The Reaper's Sacrifice

by Abigail Baker

  “Chad told me you got your first experience with Matching.” Brent couldn’t hide his jealousy, even though he tried to. “I would’ve told you years ago, but the time wasn’t right. You weren’t ready—weren’t in control of your powers yet. It takes time. I knew you would accomplish it eventually.”

  “Why are you allies with Chad?” I asked the question I had been carrying for days now.

  He sighed a long, hard sigh, like he had been waiting on this very question and was not comfortable giving an answer. “Sometimes, in order to get what you want, you have to let down your guard just enough to get it. Make no mistake, darlin’, I don’t trust Chad. Never have. But he’s got information I want. He can get us places we couldn’t ordinarily go.”

  “You’re using him,” I stated, neither bitter or sad for it.

  “Yes. But if he shows any sign of betrayal, I will destroy him.” Brent said it with such darkness that I did not doubt him. In fact, it scared me a little to know just how quickly he would turn on someone who was helping him. “Do you trust him?”

  Uncertain of my answer, I paused and gave it thought. I didn’t trust him. I didn’t trust many, but the truth was that to win the fight against Marin I’d have to trust more Stygians than I would like. Perhaps what I saw in Chad was not so much a loyal ally but a tool to get me where I needed to go. That wasn’t trust. It was wrong to use him. But as Brent already said, it was a necessity that we couldn’t go without. So I replied, “I think Chad still needs to prove himself. Still, like you said, we need his help.”

  Brent nodded slowly. He got it. He knew I got it. There was nothing more to say, for now anyway. “I’m glad that, at the least, you got to learn more about your power here at Wrightwick. Those skills will come in handy when we are in Lethe.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” I groaned, hating that I had to relive my failure all over again. “I couldn’t even save you…us.”

  He shrugged. “How do you know healing is a skill you possess?”

  Mirroring him, I shrugged and said, “Because I know I can do it. I just…just haven’t figured out the missing link.”

  Knowing what I do now, having melted an Eidolon into pudding, I respected how limited my experience had been before. I had burned through thirty feet of bedrock. I had stood in the face of my own death. What I hadn’t done was disintegrate a Grim Reaper with a little help from rage and guts. Indeed, I would not have been ready before.

  But I was now. And I was in the company of the only Stygian I wanted to help me bring Marin to his knees. Except that right now, Marin was half of a world away, and I had more to resolve with my beloved.

  “Opposing forces bring balance. Eidolons and Scriveners are complimentary tensions,” I said, repeating one of the passages from the Book of Scriveners in the Wrightwick library. Of course, I did this as I swung a leg across Brent’s lap.

  “Together we create balance.” I continued imparting my research as I settled against him, feeling the hard muscles in his thighs contract as another part of him stiffened with life. “We can keep each other in check. We’re each others’ anchors of morality.”

  “Like Yin and Yang.” That was as theoretical a concept as he seem to be able to muster with me pressed against his hardening arousal. His fingers curled around my hips. I was locked against him, unable to break free now that his sexual prowess was on display.

  “Maybe Styx can shed the stigma of the Purge and rebuild again with our help.” I leaned forward, the slight tilt in my body forcing my groin against his.

  His restraint gave way. Our lips met. This kiss was coy at first, but when his hand cupped my cheek, I surrendered.

  With his mouth covering mine, I got little forewarning when he carefully laid me against the chill of the grass. We shared breaths, our faces inches apart.

  I pushed my reddened fingers through his hair, brushing the strands from his eyes, which were heavy with want. My hands traveled down his broad shoulders, firm with muscle. Strand by strand, the fibers of his shirt began to melt away. Though I was burning through his garment, but not his skin, he didn’t stop me.

  “I want you,” I said, so quietly I wasn’t sure I’d said it at all.

  My hands slid along his sides, feeling every contraction of the hard muscles. I soon found his hips and squeezed. With such an invitation, he thrust so forcefully I gasped—that would’ve been pure gold if we had been naked. He moved above me in the rhythm of evenly paced sex.

