Scythe

by Mercy Hollow

  SCYTHE. Copyright © 2017 by Mercy Hollow.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a book of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-9989479-0-7

  Dark Daydreams Books

  San Francisco, CA

  DDDB design by Kendall Perkins

  Cover design by Damonza

  www.mercyhollow.com

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  MERCY HOLLOW

  Dedicated to:

  ALL THE DELICIOUS MYSTERIES WE DO NOT KNOW

  AND THE SOULS WE ENCOUNTER THAT AWAKEN OUR AWE

  One

  THE BITE OF VINEGAR, leather, and pain crowded into Sly’s room, stealing the air. Wraithlike pressure encased his wrists. He jerked his arms. His bottle of Jack smacked his leg, no binds restraining him. He shifted in bed. Alcohol swam in his veins. He slid his wallet off the nightstand and pulled out his sole possession from his past, a picture of his older brother, Jake, his arm hung over Sly’s shoulder, their parents posed behind them.

  The picture blurred. The nightmare of his family snarled, fighting its way toward him.

  He wedged the picture back in his wallet.

  He’d fled Miami. L.A. Now Chicago was closing in around him.

  The street lamp peered through the ripped curtains, cutting the darkness.

  Sly’s eyes fluttered shut, and the horror movie of his life played – the front door bursting open, the huge man with the rope braid and horned-skull tattoo. The knife. His parents on their knees – “drug mules,” “skimming product.” Dad begging. Mom crying. The man slitting their throats. Sly’s older brother calling out to him, “Run!” “Hide!” The man swinging a blade, impaling his brother in the chest. The silver charms on the man’s braid jangling.

  The memories felt real. Closer than ever before.

  He yanked himself from the images, not wanting to face his worst moment again. The moment he chose himself while his family, his brother, lay bleeding-out on the floor.

  Behind Sly, metal scrapped on metal. He swiveled his head toward the sound. Blank wall. Empty darkness. “I’m too spent.”

  He downed the last swig of whiskey. The liquid weaved through the stubble on his cheeks and into his black hair. The bottle slipped from his hand. The glass clunked on the wood.

  His heart beat, his breath pushed, wetness threatened his eyes.

  No more running.

  His truth, his sanity were ghosts. Over the last few weeks, shadows had played in corners, figures lurked, strangers posed questions to his two less-than-personable roommates.

  He dragged his eyes open. A silhouette masked the edge of the street light. He shook the fog and buzz from his head. The light swayed. The window hazed, then refocused. Torn curtains hung from a crooked rod, the same as they’d been when he passed out.

  It’s just the dream. Sleep.

  He closed his eyes, and the memories found him again.

  The demon-tattooed man, his brother on his knees, the blade in his chest. The man yanked his brother’s hand off his wound and swung again and again. Another man entered, like a white angel spawned from hell. Beautiful scars etched his neck – dragons, tangled, fighting in free fall.

  Citrus invaded Sly’s senses. Coated his tongue, prickled his nose, stung his eyes. He lifted his head.

  Sharp fingers gripped the sides of his face. Their tips clawed into his cheeks. Tacky fluid crept down his skin. A shadowy figure reemerged at the foot of his bed. A second silhouette appeared, this one larger than the first, both men concealed in hoods. He strained to take in the scene. Four more figures hovered around him, one at each limb. Clamps cuffed his wrists. The same force cinched his ankles.

  He screamed, but duct tape sealed his mouth shut. Panic filled him. Don’t yell. They’ll kill Rev and Vegan too.

  After a year of running, and another hiding in the outskirts of Chicago, his family’s past had caught him.

  It’s real. It’s finally over. His body went limp. His senses heightened. The haze cleared.

  A woman whispered behind him.

  A woman? He tensed.

  She dug her nails further into his skin. “Your soul will suffer from now until eternity for taking Blade from me. He was mine.”

  My soul? Blade? “Who…you?” The tape gargled his words. “No…wrong guy.” He yanked against the binds on his wrists.

  The grip tightened. “Silence.” The woman touched something sharp to his throat, then pointed the blade at those around her. “Condemn him.”

  Sly thrashed.

  The figures at his sides shoved a booted foot onto each limb, pinning him to the bed. His bones strained under the pressure.

  He forced his body to still. To let fate take him.

  They drew daggers from silver sheaths. Metal scraped on metal, like the nightmare, resonating down his spine. Two figures at the end of the bed stepped forward, and light gleamed off their blades.

  A man at his feet chanted – the words distorted, rhythmic, unknown. One by one the others joined in. The woman leaned over and chanted in his ear. The cadence built, quickened. The six hooded figures lifted their weapons above him.

  Sly’s heart thumped, wishing for freedom. He struggled, but the boot soles dug into his flesh.

  The chant repeated, and the woman pledged the words, “A soul for a soul, a death for a death. Your heart, blood run slow and remain damned forever more. You are Claimed.”

  Light flickered off one of the blades. Silver raced toward his body and disappeared into his chest. A thud echoed from within. Thrust the air from his lungs. The man wrenched out the blade.

