The Reaper's Sacrifice

by Abigail Baker

  Percy released a saccharine laugh. “You call me a kid, but I’m Errol’s favorite, and you hate that.”

  “Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” Delia mocked. “It must pickle your lady bits to lust after Errol when he doesn’t think of you like that. He’s a daddy to you and always will be, child.”

  Percy’s small hands curled into maces.

  “Here’s another lesson, Teacup.” Delia swaggered toward Percy. “Our little friend is a horny teenager, so instead of getting to know men as every woman should, what do you think she does to satisfy her needs?”

  Right when I was starting to grow fond of Delia, she became an insensitive jerk. To her, life was about sex and fashion. But for some of us—even Trivials like Percy—sex couldn’t be our existence alone. Some of us cared about the future of Styx. Some of us gave a damn if Marin remained in power. And some of us cared about right and wrong, even if this teenage problem deserved everything coming to her.

  I moved between the Trivial and the Scrivener, facing Delia with a stern look. “You shouldn’t say such things. I don’t like her any more than you, but that’s not cool.”

  “Spare me your sudden conscience. The kid isn’t old enough to buy herself a vibrator. How do you satisfy the urge, Percy, dear? Is your trigger finger working double-time when you think of Errol?”

  Percy slammed against my backside, a banshee screeching in my ear. As a result, I lost my balance and got personal with Delia’s well-endowed melons. Neither Delia nor I had could react or get hot before the thorny branches of a rose bush broke our fall, snagging our dresses and skin as Percy tore at us like a rabid Tasmanian devil. Dudley clamped his jowls around Percy’s twig of a leg.

  “Get off of us, you fungus!” Delia roared.

  “You’re a whore!” As much of a weakling as she was, Percy threw her weight behind her punches. I would’ve fought back had I not been entangled in the hedge, not to mention the meat in a Trivial-Scrivener sandwich. But every time I got enough stable footing to throw her off of me, she’d kick my legs out from under me.

  Tingling started in my fingers as I grew irritated. I had to find another way to stop Percy before Delia or I went nuclear. I flipped around at the same time that Percy reared back with her fist in the air.

  In full hockey brawler mode, I threw my arms around her waist, grabbed her shirt, and yanked it over her head. Her arms were forced upright, glued against her head by the cotton binding. Dudley released his grip on her leg when I shoved her backward. She staggered with her hands in the air, shirt half ripped off, and white bra visible for the world to see.

  A six-foot redheaded windmill went at Percy with her arms in full rotation. I dove in front of Delia, one hand against her heaving chest.

  “Don’t! Let Errol deal with her,” I said to pacify the Scrivener.

  “Don’t be so kind. Percy’s a snide brat who needs someone to put her in her place.” Her long, thin arms swung at Percy around my shoulders.

  I pushed Delia back and turned to Percy, who was tussling with her shirt. She yanked the garment down when Murray raced to our corner of the orchard. Not far away, Nicodemus hustled toward us, too, his brow heavy with judgment.

  “We’ve been looking for you,” Murray said, not bothering to ask if everyone was all right.

  “I want to speak with him about something important.” Percy ran her arm underneath her bloody nose. “It’s about this hick from Montana.”

  “You’re not going to throw shade after I stopped Windmill Sally from melting you.” Now my hands were in fists. “Delia’s right. You’re a brat who goes about harassing innocent people and starting a war. You deserve to have your ass handed to you.”

  Percy’s lips curled with indignation. “That hillbilly, Leo, deserved to die, the lowlife!”

  Murray threw an arm around my waist to slow me down when I went for Percy.

  “Let’s see how dirty that mouth of yours can get when my foot is in it,” I yelled.

  “Give her hell, Teacup!”

  “Delia, don’t egg her on,” barked Murray. “Show some restraint.”

  “Scriveners don’t know restraint. They’re underlings,” Percy growled.

  That insult brought Nicodemus storming into the middle of our fight, startling Percy out of her overzealous confidence. His face, which had always been friendly, was grave, his red eyes the only indication that Nicodemus was an Eidolon, and a powerful one.

