The Reaper's Sacrifice

by Abigail Baker

  “What we do for a living sucks. Laughter is sometimes the only balm.”

  I pulled Dudley closer. “So you are worried, then.”

  “We’re about to challenge the Head of Death…again.”

  “And that makes you nervous?”

  He kept his eyes on the road, which was giving way to the countryside as we sped out of Toronto toward our final destination that was hours away. “Nightmares don’t begin to explain it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Well, look down yonder, Gabriel

  Put your feet on the land and sea

  But Gabriel, don’t blow your trumpet

  Until you hear from me.”

  —Johnny Cash

  There was a strange but familiar feeling with Brent behind the wheel and Dudley on my lap. The landscape was different from our last road trip out of Québec City and across northwest America. The scenery was unlike the roads in Montana or even California. The mountains didn’t jut up as ridged peaks capped with snow, but as gentle curves blanketed in pine trees. The setting was stunning and the drive almost peaceful.

  Almost.

  There was a deadly shadow hovering above as our pair of Porsches zipped around turns and up and down mountain elevations without a reprieve. Our next major stop would be at the Château, and it wouldn’t be as pleasant as my last visit had been.

  Before I had barged into the hotel two years ago and burned through Lethe’s hidden front door, I hadn’t given a damn about the journey there. I had been focused on saving Brent, so much so that I barely remembered how I got from the Isle of Orleans to Marin’s inner chambers in Lethe. I’d done what I had to do.

  This time around I had time to think, to ponder, and to remember that I had lost more than I had been willing to give up. What else could I stand to lose?

  Then again, what could I stand to gain? A better life for myself, Brent, Papa, Nicodemus, and Styx. I could gain ultimate freedom. I could regain my dignity.

  The benefits greatly outweighed the risks.

  Now I just wished someone would tell that to my heart. It hadn’t stopped thumping wildly in my chest since we’d left IHOP hours ago.

  Over the drive, Brent and I talked about mundane things, things that had nothing to do with Styx or rebellions. He told me how after a year of captivity, he had earned back his human skin, but that “earned” was a loose term. Marin had asked him to seek out and destroy Trivials, but to do that, he’d needed to navigate the human world as a human. I told him about Leo the backwoods neighbor and his array of pickled foods. Brent, who hadn’t seemed like a picky eater, had the same reaction to pickled turkey gizzards as I had.

  For the briefest of moments, Brent and I were a typical couple. At least we would have seemed so to onlookers. And that was something I couldn’t help but smile over if for no other reason than it was a tiny mark of normalcy before the hurricane to come.

  ZZ Top, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and Muddy Waters accompanied our conversation as the rolling hills yielded to flatter terrain. The recognizable landscape that butted up to the St. Lawrence River soon came into view. Too soon, to be honest.

  Brent pulled into a gas station on the outskirts of Québec City, in a town across the St. Lawrence River from the great Château Frontenac sitting high atop its embankment. The lights of the gas station’s awning burned my retinas. The odor of spilled gasoline seeped through the cracked windows.

  “Gonna get a couple of gallons. Do you want anything from the store? Antacids maybe?” Brent asked halfway out of the car.

  “How about a case of beer instead?”

  He chuckled and vanished into the store.

  Dudley was quick to steal Brent’s seat. He peered over the steering wheel, nose twitching.

  “They don’t have lattes at these petrol stations, I’m afraid,” Delia said through my open window. Her lips were pursed, one eyebrow cocked. I had come to learn that was her worried Katherine Hepburn impression. She tried to bury her fingernails under her folded arms, but I saw her red, chipped nail polish.

  I gave her a warm smile because I didn’t know what to say. What kind of conversation would befit a group about to take on the Head of Death, anyway?

  She looked herself over, seeming at the same loss for the right words. “Do you think Québecois Reapers will like my outfit?” she finally said.

  My smile broadened. “Red jumpsuits are totally European chic.”

  “Don’t sass me, Teacup. I saw the look you gave me this morning. You don’t like red on me, do you?”

  “Well, with your red hair, it ends up being a lot of red.” Time to be honest.

  She twirled a lock of hair. “Next time, I’ll try pink, or maybe yellow.”