  Fluid seeped down Sly’s ribs. Gnawing pain erupted. He gulped for breath.

  The chant repeated. Another figure swung.

  A hot jab. The pound of impact. The jolt of extraction. Chills swarmed the surface of his skin.

  Again the words sang. Another flash of metal. Another gash in his skin. The chant. The impact. Again and again.

  His life poured from him, slipping away into the dirty sheets, a borrowed bed, a life not worth saving. But his heart beat, his breath pushed, a tear escaped from his eye.

  The final strike hit. Nothing but a blur, gasps, agony, drowning in his own body. Blood gurgled from his mouth, trapped beneath the tape.

  The running is over. Everything is over. Joy trickled in, euphoria at the realization, his body only wet sand, his skin pin-picks.

  The woman leaned over him. A flare of light sparkled in her mandarin eyes. Moisture
dripped on his forehead.

  She’s crying?

  Another drip fell from her eyes. Red. Slick.

  Not tears. Blood?

  She drew her dagger from its sheath, letting the edge grind on the metal, and wiped the blade with a glistening cloth. She lifted the dagger above him. Black, swirling symbols danced on the blade, shifting, aligning, finding their place in line.

  Fire-red hair hung around her face. “A soul for a soul, a death for a death. Your heart, blood run slow and remain damned forever more. I Claim you.” The symbols on the blade raced to the tip. “Die.” She hissed and jammed the dagger into his heart.

  Burning poison rushed through his veins.

  The woman laughed, staggered and quivering, bent over him and held his gaze. His vision clouded, faded, gray taking away her fire.

  She edged down and kissed his taped mouth. “How does it feel to lose the only thing you have left?” She ripped the dagger from his chest.

  Her eyes flared with gold, then faded to black.

  REV HUNKERED INTO the bucket-seat couch next to the car-rim side table, and prepped for his favorite hobby, wasting time with meaningless distractions. He grabbed the remote and flipped through the movies.

  From the garage, his roommate Vegan, carnivore to the bone, stomped into the living room. “Get him now, Rev.” Vegan’s voice was as jovial as his appearance, dark T-shirt with images of suffering, torn jeans covered with reminisces of motor-oil and wiped bloody knuckles, a twenty-something face with the lifelines of a fifty-year-old, the bleached messy hair of a teen, and the temperament and patience of a first grader.

  “It’s been two days.” Vegan chucked a towel at Rev.

  Rev stared at the TV screen. He let the towel hit him and fall to the floor without a break in his channel surfing.

  “That’s not a hangover, that’s comatose. Don’t be a puss. It’s your turn. Go get Sly and toss him in the shower.”

  Rev flipped him a glance, set down the remote, and picked up the X-box controller. He was the opposite of Vegan. Rev’s white T-shirt was covered with images of fun and games, his twenty-something face had the lifelines of a fifty-week-old, the brown eyes and floppy hair of a puppy, and the temperament and patience of a saint who desperately wished he wasn’t. The game powered up, and Rev chose the role of Assassin.

  Vegan gripped Rev’s hand, covering the five dragonfly tattoos that dripped to his thumb. “He’s your damn friend.”

  The two had put Sly up for the last ten months for the price of utilities and a hushed mouth, both guys in violation of their probation on more than one account, but Rev kept Vegan from tossing Sly out.

  Vegan yanked the controller out of Rev’s hand, plopped on the couch, and elbowed him in the ribs. “Now.”

  Rev grumbled. “This was a bad one. There’s going to be puke. I’m not cleaning it. I’ll throw him in the shower, but the upchuck is all his.”

  “Whatever. Take care of it.” Vegan focused on the screen and the animated guy in camos readying his semi-automatic. “And remind him, hangover or not, it’s his turn to get the grub. I want burgers.”

  “Burgers?” Rev huffed.

  “Relax. He can slaughter some lettuce for your salad, you wussy, freak vegetarian.”

  Rev frowned. “I’m not a vegetarian. I just got a great uneasy for being too close to used-to-be-alive things. That includes cows ground to a fine, bloody chew level.”

  “It’s burgers, final. There is nothing you can say that’ll stop me from craving the dead Bessie.” Vegan moaned. “Now go.” He hammered his thumb into the red button on the controls, Mr. Militia raining a storm of fire on the enemy scaling the wall toward him.

  Rev shuffled to Sly’s door. Scraping his new friend off the floor was getting old. Sly had been nothing but ‘don’t ask’ and mystery since Rev met him, but there was something about the guy, like Sly had his reasons and Rev knew his motives were good enough to justify his silence and increased need for numbness.

  Rev gripped the door handle and whispered to himself, “He better not have spilled Jack on the sheets again. That shit just does not come out.”

  Two

  BEHIND AN EQUIPMENT supply company, G pulled up near the warehouse. Her car engine clunked, revved, then settled. She scanned the men in navy-blue uniforms loading boxes onto a truck. None of them were her brother Lance. Sweat lined the men’s backs and collars. Late September refused to give way to fall. She checked the time, 2:15PM.

  I’m early.