  At some point, the body does what the mind cannot. It doesn’t matter if it’s not the right moment or the right place. I had to have more of Brent because there was an ugly possibility that he wouldn’t be with me tomorrow. But for now, nothing about my life mattered except for him and connecting as deeply as two people could.

  He peeled away his shirt and jeans as I slinked out of my own clothes. We were doing it without care for privacy, without breaking the connection of our lips for longer than a breath. Running his hands from my breasts to my upper thighs, inciting a flutter of activity, he leaned back onto his heels in observation of me as I lay in the grass, swathed in nothing but a bath of moonlight. His hips and legs glistened in sweat, a visceral reaction to my growing heat. My skin was red and searing, but it did not hurt him—at least, he didn’t show it if it did.

  The rumble of late evening storm clouds gave their warning. With nature’s soundtrack masking the sounds of our intimacy, he lowered himself back over me, and our lips met again, his beard rubbing my skin raw.

  In a breath between kisses, he moved inside of me. I screamed out from a mixture of pleasure and pain, two things that blended together impeccably. My nails dug into his back to welcome him deeper, as hurt yielded to enjoyment.

  The distant essence of rain erased any fear that had been amplified from the past few days’ conflict. I was sharing myself with Brent without consequence. I once again was acting on the desires that had left me vacant and embittered for years. The sensation of him this close to me was invigorating as breathing fresh, warm air after a long winter.

  As his cadence increased, rocking me faster, I pressed my lips to his collarbone, where his skin was damp but smooth, with a tang of saltiness. His heavy breaths tickled my ear as the rest of him moved with fluidity. I threw my legs higher around his waist.

  Then he struck a harmonious chord. Every muscle of his that I touched grew tense. He throbbed with wetness that my parched body happily drank. I ground my teeth as I simultaneously unfurled into chaotic bliss. I wanted it to continue until I couldn’t see or hear or think straight. Yes, I could’ve done this again and again. But the tapping of raindrops on the trees in the distance quickly stirred us from our reverie.

  I opened my eyes to see him, drunk from passion, staring down at me. My heart pounded in my chest as I faced the one living being whom I could not stand to lose again.

  “I love you,” I said as the rain grew louder and heavier.

  “What luck.” He placed a soft kiss to my parted lips. “I love you, too. More than you know, darlin’.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “One should not attend even the end of the world without a good breakfast.”

  —Robert A. Heinlein

  “According to my notes, he’ll be here.” Brent stamped the saltshaker between breakfast plates and coffee mugs. He had done an impressive job of angling forks, knives, and any leftover sugar packets into a map of the underbelly of Le Château Frontenac on the dining table of the IHOP next to Toronto Pearson International Airport. “It’s important that once we get into Québec, we move as fast as we can. His Watchmen have been guarding all entry points for months. They will know we’re there once we cross the St. Lawrence River.”

  “How long will it take to get from the river to the Château?” Errol shoved his plate toward the edge of the table when the waitress passed by. “Mind takin’ my plate, lassie?”

  The waitress scooped it up with a wink and vanished into the bustle of servers and busboys.

  Delia
snapped off a piece of the cantaloupe with her teeth. “She likes that accent of yours, Honeydew. Did you see her light up like fireworks when you placed your order? You should ask her out on a date after this is all over.”

  “There’s not enough time in the world to follow through with every woman who winks at me.” Errol pointed at the napkin that was Lethe’s tribunal chamber. “Let’s keep focused, Delia.”

  She went back to stabbing the remainder of her cantaloupe with angry precision.

  “What’s the distance between the bridge and the hotel?” Errol asked.

  “Eight miles or so.” Brent leaned into the booth seat. “Assuming there isn’t a midnight traffic jam, we can cover that in five minutes if we hustle.”

  I slipped another slice of bacon underneath the table for Dudley, a move that Nicodemus noticed with a wink. Dudley didn’t hesitate to take anything I had given him. We were a symbiotic pairing, since I couldn’t bear to eat. Brent kept pushing me to fill up on protein. With Dudley’s eager assistance, it appeared that I was eating. So long as Brent didn’t look at Dudley’s distended belly, he wouldn’t know.

