The Reaper's Sacrifice

by Abigail Baker

  He didn’t lift his head again. What else could he do? He had diverted my inquiries at every opportunity. He had used intimidation, distraction, and avoidance to keep from answering my questions. Whatever he wanted to keep from me was obviously of importance. Unfair as it was to use his personal torture to draw out the answers I had been waiting for, I did what I had to do.

  I shifted my weight so that I was nearly on the floor with him. Whispering was important, in case of eavesdroppers. “Now’s your chance to sing, canary. What is going on with Brent?”

  Chad sighed, which seemed silly with the air so unbearable for him.

  “You’re loyal to him. Why?” I nudged.

  “Hume’s working the rebellion from the inside,” he muttered, speaking into the floor. “Turning the Eidolons one by one against Marin.”

  “When did he turn you?”

  Chad coughed. The heat must’ve stung with each inhalation. “Brent and I have history that goes back long before your Mama and friend died. But he said some things the night before your trial…things I couldn’t ignore or forget.”

  “What things?”

  “Things you aren’t going to be privy to, Scrivie.”

  As much as I wanted to know, now was not the time to force the truth out of him. Breathing was hard enough in this corner of hell. I gave the Stooges another scan.

  “Brent’s gonna move soon, I think.” He raised his head to look at me. His eyes were a mix of gold and red, each vying for their place. “He’s waiting on you, though.”

  Exactly as I had been waiting for him. Loyalty was never something I questioned with Brent. And loyalty was a gift I would honor to my dying day. Brent and I weren’t lovers alone, pining away for the other’s company. What initially brought us together was the idea of revolution, and it was what pulled us apart.

  Now that I knew he was waiting for me, on the outer edge of his orchestrated insurrection, my role took on greater weight.

  “What does he need from me, Chad?”

  “Dunno.” He laid his head back down, shrugged and coughed some more. “All I know is that Brent knows where you are. And he’s pissed.”

  Soaked from the rain and my brief visit with Chad in Satan’s sauna, I slinked through the door to my bedroom, shivering and unsure of what would happen next and what I should do to prepare for it.

  I had to convince Errol to release Chad, which wouldn’t be as easy now that I’d turned down his advances. I needed to get a hold of Papa or, risking Marin’s wrath, Brent, to let them know what was happening. Delia had invited me to use her phone, but enraging Errol was too high at the moment. Chad and the Stooges might’ve been prisoners down in that makeshift hell, but I was a prisoner free to roam the grounds so long as I didn’t kick up any dust.

  And that punishment was unacceptable. Something had to be done.

  But before the rebel in me resurfaced, raging her own battle for independence, I had amends to make with a friend.

  Murray had informed me that Nicodemus was in his room, so I was careful not to burst in and upset him any more than I already had.

  “Hello?” I said, nervous.

  His bedchamber was still at first glance, save for the crackle of wood and flames from the fireplace across the way. He was sitting in a chair in front of the dancing flames with his back to me. Between him and the fire was Dudley, curled up on the rug, sound asleep.

  “Can we talk?” I kicked off my sodden shoes, crept onto the rug, and sat across from him and Dudley in an empty chair.

  Nicodemus’s hand was bandaged and tucked underneath his other arm.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, giving my dog a glance that I knew held a hint of jealousy. “Please forgive me.”

  “I forgive you,” Nicodemus said, just above a whisper.

  “I’m going to work on things…on me.”

  “That would be for the best, I think.”

  “Yeah, I know. Believe me, I know.” I bent down and scratched Dudley’s ear. He flinched awake. The white crescents underneath his brown irises detailed his sleepiness as he gazed at me.

  “He’s upset with you,” Nicodemus said of Dudley.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “He told me so.”

  “Well, then,” I leaned over the arm of the chair and grabbed one of my soaking wet shoes. “Tear the hell out of it, Duds. That’ll make you forget about my stupid behavior.”

  Dudley’s long white tail flapped against the floor. Aside from tennis balls, my shoes had always been his favorite chew toys. After a couple more beats of his tail, he rose onto his feet. I welcomed him onto my lap if he wanted it, but Dudley wasn’t interested in a reunion—he wanted my shoe. So I let him trot off with his prize.