  Off the back seat she grabbed her leather bag. The word Giver was embroidered in thread on the side. The black-on-black concealed the title. She unzipped the bag. The scent of bitter, burnt sadness rose from within. She moved the brass-knuckles and sacred cloth aside, and took out the glass bottle of Bane. A few drops of the gray liquid sloshed at the bottom.

  This was the second time she needed to refill the contents. Memories laced her fingers. Darkness eclipsed her heart.

  So many people. So much pain. So many names taken away toward Ascension.

  Someone rapped on her window. She startled and hid the bag under her jeans. Lance, a male reflection of herself, stood beside the car in sweats, his fawn skin more drawn of late. Even five years older than her, everyone always knew they possessed the same genes. The same rugged, sweetheart face, same jagged black hair, same violet eyes. She unlocked the door.

  He climbed in the passenger side.

  “You already changed your uniform?”

  Lance glanced at the working men, then stared at his feet.

  “Don’t tell me you got fired. I traded favors to get you that gig.”

  “No. It’s good, G. A friend is covering. I had to meet someone about a job.”

  “A job?” Her voice soared. “I told you these temp ones would pay off.”

  He shook his head. “An Emissary job.”

  Her excitement crashed. “Oh.”

  Lance sniffed the air, scrunched his face, and pointed at the bag. “Why do you have your Giver bag? You have a task?”

  “You know I can’t say, but no. I ran out of Bane. I have to go to Wicker Park after lunch.” She set the bag on the back seat next to a stack of work ads she needed to hand out tomorrow. She put the car in gear, the engine sputtered, caught, and she drove down the street. “I miss having meals with you since you moved out.”

  “Me too.” Lance clicked his fingernails together, keeping his hands busy.

  She parked in front of the diner their mother used to take them to for special occasions. G’s fourteenth birthday was the last time they’d all been there together. The food was heavy and cheap and made them all smile. “Ten years. I still miss her.”

  Lance nudged G. “It’s cool. I miss her too.”

  “Remember next week, we go see her on her birthday.”

  He sighed and focused on his hands. “You’re a good person.”

  The comment chilled her. “Are you in trouble?” She hated not trusting him. After their mother died, his strong arms held her through the hard times and tears, fed her when she was hungry, made sure she always had a safe place to rest her head. But now, his face was starved, his eyes distant, and his actions restrained them both.

  He huffed and opened his door. “Can’t a brother say nice stuff about his little sister?”

  She touched his arm. “Sorry.” Even after the last two years, she still saw hope in him.

  Her phone rang the chime of the Summoner. She answered the call. “Yes?”

  “The Giver has been summoned. Four o’clock. Bronzeville location.”

  She squeezed her forehead. “Yes. Thank you, Summoner.” She ended the call.

  Lance shut the door. “So, no lunch, huh?”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s cool. It’s your job.”

  “No. I work at the bar.” She pointed at her Devil’s Penthouse T-shirt. “Giver is my designation.”

  Lance fidgeted in his seat and texted someone. His phone pinged right back. “I’ll go with you t
o Wicker Park. My connection can meet me near there.”

  She pulled out of the diner lot, drove onto the Kennedy, and headed north. “Who is this new job connection?”

  Lance kneaded the crux of his elbow. “I know you hate the Legion stuff. But none of us have a choice. I only need to fulfill five more Emissary Claims, after the one last week, and I’m there. One hundred names. We’re there. I Ascend. I’ll take you as my Second, so you’ll Ascend too.” With a brief sparkle in his violet eyes, she almost let herself feel for him, like he was actually doing it for her, like the brother she once knew. Trying to get them to the next level, to a better life, to a place they could both be free of the requirements of their positions. “You worked so hard, Lance. We worked so hard. I don’t want you to start using again.”

  He tensed. “You’re never going to believe in me.”

  “Who do you think I’ve been doing all this for?”

  Lance glared out the passenger window. “I feel guilty. Okay? Drop it.”

  She gripped the wheel and pressed her lips tight. A familiar wrench tweaked her heart. His choices seemed to find her, as they had two years ago when she awoke to the rhythm of deep words and piercing pain. The night her brother’s misdeeds Claimed her future.

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER she turned onto Milwaukee. Coffee shops, cafés, and modish stores lined both sides of the street. At an intersection, two men, large, and muscular, burst out of a women’s clothing store and scanned the sidewalk. They exchanged quick words and split in opposite directions, peering through shop windows.

  G pointed them out to Lance. “Are they Shields?”

  “I think so.” He tilted away from the door. “Someone’s in trouble when those guys find them.”

  She gulped, continued a few blocks, and parked near a consignment shop. She grabbed the empty glass bottle, shoved it in her purse, and got out of the car.

  Behind her, metal clanked on the pavement like ghost chains.

  She peeked back. Ax, an ex-acquaintance of her brother’s, stalked toward them. Gaunt, rail muscle stretched over skeleton, cropped hair the color of fresh blood, and the one who introduced her brother to addiction. A buckle-strap on his bondage pants dragged on the ground.