondie replied, upping the ante as she adjusted the measuring tool. “Size 12. Male. Medium build, somewhere between one-seventy and one-ninety based on the depth of the impression in this—what the hell is this, anyway?”

  The tech rubbed the fine black silt between her gloved fingertips, her overly made-up face twisting in disgust.

  “It’s from that damn bird,” Hendricks replied. “I say good if this consultant is a murderer. No one else is prepared for this hellhole.”

  “Speak for yourself,” the woman shot back. “I made it through Denton’s little psychological torture gauntlet.”

  “We all did,” Hendricks said. “But it’s not the same as the field.” His voice dropped into a whisper. “I mean, this fuckin’ bird, they’re saying it’s fifteen feet tall.”

  “Scared, Hendricks?” Blondie stuck out her tongue.

  I rubbed my bare arms as the sharp wind peppered me with more gravel. They were oblivious to me, even though I was making no effort to conceal my eavesdropping.

  “I’m just saying, plenty of things on this rock would devour us like a plate of nachos. Doesn’t hurt to have a killer on our side.”

  “Well, when you put it that way,” she replied.

  I cleared my throat. Their heads snapped in alarm, realizing I’d heard all their idle gossip.

  I smiled and said, “Don’t worry. I don’t kill stupid people. As a consultant, I find it unsporting.”

  They mumbled to themselves before scurrying down the switch-backing steppes. I gave them a friendly little wave, which they didn’t reciprocate. Grifting always put a little charge through my veins, even when it had no clear benefit. Lying generated an electric excitement that telling the truth couldn’t match.

  Of course, telling lies had gotten me killed once. So maybe I should have been more careful about what slipped off my silver tongue.

  My phone chimed, interrupting my moment of self-reflection.

  “You don’t text, you can’t call.” I danced around the yellow evidence cones sitting in the ash-dusted red clay. My low-tops had turned a rusty shade of burnt copper. “A girl could get the wrong idea.”

  Agent Kai Taylor’s mellow baritone crackled over the line. “Sorry about the wait, Eden.”

  His apology was genuine.

  “Oh, it’s not like I have anything important to do.” You know, like fulfilling my weekly seven-soul quota for the vampire warlord who ruled the island with a pale iron fist.

  Actually, I was already ahead of this week’s curve—I’d been working on next week’s quota at the Golden Rabbit.

  Still, I was annoyed.

  “You’re conditionally cleared.” Kai’s syllables were calm and measured.

  “Conditionally,” I said, not liking the word’s connotations. “What’s the catch?”

  “You take an official psychological evaluation.” His voice was taut. He knew I wouldn’t be crazy about this little hiccup. “It’s standard procedure.”

  If Hendricks and Blondie could make it through, so could I. Nonetheless, I didn’t want to back down quietly. “Worried I’m insane?”

  “I’m not,” Kai replied, and he meant it. “But I don’t make these decisions.”

  “You gonna tell me what this murder is about before I say yes?”

  There was a long pause before the agent said, “It’s a phoenix.”

  “A phoenix was murdered?”

  “No.” Another pause. “His guardian was. And we can’t figure out what the hell happened.”

  “So you need me to explain how the circle of life works, is that it? See, when people get old, or someone stabs them—”

  “The guardian had lived for over two thousand years, Eden,” Kai said, ignoring my barb. “According to the bird.”

  “The phoenix is up there?” That explained the vibrating knife, then. I suppose a fifteen-foot tall mythical beast—if Hendricks’s intel was accurate—was enough to get the Switch’s soul radar buzzing.

  Kai finally got to the kicker. “And he asked specific
ally for you.”

  Guess that was the “expertise” I offered. I had no idea why the hell a phoenix wanted to talk with me, though. Until two minutes ago, I thought Phoenix was just a deathly hot city in the desert.

  “Eden?” Kai asked, when I didn’t respond.

  I didn’t want anyone poking around my head. That had never ended well in the past. But it wasn’t every day the mythical bird of rebirth requested your presence. And curiosity beckoned me up the steep, dusty cliffs.

  After staring into the aquamarine waters for a few seconds longer, I said, “Guess I have an appointment with a government shrink, then.”