  “You will hold your tongue, child!” he said in a thunderous bass. “Go see your master at once.”

  Percy held the same prejudices against Scriveners that I had heard many times over. Why Scriveners received such a bad name had baffled me for the entirety of my life. Whatever hate Percy carried was a too-common undercurrent beneath Styx’s already crumbling politics. And yet Errol, a Scrivener who believed in equality for all, permitted her intolerance?

  “Delia, go with Percy and tell Errol what happened. The rest of you, go back to the house.” Nicodemus pointed at the Manor and, not surprisingly, everyone complied. Of course they would. Nicodemus was an Eidolon, elderly but deadly. Being born a Reaper and not a Scrivener meant that, by default, he commanded more respect than Delia or I could. This disparity annoyed me more than I liked.

  “I wish to have a talk with Ollie in private,” he added.

  “Come along, little one. Let’s go tell Daddy Errol about your adventures at summer camp,” said Delia, as she, Murray, and Percy proceeded back toward the Manor for what would be an interesting conversation.

  Nicodemus’s constricted pupils bored into me. “You are supposed to be a peacemaker, the voice of the rebellion, and look at you. You must learn control, or you’ll end up a nuclear mess that will span from here to Romania.”

  I ran my hands down my hair, smoothing any untamed frizzies. “What rebellion? That stalled out two years ago when I lost half of my soul and all of my voice.”

  “You never lost your ability to speak against Marin, not for good. The time is coming when you will need to follow through on what you started.”

  I shook my head, positive Nicodemus was speaking of a different person, someone I had left behind in the bowels of Lethe. Of course, inside I knew differently. The rebel was reawakening in me, and she would not remain quiet. But much like last time, I needed something to catapult me into the insurgence, and right now I was biding time in the Land of Oz and the Munchkins in soul-cloudy California. “The only thing that came from my rebellion was that I ended up secluded in Montana, which kept me out of trouble, exactly like Marin wanted.”

  Nicodemus licked his lips, a habit that I had come to learn was preparation for a speech. “There was this young Stygian once, who destroyed everything because of his temper. If he wanted to strike the person next to him, he did. If he wanted to burn down a house, he did. He was unruly to the core and was banished from town after town. Even his own family threw him away because he brought them so much trouble and heartache.”

  “Let me guess. Errol overcame his temper and became a Master Scrivener. The end.”

  “No, my dear. I’m talking about me.”

  I unfolded my arms.

  “Of course, this was centuries ago. It has taken practice, but I am proof that anyone can override their unwieldy instincts,” he went on. “How do you think Errol has developed his power as a Master Scrivener?”

  “You saw him the other night. I felt his anger.” I knew even as I said it that it wasn’t the same thing.

  “There’s a difference between controlled anger and unadulterated rage. Errol is master of his emotions. He wields them as weapons.”

  I brushed leaves from my dress to avoid his gaze. I had heard Nicodemus’s reproach from everyone before—Gerard, Papa, Mama, Brent, even Marin. The sermon was always the same. Learn to control yourself, Olivia. Learn to rein in your power. Their words were empty rhetoric to someone who wanted to tame her emotions and control her Master Scrivener hands but didn’t know how.

  “You’re upset,” he sai
d. “Now is the time to start working on your emotions.”

  I stormed ahead of him. Unless Nicodemus had specific thoughts on how to help me, I wasn’t going to have this discussion now. “I’m tired of everyone telling me what I need to do and then failing to help me fix it. The way I see it, if I explode, I explode! It’s the only way I can harness my Master Scrivener power, it seems.”

  “Ollie, that’s not the way to resolve your frustration. Come, let’s—”

  I swung around to face him when he reached out to me. Something compelled me to grab his hand. Nicodemus looked at my fingers curled around his, and in the reflection in his eyes, I saw my hand glowing red. I let go.

  He choked back on excruciation.

  “Oh, no. I’m—” Words failed me. I wanted to avoid looking at the burned flesh of his hand, but my conscience urged me to gaze upon what my abhorrent temper had done.