  Unconditional acceptance from a pet was easily undervalued, but it was one of the more profound gifts anyone could have. I was grateful for a lot of things—Dudley, Nicodemus, Papa, and Brent. But the people that I loved would not matter if Brent’s stealthy revolution failed. If Brent’s life ended, so would mine. And if Brent’s life ended, then Papa and Nicodemus would likely suffer a similar fate. Marin would never let anyone remotely connected to another uprising off like he had when I’d stormed Lethe’s door.

  Everyone would die. Marin would see to it.

  Dudley burst into a scratchy yowl, startling us. He stood on the bench in the nearby window, throwing his head back with each bay. Tufts of fur on his neck stood on end. My shoe was discarded at his side.

  Nicodemus followed me as I rushed to the window. There was nothing curious about the countryside except for a new blitz of storm clouds stacked behind a wall of mountains to the west. By the time the storm hit, the sun would have set. The backdrop was foreboding, sure, but no reason for Dudley to break into a fit of barks.

  “It’s all right, Duds,” I said, patting down his clumps of spiked fur.

  He didn’t relax. Growing angrier, he rose onto his hind legs.

  A zigzag of lightning cut through the dark clouds.

  That’s when I saw what Dudley saw.

  Hundreds of yards away was a mass too big to be a car or a group of hikers.

  I leaned closer, squinting. “What is that?”

  “It’s them,” Nicodemus said.

  Another crack of lighting lit up the sky. In that millisecond, I saw that the mass was on the move.

  I put a hand to my chest to calm my heart, which was pounding against my ribs. “Who?”

  “Eidolons.”

  An anvil of dread landed in my stomach. A hillside blanketed in high-level Grim Reapers was chilling, even if they meant peace. “Chad told me that Brent is building an army of Eidolons for another revolution.”

  Nicodemus gave me an incredulous look.

  “Could they be here with Brent to help us?”

  “Doubtful,” he said, crushing my hope that I’d get to see Brent sooner than I projected. “Brent knows you are here, so he wouldn’t attack.”

  “How are you so sure they are here to attack us?” Naive? Me? Absolutely.

  “Eidolons don’t move fast unless there’s a fight to be had. These blokes are not here to talk us into a revolution, I’m afraid.”

  “Then they’re here for the River.”

  “And us,” he added.

  Wrightwick couldn’t withstand another attack, or so Errol had said. This was the battle it didn’t need. The Phlegethon River. The Head Reaper’s militia had come to destroy what was left of the River of Fire, the one thing on earth capable of undoing the permanence of Death.

  “We must tell Errol at once. Come.” Nicodemus pushed back from the window just as lightning struck again, illuminating his face, which was fraught with unease.

  He wrenched the bedroom door open. Errol was running through the long hallway toward us. He carried a handgun—a pitiful defense against Eidolons—and behind him, echoing in the foyer, were the shouts of a household of Trivials and Scriveners. Paralyzing fear stirred in me as I watched him sprint our way.

  “They’re here,�
�� Errol said, with remarkable calm. “You two get to the Phlegethon. You’ll be safe there.” He reached around Nicodemus and grabbed my bicep with authoritative finesse.

  I jerked back. “I’m going to help.”

  He drew me so close I smelled the musk of desire on him. “Get yourselves to the basement.”

  “There are too many of them. You need help.”

  He herded us toward the stairs as Trivials raced about, arming themselves with whatever would be useful against Eidolons.

  “Can your Trivials fight them off, Errol?”

  “Not sure. We will go down defendin’ our keep.”

  We flew down the stairs and cut through the masses of Trivials racing here and there. Echoing in the distance was the din of Eidolon footfalls. Grim Reapers were about to descend upon the Manor. It seemed an impossible feat to keep Wrightwick in Errol’s hands.

  “We could use Chad’s help.” I bumped shoulders with one body after another. “Release him.”

  Errol was tall enough to see over the crowd as we scrambled toward the library. Worried that I’d lose Nicodemus, I readjusted my grip on his good hand and pulled him along.