  Errol noticed my sneaky habit but stayed on the topic. “Once we reach the Château, how do we get inside?”

  “There’s a service entrance that the Watchmen use to go in and out of Lethe,” Chad said. “We can access through that point.”

  “Won’t they have it guarded?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Brent said. “We will have no problem taking out any of the Watchmen, but I don’t know how many we’ll have to deal with once inside. Could be five or a hundred. Chad, what do you think?”

  “A lot.” He shoveled eggs into his mouth.

  I slipped my final slice of bacon under the table when Brent clapped his fingers around my wrist and yanked it back to my plate.

  “If you don’t eat, I’m going to make you,” he said.

  “He’s right, love. Protein will help with your heat,” Errol urged.

  My eyes crossed as I brought the greasy bacon strip to my lips. On second thought, screw Brent and Errol’s wishes. My stomach knew better than them. “So sorry if I can’t eat my breakfast to stoke my inner nuclear reactor. But we are sitting here, using snot-covered napkins and crusty forks to plot taking over the world, while sucking down bacon, eggs, and hotcakes like it’s no big deal.”

  “I’m eating cantaloupe, not hotcakes. Better for the hips.” Delia waved the sliver of fruit between us with her fork.

  “Fuck your cantaloupes, Delia.” The diners around us fell silent. Several sets of eyes, including my allies, hovered on me.

  “Nothing to see, ladies and gents. She’s just two bricks shy of a load,” Delia said before she took a bite of her fruit-on-a-fork.

  “As always, thanks,” I said.

  “Anything for my Teacup.”

  “We’ve gotta get a grip on ourselves.” Brent rubbed his forehead, and I knew exactly what that meant—he was as stressed out as I was. We had finally arrived at this moment—the moment we would bring down Marin for good or go down trying. No matter how much you plan for these things, you never feel ready or prepared.

  When I looked at my comrades staring at me with nothing worthwhile to say, I realized that they, too, were entertaining the same worries about dying for the rebels’ cause—they simply had a better way of hiding it. Even Delia didn’t appear quite as feisty as normal. Dudley put his chin on my knee, his eyes filled with concern.

  Following a tremor, I chomped a piece of the bacon strip. Egg whites. Next time I went into battle with the Head of Death, I’d be sure to order egg whites.

  “There’s some good news,” Brent continued after clearing his throat. “Marin doesn’t have as big of a group of Eidolons in Québec. He sent most of them to Wrightwick. We won’t face as many Eidolons as we will lesser Watchmen. Once inside, we’re going to have to run like hell until we get to Marin’s chambers.”

  “What happens after that?” Delia licked her lips clean of her cherry lipstick.

  Brent crossed his arms over his chest with a tentativeness I didn’t recognize. “Ollie and I will take care of Marin. Your jobs are to clear our path.”

  “You mean you’ll put a Deathmark on him, Teacup?” Delia was as flabbergasted by the suggestion as I had been when Brent had first proposed this plan to me.

  I had asked Brent if he’d had another peek at his Deathlist—his list of assigned souls to ferry during his tenure as an Eidolon—in the vain hope that Marin’s name had miraculously popped up on his list of Assignees. Brent’s solemn reaction had been enough to chill me to the bone. His research had not been fruitful. Marin was not on his Deathlist or any other Eidolons’. Whoever had the privilege of taking Marin down did not get a fancy list from the Deliveryman.

  The Deathlist with Marin’s name was likely stashed away, hidden from the world like Marin himself.

  “I’m going to put a Deathmark on him.” I reluctantly answered Delia’s question. Inside, I wondered if that was the way to bring down another Scrivener…if indeed he was a Scrivener. What if he put one on me first? What if we drew our guns and marked each other at the same time? What if the world spiraled off of its axis and careened around Venus and Mercury to collide with the sun? The latter thought felt like the most plausible, because success or failure had nothing to do with me. So was it wrong to wish for the Earth to spiral into fiery oblivion?

  “But you’ll have to get close enough to mark him.” Delia looked troubled for me, and rightfully so. “That’s not exactly a well-strategized plan.”