  A perfect view.

  A mysterious murder.

  Just another day in paradise, right?

  3

  After a lengthy ascent up the red-dusted steppes, I ducked inside the dimly lit cave at the summit. Battery-powered lamps dangled from the high ceiling, charting a path through the cavern. My footsteps echoed endlessly, sounding like a small army as I plunged deeper inside.

  The noise faded as my sneakers started padding through ash that felt like thick, fluffy snow. Sweat trickled down my neck, soaking the collar of my thrift-store tee. The Reaper’s Switch thrummed manically in my pocket.

  “Hello?” My question received no answer except my own reverberating voice. I pushed onward until the snaking lights led me to a massive wall of bronze. A green patina spread over the pockmarked metal like a corrosive lichen.

  I rapped my knuckles against the gangrenous surface. No one answered.

  Closer inspection revealed two doors cut into the alloy. One large—at least fifteen feet tall and ten feet wide—and the other human-sized, in the dimly lit corner by the craggy wall.

  When I pressed my palm to the rough metal, a magical lock disengaged. The cave briefly alit in a burst of blue flame as the smaller bronze door dissolved.

  A crisp heat drier than a Santa Fe summer surged through the open doorway, accompanied by a brilliant orange light. Two familiar voices—and one unfamiliar one—drifted toward my ears.

  “If we could examine the victim’s body—”

  “Only the Reaper shall touch her.” A thunderous voice overrode Kai’s calm baritone.

  “You’re interfering with a government investigation.” That voice belonged to Rayna Denton, Kai’s partner. We didn’t get along too well.

  “Then shackle me,” the voice replied.

  Neither Kai nor Rayna had an answer for that challenge. When I stepped inside the room, I discovered why.

  Because who—or, rather what—they were talking to wasn’t human. And I didn’t mean in a vampire or a shifter sense—or even something like a demon, which was vaguely humanoid, if generally hideous.

  A majestic bird, its feathers coated in sizzling embers, sat calmly at the back of the chamber. The flames were largely a visual effect, although the room was a hell of a lot warmer than the already stuffy cavern. The bird towered over Rayna and Kai, its massive wings tucked behind its back like it was waiting patiently.

  Behind the creature lay the guardian’s body.

  The chamber had a smoky aroma, which was to be expected, but it smelled more like the college-apartment, nicotine-heavy variety than what I’d associate with a mythical bird.

  Maybe the guardian was a smoker.

  “The phoenix, I presume,” I said.

  “Miss Hunter?”

  “The one and only,” I replied, sizing up the mythical bird. He was indeed about fifteen feet tall, if I had to put a number on it, and even with his wings by his side, he easily spanned ten feet across. I suspected his wingspan might double or triple during flight.

  The bigger door in the bronze wall was clearly designed for him.

  “We brought you the damn Reaper.” Rayna Denton’s wavy blonde hair, runway ready as always, glinted in the brilliant light. She didn’t look happy to see me. That made two of us. “Now, can we—”

  “Out.” The phoenix’s stern eyes narrowed toward the two agents. “I wish to speak with the Reaper in private.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Kai said, concern edging into his calm voice.

  “Let’s go,” Rayna said.

  “And what the hell am I supposed to do?” I asked. “No one’s told me shit.”

  “Just make a mess of things, Hunter.” Rayna’s perfect white teeth flashed in an unfriendly smile. “You’re good at that.”

  Rayna grabbed Kai by his rolled-cuff oxford shirt and dragged him out. His dark hair brushed over his broad, muscular shoulders as he glanced plaintively between me and the flaming bird. His sleeves were rolled up higher than normal, revealing most of the tattoos on his right arm. The spear sigil hidden amid the swirl of ink glowed faintly.

  Then, without so much as an explanation about why my presence was needed, the two agents were gone. The magical bronze door locked behind them with an ominous click.

  I glared at the phoenix and said, “You know I’m just going to tell them everything we talk about, right?”

  “That is for you to decide, Reaper.” The phoenix shifted on his talons, adjusting his weight. His movement briefly cast light on the corpse. His guardian looked ageless, no older than thirty. From the brief glimpse I got, she wasn’t covered in blood or bruises, either.