  Errol threw open the double doors to the library. They bounced off the rotting bookcases. Stale air attacked my throat. My pile of research, stacked to one side, leaned precariously, as I had left it earlier. The oil lamp’s black wick had dried up.

  He raced for the door that led to the basement. “Get downstairs.”

  “No way,” I said. “Send Nic down; let him release Chad. They can protect the water. I’m going to stay here and help.”

  I guided Nicodemus to the door, wishing the old Eidolon would shuffle faster.

  “You’re not experienced enough to fight,” Errol argued.

  “What about Delia? Will you let her fight?”

  His scowl faltered. “The basement is the safest place for you both.”

  “Go, Nic. Release Chad, so he can help us,” I said. “I’m staying up here.”

  Nodding, Nicodemus entered the staircase, glancing back at me as he descended into the darkness. Fear begged me to follow him, where we’d hide on a wing and prayer that everything would turn out okay, but I wouldn’t let Errol fight this battle alone.

  When Nicodemus disappeared into the circling stairwell, Errol grabbed my arm. “Your turn, Scrivener.”

  I leaped back, ripping myself from his grip, then spun on my heel and made for the foyer.

  I told him I would fight.

  And I would.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Humans have gone to war over genocide in Africa. Their deaths are bountiful. Congratulations, Stygians, on gainful employment.”

  —Head Reaper Marin

  Errol kept pace with me as I made for the foyer.

  “Go back and wait with Nic,” he shouted over the racket of Trivials scrambling to prepare for an assault, barking commands at each other. “They’ll show you no mercy.”

  His warning, no matter how terrifying, didn’t stop my pursuit of the katana sword, a long, shiny, curved blade used by Samurai, that hung on the wall above a large glass credenza. I had spotted it in passing a day ago, wondering how it got to California and whether it was ever used in combat. Tonight, it would see action, even though I had no idea how to use it beyond swordplay as a child. Was I skilled? No. Was I determined not to go down? Yes. That attitude was the only thing that would save me. After all, the way I saw it, everyone had vulnerabilities—even Eidolons. No Stygian was any good with their head removed from their neck. A strike there wouldn’t kill them, nothing would, but their heads rolling around like half-deflated basketballs sure as hell would slow them down. Getting close enough before their jaws of death could suck more of my soul away would require a shitload of luck.

  “Sip.” Errol handed me his leather flask with the manaia, the Scrivener’s symbol, on it. I wasn’t interested in downing a shot of whiskey, but then, maybe it would dull the edge. I sipped. Then I gagged.

  “What is that?” I griped.

  “Phlegethon.” His smirk vanished as fast as it appeared. “It’ll augment your heat. Use it.”

  The call of the battle was impossible to ignore. If Marin had once wanted me sent to Erebus for marking Reaper Baird with a handprint, he’d want me banished to hell a hundred times over for the carnage I would wreak over his underhanded attack.

  In my sodden hippie dress and bare feet, I hopped onto the glass credenza, curled my fingers around the smooth, curved handle of the katana, and yanked. It didn’t budge. Grimacing, I tried again but with no luck. The uninviting possibility that the sword was a prop and not a weapon of death came to mind. I threw up in my mouth a little for it. Maybe I would wind up fighting Eidolons with wood and paper and panties full of you-know-what.

  A set of hands swooped around my shoulders, clutched the handle again, and ripped the weapon from the wall in one effortless move. I turned around to find Chad, whose face was covered with black splotches like pustules from the bubonic plague. He tossed the sword into my hands. The weapon’s pristine balance and shimmering metal assured me that it was real. Very real.

  “Stay close, Scrivie,” he said. “I’m not full strength, but we can still work together.”

  He said no more when the guttural cries of Eidolons and Trivials outside announced the beginning of a fight.

  I shuddered. What had I gotten myself into? Sure, I had challenged Head Reaper Marin and lived to tell the tale, but…had I gone completely bat-shit, katana-wielding crazy?

  “Follow me.” Chad vanished into the madness. He was gone before I had any hope of pulling myself together.