  “Do you want to mark him, Redhot?” Brent asked.

  She gave me a pitiful glance because she knew my fear of killing anyone. She sensed it, like everyone else at the table. “I’ll leave it to you two professionals. I don’t have to like it, though.”

  “We’ll move fast,” he said. “Any second thoughts or indecision, and we’re ashes.”

  …

  Brent stood with his legs hip width apart in front of a baby pink Porsche Boxster with curves that made Delia and I envious. “This is unacceptable.”

  Errol strutted between Brent and me. “I know it was owned by a Mary Kay saleswoman, but it’s a perfectly fine automobile…on the inside.”

  “It’s wrong.” Brent threw his hands out in front of him. “Watchmen won’t take me seriously if I ride up in it. It’s a soft-top pink convertible, for Hades’ sake.”

  “It’s the best we can do considerin’ our time constraint. If you drive it right, it’ll get you from the St. Lawrence River to the Château in four minutes instead of five.” Errol turned around, wearing a grin Brent didn’t notice.

  I didn’t see much difference in the pink Boxster or Errol’s black Porsche 911 except that the 911 had a backseat big enough for Chad and Nicodemus to squeeze into. Brent’s and my pink nightmare didn’t, but that wouldn’t be a problem since Dudley was small enough to ride on my lap.

  Both cars looked fast, anyway. The Mary Kay saleswoman who’d owned the pink car had most certainly gotten to all of her consultations on time, probably even several minutes early. Quite honestly, the cars would be ancient history the second we abandoned them to bust into the Château’s secret entrance into Lethe.

  Brent observed the sleek black 911, which seemed a more fitting ride for an Eidolon. “Ollie is right. We would do better with motorcycles.”

  “They’re bloody deathtraps.” Errol repeated the same protest he had made when I suggested renting motorbikes. The real reason that he wasn’t interested in two-wheel transportation was that he didn’t know how to ride.

  Brent stared pointedly until Errol shrugged and wrenched his car door open.

  “Take the 911 then,” Brent muttered. “You’ll need that turbo to keep up, Scottie.”

  “Let’s not forget something here,” Chad butted in after chewing his thumb in obvious protest of the entire conversation. “Nic and I get the shitty backseat. So you two can shut your flappers, you can.”

  Neither Delia nor
I saw the point in arguing over the differences in the cars. We did sympathize with Chad and Nicodemus, however. Our donation of a bag of fun-sized Snickers bars was intended to exhibit our sympathy. Chad had snatched the bag, grumbling. But I didn’t miss that he had already plowed through half of his supply before we loaded into the cars. Nicodemus claimed that he hadn’t had a single candy bar.

  “Let’s get movin’,” Errol said, giving an implicit invitation for Chad and Delia to pile into the black 911.

  Brent and I climbed into Porsche Boxster with its effeminate soft-top. I gave a pat of my leg, and Dudley climbed onto my lap. His claws dug into my thighs.

  Brent turned over the engine, which roared to life like I expected a Porsche to do. As we peeled out of the Toronto dealership with Errol, Delia, and Chad in the 911 behind us, I traced the black spots on Dudley’s back. His wagging tail beat against the door.

  “I’d be much happier driving a tank,” Brent intoned. “If not a tank, a motorcycle so we can move faster than the Watchmen. The more vulnerable we are, the less likely we’ll make it to the Château.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” I tried to pacify him as a wife of twenty years would her husband.

  He flicked on the stereo. ZZ Top blasted through the speakers. “At least this car plays decent music.”

  Even over the blast of guitars and vocals, I heard the thumping techno bass following us.

  “What the hell?” I asked.

  “I superglued the dials on Errol’s radio so it plays house music on full volume,” Brent confessed with a slightly off-kilter smirk. This was the Brent I remembered, the one who rocked out to The Cure and pounded Pixie Stix.

  With a peek in the side-view mirror, I got a view of Delia in her leopard-print, noise-cancelling headphones, Chad bobbing his head in time with the music, and Errol’s grimace over the steering wheel.

  “All the things we have to worry about, and you still got in a prank.” I chuckled.