  “Let’s get this show on the road, then.”

  The majestic creature peered down its long beak at me. His gaze burned like two small yellow gemstones set in a blazing inferno. Silence ruled the room, as if the creature were refusing to answer me.

  But then I realized the phoenix was allowing me access to his soul, lowering the magical wards usually shielding it from a prying Reaper’s eyes. Whoever had granted Reapers the ability to sense—and literally taste—other creatures’ souls had granted us a potent character assessment tool. I sensed the cyclical nature of his never-ending existence—death, rebirth, death—like a broken carnival ride that left its rider perpetually dizzy and fatigued. An eternal weariness permeated his existence.

  I could relate to that—even if I had died only once.

  The taste of his soul lingering on my tongue, however, told more of the tale. Where I expected ash, fire, or fury, I got no hint of annihilation. His soul simply tasted like a pebble in the rain—smooth, solid, weathering the stormy centuries with stoic resolve.

  But that smooth, unbreakable surface had been nicked by his guardian’s sudden death. And it was now in danger of cracking from a white-hot anger nestled deep within his soul.

  I wrinkled my nose in a futile attempt to shake the taste from my mouth. After four years as a Reaper, it still wasn’t something I’d grown accustomed to. The sensation would fade on its own, in accordance to how strong the creature was.

  If I had to guess, this one would hang around for a little bit.

  The bird blinked once, smoke trailing from his wings. “Now you understand why I have called you here.”

  “Not one damn bit,” I replied, shrugging with confused honesty. “I know my Reaper’s Switch won’t stop buzzing. I know your guardian bit the dust.” His eyes narrowed at the characterization. “Or, um, was tragically murdered. And that you’re the first big talking bird I’ve seen since watching Sesame Street.”

  That about covered the situation. I was still in the dark about everything else.

  The phoenix arched his back in annoyance. “You really do not understand?”

  “You might start with a name,” I said. “That’s how a normal conversation starts in the twenty-first century.”

  “Very well.” The bird took a deep breath before reciting a never-ending list of ancient names. After a couple minutes, he continued with, “And then there is—”

  “All right, Pebbles, no need for a dissertation.” From his offended reaction, that clearly hadn’t been one of his many monikers. But the name thing hadn’t helped shed any light on the situation. And all the ones he’d given me sounded like they were from an epoch where electricity would have been considered witchcraft.

>   “Then it is as they say.” The phoenix shook his head like a stern, glowing parent admonishing a misbehaving child.

  A silence hung in the air until I asked the requisite, “Who’s saying what?”

  “Quick witted. Sharp tongued. Abrasive.”

  “I see you’ve been talking to Rayna.” I waved my hand in the hot air like I was swatting an invisible fly. “She can’t be trusted.”

  “That is not how I know about you, Reaper.” That he had other sources didn’t come as a shock. If you lived forever, you’d probably cultivated a large network of contacts. “Perhaps this was a mistake and you cannot help me.”

  “We both know that’s not true.” Even I didn’t know if it was a bluff. But I must’ve been convincing, because the large bird smiled—or what passed for it, given the heavy circumstances. Maybe he was just gearing up to eat me. After a moment, however, Pebbles nodded, seemingly satisfied that I met his requirements.

  “I was unsure before if I could trust you with this task.” His feathers burned brighter, the light dancing across the cramped walls. “But you are exactly as my sources say.”

  “Glad I passed your test.” I tapped my dusty sneaker against the cracked ground. Time was ticking by, and my curiosity was reaching its breaking point. “So, what can I do for you that the Feds can’t?”

  “That is simple, Reaper,” the phoenix replied, his booming voice full of stoic gravitas. “They cannot reap my guardian’s soul.”

  4

  Given that today was a day of firsts, I guess it was only fitting to toss another on the heap.

  You see, people didn’t ask me to reap the souls of their departed loved ones. In fact, two months before, I’d scrambled to meet my weekly quota because some little fox shifter had stopped me from reaping her dead friend’s soul.

  I stared at the phoenix’s gemstone eyes, unsure if his request was a joke. After running my hand through my hair, I finally said, “You know that means—”