  Vulnerable and terrified and in way over my head, I inspected the foyer and its five entry points: the front doors, the hallway to the solarium, the passageway to the library, a large set of doors to the remainder of the Manor, and the winding stairs.

  Through the front doors crashed two shadows, ghosts that radiated ice and rage, their eyes a biting, murderous red. The walls shook upon their grand entrance and diminished what little courage I had. As expected, these Eidolons shrieked like a million horrified people cried out in agony all at once. My ears buzzed. The room quaked. Death had arrived.

  Trivials charged, some swinging weapons of their choosing, and others skittering like the spider-monsters I had witnessed in Montana. The Eidolons were swift and impenetrable. Trivial body parts flew across the room like toys.

  Now was good time to get outside. There was no way I’d stick around, because if Errol just happened to dig up enough of the River Phlegethon to bring me back to life, I doubted it would be any life at all if I had no legs, half a torso, part of an arm, and no head.

  No head?

  Cut off their heads.

  Sprinting with a mob of retreating allies, I blew through the corridor toward the solarium, past the solarium’s muggy, lush greenery, and into the middle of the battle outside.

  And I did it all in one breath.

  Dark figures swarmed the once-tranquil orchards as Trivials struggled to fend them off.

  I widened my grip on the katana. Excitement filled my body when the curved steel blade glowed red, functioning as an extension of my own heat. No one near me had a similar weapon. The Trivials had their zombie-like defenses. I had an iron hot blade. I was either ingenious or an idiot for standing out as the loner.

  I lifted the weapon high and swung at an approaching Eidolon. The first strike seared through part of the Eidolon’s neck, shrinking his shadowy presence to reveal a black as night humanoid figure with shiny, but brittle skin. The shadow that made him look like he was wearing a cloak and hood, providing him with a misty veil, was gone. No longer did he look like that traditional monster carrying a scythe and breathing in souls of the living.

  The Eidolon’s head dangled by bloody threads of tendon. The sight was enough for me to carry on to another victim, believing him incapacitated enough to slow him down for the Trivials. But when I turned on my new target the new target set his
attention on me. Those fiery eyes glistened against his ghostly lightlessness. His skeletal face was barely visible, but it did not give me pause.

  I rolled my fingers on the katana’s handle and went for him with all I had. A part of his body splintered when my weapon met his body. The blade was anchored in his shoulder, and it did not budge, even when I pulled on the handle. The Eidolon’s upswing caught my chin, giving me enough upward force to remove the sword from his body. But the damage was grave. I staggered backward, dazed from the impact and bleeding a river from my mouth.

  Allies and foes, waging their own one-on-one battles, shoved me around as my enemy looked on in assured victory. The skull-face somehow smiled at me, grinning like he was preparing to send me straight to the bowls of a nightmarish abyss.

  However, he was the fool tonight. Not me.

  I spat out the pool of blood in my mouth, ran my sleeve along my chin, and reset my focus. Pain was nothing to making this Eidolon regret what he had done.

  His icy hand compressed my throat, preempting my response. As I was lifted off the patio, my spine stretched long, and my toes struggled to find traction on the flagstone. The Eidolon’s death-stare brightened as it bored into my eyes. His skeletal jaw unhinged.

  I swung the sword, but the effect was a much like a tiny finch struggling against a ravenous vulture. But even Eidolons have weaknesses. My knee in his groin distracted him long enough for me to escape. I collapsed to the patio, prepared to make my move. Then his two hands, one around my neck and one around my right leg, launched me over the patio wall.

  The hedges broke my fall. My dress snagged on the branches. Snarling with unbridled ferocity, I brandished the sword that I was still clinging to, and climbed out of the greenery. I would not go down. I would hold my ground until the sun rose and the Eidolon was dripping in sweaty exhaustion. Tenacity always, always outweighed brute force.

  The Eidolon leaped over the balcony in pursuit. He stretched to his full height, which was at least two feet above me, but I stood strong, wearing a glare fixed in resolve. For once, I wanted to be the one dealing out death. I wanted to turn one of these sons of bitches over to their Maker.