  Blinking away tears of agony, he shifted backward before turning and making toward the Manor, likely to find ice to stop the pain.

  “Nicodemus, no, I’m sorry!” Too embarrassed to run after him, I stayed in the garden, feeling regret and disappointment coil around me.

  Nicodemus was right. I wasn’t any good to the rebellion, Styx, or those I loved if I couldn’t master my emotions and abilities. In the end, I’d be the same louse for the Reapers, slave to their demands and never owning my destiny. I had to get a grip on myself.

  What have I done?

  A voice called out to me from the vine-covered patio. I ignored it. I didn’t care who it was.

  My vermilion skin began to shimmer with ribbons of white and blue, signs of heat far stronger than anything I was used to. My stomach knotted from shame. I wanted to vomit, but even my stomach couldn’t purge the disgrace I had just crammed into it. A dry heave threw me forward, grasping the branches of the bushes to steady myself.

  Errol clasped my wrists. “Nic is gonna be fine.”

  “I should not have done that.”

  “You dinna mean to.”

  “I can’t control myself.” I opened my wet eyes to see Errol’s fingers curled around my blazing hot arms. The grass and the bark of the nearby trees on either side of me were burned to a crisp. Even the earth suffered from my uncontrolled curse.

  But Errol didn’t.

  “This is who you are. Some Masters turn back at this point. Forge ahead, straight into the storm, Olivia. Breathe into the heat. Let it work for you, not against you.”

  Lightheaded, I fell back without caring if I tumbled into a hole that led straight to Erebus. Errol caught me, though. I pressed my back against his chest, collapsing into him as we sank to our knees on the grass path of the garden. He rounded himself over me, his chin on my shoulder.

  “Let air cool you from the inside out. You’re on the verge. Use your breath.” He spoke in a calm I longed to replicate, one buried beneath layers of regret and mistakes. His fingers covered my wrists. Like days before, he was there to calm me. His fingers released the tension that had been cemented into my muscles and bones.

  I gritted my teeth, balled my hands into fists, and screamed until my throat burned. There was no tranquility. Fury devoured whatever peace I might’ve found in my life. And I wanted to explode from it.

  Errol locked me against him with an arm around my stomach and the other across my chest. “Breathe. Start with one breath, love.”

  I could do this. I’d have to. I would breathe.

  The first lungful wasn’t deep, but it was a start. Coolness moved inside of me. Each gasp drew me closer to stillness.

  Errol’s chest lifted and collapsed, accompanying my cadence, forcing tears, tremors to float away to someplace forgotten.

  “See there,” he said. “You’re controllin’ it.”

  This was a minor victory. The war against myself hadn’t been won, but his tutelage kept me fighting. Errol’s body gave me the focus that I had been seeking for years. What was most remarkable was that he wouldn’t disintegrate from my heat. He could touch me and hold me through my meltdowns. He was, so it seemed, one of the few who could withstand me. I needed him to prove that I was capable of tamping down what I had seen as a curse. Maybe through his guidance I would become the Master everyone believed I would. The one I knew I was.

  Maybe…

  “I won’t burn you?” I asked.

  There was a quiet catch in his throat. “You won’t hurt me.”

  I drew air through my nose, feeling the world drop out from under me. Had everything played out differently, my connection with Errol could have turned into a deep romance. But there was someone who owned my heart, and though I had not seen him in person in two years, I felt him there, always with me, waiting for the moment to return to me.

  As I turned my head to glance back at the Manor, set on making amends with Nicodemus, Errol’s mouth caught mine. This was not the thanks I had meant to give him. But for Errol, it seemed a start to something more.

  I shoved him back with my elbows, liberating myself from his arms. His lips disengaged. I caught myself on the grass, bent forward, trying to erase the feel of his closeness as I clung desperately to the memory of Brent.

  The rumble of storm clouds gave warning. With nature’s soundtrack, I climbed to my feet and ran for the Manor, refusing to look back at Errol and think about what just transpired between us.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You may have to fight a battle more than once to win it.”