  “Then you’ll look like Ronald McDonald,” Chad said, a Snickers bar hanging from the corner of his mouth as he pumped gas.

  “That’s a fine compliment coming from Oscar the Grouch.”

  “Just heard from one of the rebel cells outside of Québec. They should be at the hotel waitin’ for us when we arrive. So it’s time we do this,” Errol interjected.

  “You mean it’s time for gas station lattes and pastries for the grumpy Muppet?” Delia asked.

  “This.” He wagged the leather flask I knew well.

  Dudley whimpered.

  “What in Hades would we want that for?” Delia put her hands on her hips.

  He bit the cork, yanked it from the container, and spat it into his hand in a clean, precise move. Even as a Scrivener in full meltdown, he always moved with elegance, so this was the most barbaric thing I had seen Errol do. “A samplin’ of Phlegethon. Drinkin’ it will nae make us impenetrable, but it will give us a boost. If not, consider it a good-luck toast.”

  “Or a farewell drink,” Chad hooted.

  Errol put the flask to his lips, chugged, and then handed it over to Delia, his face contorted like an inexperienced whisky drinker.

  Delia’s nose wrinkled in disgust, but she followed his lead. No sooner did the bottle leave her lips when she started gagging and complaining in garbled words that it tasted like… “Bleh! Errol, this is disgusting.”

  “It’s not fuckin’ Chardonnay,” he countered.

  She ran her sleeve over her lips. “Here, Muppet. You have strange taste buds.”

  Chad snatched the flask but didn’t drink. He played with something in his jeans pocket and then pulled out two packets of sugar from IHOP. Stone-cold, he poured the sugar into the canteen, swirled it around, and sipped. His reaction was no different than Errol’s or Delia’s.

  He passed it off to Brent, who gave a slight nod to his fellow Eidolon and then tipped it back. Brent managed not to wince or scrunch his nose. His effort was wasted on me—I saw the slight shift from blue to red in his eyes.

  And with that, it was my turn. Pounding liquid fire from an ancient river, unlike moonshine, was not my idea of a quality toast to rebellion. But I grabbed the flask and, without sniffing, took a swig. Tears rolled down my cheeks. The water tasted no different than the spilled gasoline probably would have, something I didn’t remember from my sampling the night the Eidolons attacked Wrightwick. I’d forgotten for good reason.

  With a third of the river water remaining, I handed the flask to Nicodemus to complete the round. He leaned away, giving the offering a disdainful stare. “No thanks, my dear,” Nicodemus said. “I’ve had enough of the Phlegethon to last an eternity.”

  I didn’t blame him for his polite decline.

  …

  The dark waves on the St. Lawrence River reflected Québec City’s nightlights. Pont Pierre Laporte stretched over the water, and no more than a half-minute from now, we’d be on the opposite side of the bridge, in range of Marin’s mental radar.

  Land gave way to the river as Brent revved the Porsche. The car engine growled and wheezed. We blasted onto the bridge at over one-hundred-and-fifty miles an hour.

  “Is your seat belt on?” Brent asked.

  At first I laughed because I thought he was maki
ng a joke, but I still checked on Dudley sitting at my feet and then my belt buckle. Safety first. “Is Errol behind us?”

  “So far up my ass, he’s lucky he bought me apple pie first.”

  The pillars suspending the massive bridge over the St. Lawrence stood high above us. I didn’t have time to count how many cables we passed before the Porsche took the exit toward Boulevard Champlain.

  I slapped my hands on the dashboard. “Take Boulevard Laurier. It’s a more direct route.”

  By the time I said it, the Porsche was sailing into the dogleg exit, its back end pulling us into a drift at an ungodly speed. Brent showed no sign of distress as the three of us were thrown to the right, the car sailing effortlessly around the bend.

  “Laurier has too many stops.” The car’s screeching wheels practically drowned him out.

  “But if we take Champlain, it’s going to give Marin more time!” My face was smashed against the window. Before I started licking the cold glass, Brent straightened the car, fishtailing the back end.

  “Yeow! This kitten purrs,” he cheered. “Mary Kay, thank your sweet ass!”

  “Brent, we’re going the wrong way.”