  —Margaret Thatcher

  “Olivia!” Errol called out.

  His legs were twice the length of mine, and his stride was quicker. Before I reached the patio, his hands were on my hips, and he whirled me around to face him. Raindrops batted at his face and dripped over his chest, which rose and fell with his breathlessness. He gripped me so tightly our hips pressed together, forcing me onto my toes for balance. For several moments, we stared, exchanging nothing but blinks to brush away the rain. Brent had said twice now that I should move on from him, that there was no future for us. The reason why he was so quick to give up on us was staring me straight in the eyes. Life with Errol could be amazing. He could be both my mentor and lover. I could live happily at Wrightwick. And I could do it now, without being bound by my banishment. Brent’s suggestion made sense.

  The thing was, love wasn’t a bond of convenience. We couldn’t help who we loved. We couldn’t stop our hearts from beating for a particular person because they’re on the other side of the world, or the other side of banishment. Brent didn’t see that. Or maybe he did but hoped that I wouldn’t.

  “I love Brent. That’s never going to change,” I said, realizing, in this singular instant, that letting Marin keep Brent and I apart had dictated my life since my rebellion. Errol’s kiss had caused something inside me to shift irrevocably. As someone who never followed rules, as someone who did everything she could to avoid them, I was done living by Marin’s law. I needed Brent now. I would have him back. And soon.

  The power in Errol’s hands slackened on my waist, and I slid back onto my heels.

  “If our stories were different…but they’re not,” I continued. “I have to find Brent.”

  “You’re banned from communicatin’ with him.”

  “I’m done with following that rule.”

  He ran the backs of his fingers along my cheek. I refused to let my eyes flutter from the touch. Parts of me wanted him. He knew that. Greater parts wanted Brent. Loved Brent.

  “I didn’t come here for romance. I came to save Brent. And I came to help Styx.”

  “Hear me out, Olivia, please.” He put his hand around the back of my neck. If I had slapped him, he would’ve broken his grip on me. I couldn’t cast him aside so easily––a fraction of my heart was content to have him there for this brief moment in time. “Your powers are remarkable. You are remarkable. I want to learn more about you. I want to be—”

  “Stop.” I twisted my body out of his grasp, or he let me go—which, I wasn’t certain. “We can’t do this
. I’m here for Brent, and over the past few days, I’ve forgotten that. This isn’t about me. It’s about those who are counting on me.”

  There was precious little time for me to ponder how Errol kept the rogue Eidolons captive. They had the capability of Half-deathing themselves through bedrock. The options for containment were limited. But upon stepping into the chambers beneath Wrightwick where the River—or creek—Phlegethon divided the space in two, I quickly understood the “how” to my curiosity.

  Lung-burning, life-sucking heat.

  Eidolons wielded their power via paralyzing iciness.

  Scriveners wielded their power via molten heat.

  My former guards lay like dead dogs in their separate prison cells. Metal bars separated them from each other. The three in small square pods, looked drained of their usual menace. Heat like that of a Master Scrivener’s came from the rocky cavern walls and the bars of the pods, and it was enough to keep them at bay.

  Was this how they kept Brent locked in Lethe? Was this what Brent endured there?

  “Scrivie,” said a voice from a pod of prison bars tucked away from the two remaining stooges.

  Chad lifted his head and chest from the ground. Sweat poured from him like gushes of blood. His color had faded to gray. The humanoid shape that I recognized as Chad was beginning to melt away to reveal the blackness of Death in raw form.

  I knelt, trying to level my gaze with his. I touched his prison bars and quickly retracted my hand.

  “This isn’t right,” I uttered. “He can’t treat others like this.”

  Chad’s black suit coat lay in a heap beside him, and his trousers were soaked through, clinging to his body. The damage was already beginning to consume him. Seconds ago, he was grayish. Now, splotches of black appeared on his melting flesh.

  “Need to get out,” he murmured as he lowered his head to the floor.

  “I will help you, but”—I glanced over my shoulder at the other Eidolons, who were as good as lumps—“only if you’re straight with me.”