  “We’re fine.” The Porsche increased its speed again.

  Lights and road signs blew past us. Errol was still close enough that if Brent slammed the brakes we would’ve been in serious trouble. Dudley was braced in the footwell. Brent’s eyes were locked on the dark road.

  The clock ticked over. We had been within Marin’s awareness for a minute.

  “How many do you think we’re going to face in Lethe?” I asked. “Do you think the rebels will be there, too?”

  “Don’t know. Hope so.” His reddening eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.

  “What is it?”

  “Police.”

  “Watchmen?”

  Red and blue strobes lights flashed behind us. Human cops. The least of our worries.

  Brent downshifted, and I was thrown back into the seat. The speedometer leaned far to the right. We were going so fast that my stomach floated somewhere between my lungs and throat.

  He looked in the rearview mirror again. “We’re taking a detour.”

  The intersection for Côte Gilmour was on us before I could speak. With a pull on the handbrake, Brent cranked the steering wheel. We made a clean, albeit harrowing, turn onto Côte Gilmour. Errol’s 911 followed with effortlessness. And so did another car.

  “A white van,” I said with panic. “Watchmen. I hope they’re on our side.”

  Through the tree-covered pass of Côte, we drew closer to the Château and closer to getting out of the car and sprinting toward the monster all of Styx loathed.

  I looked at my hands, which were as pale as ever.

  As we sped through Parc des Champs-de-Bataille faster than anyone should through a city park, we came to the final leg in our journey. Rue Saint Louis was the same street we had taken the night I had burned my way into Lethe. The same cobblestone street and the same world-renowned hotel with its mint green roof and orange stone facade rose to greet us, tempting us with the suggestion that we set aside our rebellion for a little R and R instead.

  We had one minute left on Errol’s promise to get us from the bridge to the hotel in five.

  Our car raced through the archway of Québec City’s stone and mortar fortress. I had ridden underneath this very archway on my bicycle, by horse drawn carriage, by car, and by bus. I had never zipped under it going over seventy miles-per-hour. But our speed rapidly diminished. The narrow road of Saint Louis—bordered by old-world shops and restaurants and bordered with late-night drunkards who didn’t think that a three-car chase was a threat at midnight on a Wednesday—wasn’t as smooth of a ride as the highways.

  “Where are the rebels?” I asked.

  “Doesn’t matter now. Are you ready, Ollie?” He downshifted in preparation for a stop at our final destination.

  Where was our backup? Where were the legions of angry Stygians to help us?

  Our Porsche came to a screeching halt in front of the service entrance of the Château Frontenac—the side Chad had promised only Watchmen moved in and out of. Errol’s 911 stopped, too, bumping the tail of our car before he, Delia, and Chad leaped out.

  A block away, the white van full of Watchmen barreled toward us.

  Everyone escaped before the van slammed into our cars. White metal creaked and groaned as it flipped end over end, crunching the Porsches into a mess of pink and black metal. In the corner of my eye, I spotted an old man and his dog running in the opposite direction, toward safety.

  Go Nic and Duds. Hide and don’t come back until we get you!

  Somehow I found my footing, or it just never left––I didn’t know—but I followed closely behind Chad and Brent. Delia and Errol brought up the rear of our tiny infantry.

  In front of us was the service entrance—the two side-by-side doors that Chad had mentioned at breakfast. Metal. No latches or doorknobs. No Watchmen guarded them, meaning there had to be some on the other side. I wanted to scream out that this felt too easy. How could it have been so difficult to enter Lethe before, when now it was a matter of flinging open two metal doors and presto! Were we about to run straight into a trap?

  There wasn’t a second of time for me to share my concerns. Although I knew deep down everyone else had the same thought, they, like me, were caught up in the adrenaline and forward momentum. Making a fuss about it now would be too late. The freight train was at full force, headed straight at those doors.

  Too late, I thought, and I shuddered.

  Brent and Chad shifted into their dark phantasms, two Eidolons racing to take on hell. Their shrill chorus of voices exploded. The horror must’ve echoed across the city.

  The doors to Lethe blew open, either by their Eidolon rallying call or by dumb luck or because behind them were all of Marin’s men, ready to destroy us.

  It didn’t matter now.

  We were in.

  Death would find us. Or we’d find it.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Change is here.”

  —HermesHarbinger.com

  Using their macabre Eidolon hollers, Brent and Chad pushed our assault toward our final destination, vibrating the concrete walls of the tunnel. Several Watchmen with their hands clamped over their ears threw themselves out of our way.

  A set of doors marked with a red Exit sign grew larger as we made our approach. Brent was the first to smash through them with his shoulder before he stopped short. Errol, Chad, Delia, and I came in close behind, crashing into his backside because of our momentum.

  Floral wallpaper entombed us. Sconces flickered like candelabras. Carpet, supple with padding, was a relief after the concrete service entrance.

  This was Lethe, the secret lair of Death, and the place where souls came to forget about their lives before moving on to the Afterlife. Despite all the stories of grandiose villains living in eerie fortresses on a hill, there was something far more sinister about an underground bunker. A castle on the hill is easier to spot, easier to escape from. An underground stronghold provided no escape route and, if we weren’t fortunate, would become our tomb.

  “Where do we go?” Errol’s vermillion skin glowed with determination. His whitish eyes peered through a few rogue strands of his hair.

  “Something familiar. Smells like sulfur.” Brent was accentuated by Errol’s illumination, like a shadowy demon lit by his smoldering hellion. His ghostly outline was barely distinguishable in his light.

  “What does sulfur mean?” Delia widened her eyes. “Is that bad?”

  I knew exactly what Brent was thinking. And I looked at my hands for consolation. They were pale and quiet. Why didn’t I radiate like Errol? I pumped my fingers to force something into them, even if it was only blood.

  “Eidolons,” Chad said, nose in the air. “They’re coming.”

  “Let’s back out.” Delia stared at my dormant hands. “We’re not ready for this. Teacup looks like
Casper. We’re going to die down here if we don’t turn back.”

  Errol circled to Delia and me. “Get out. Brent, Chad, and I will take care of things.”

  “Or let’s try this another day,” Delia countered. “I saw a coffee shop that surely has lattes. We can come back tomorrow, refreshed and refueled.”

  “Delia, we can’t let them do this alone,” I added.

  “Shush, Teacup.”

  Footfalls, so heavy that the floor quaked beneath us, almost made me abandon resolve and join Delia for lattes. They were coming—Marin’s remaining Eidolons.

  The pounding footsteps grew louder.

  Brent and Errol sprinted down the hallway.

  Delia and I shared a glance of nervous uncertainty before we made chase, with Chad close behind us. We weren’t aged veterans like the men, but Delia and I were soldiers, with or without our Scrivening abilities.

  We came around a bend of floral wallpaper and sconces to face a barricade of Watchmen and Eidolons. Brent and Errol halted. Delia and I skidded to a stop. Chad crashed into our backsides.

  The cordon of enemies seemed greater than necessary. The entire population of Québec City Watchmen must have been alerted to our plan, and none of them were rebels prepared to stand by our side like some had when I’d led the first rebellion into Lethe. Dots upon dots of gold eyes glared back at us. There were a handful of red-eyed Eidolons looking as ghastly as Eidolons always did.

  From behind the enemy lines came a miasma of Death. Then, a giant Eidolon’s iciness rippled from his end of the hallway to ours, taunting us with the ideas of Erebus and eternal suffering. This Eidolon I could only assume to be Gizmo’s steroidal twin brother. He shoved his way through lesser Reapers.

  The sight of this monstrosity alone turned my blood into ice. My pale, heatless body provided me no comfort. When I returned my attention to the militia sent to rip us limb from limb, chaos erupted.

  Watchmen charged. As I had imagined it might’ve looked when Chad and I Matched at Wrightwick, Brent and Errol fused together, forming one body mixed of subarctic temperatures and molten heat. Unified, they crashed into the Watchmen like a bowling ball against glass jars, sending weaker Watchmen airborne, each one turning into dust the second they collided with the walls, ceiling, or floors. Chad ran ahead in Brent and Errol’s wake. With so much as a touch of his hands or a knock of his shoulder or jab of his elbow, Watchmen flailed and collapsed, temporarily fazed.