Chapter 7 The Present #2
If you’re reading this, it means you’re already fucked. But maybe you don’t have to stay that way.
“Well, isn’t this charming,” I mutter.
I glance up. Cassian looks like he’s already read it.
Nathaniel is more clinical, studying my reaction like it’s data.
And Talon… Talon’s definitely checking me out.
Or maybe reliving last night. I could blame the bulge on morning wood, but the way his eyes linger on the outline of my breasts tells a different story.
I ignore him.
“Apparently, the author saw a wraith once. Claims to have figured out how to destroy it,” Nathaniel says.
I blink. “Seriously?”
“According to the journal. And only the journal,” Cassian adds, dryly. He’s not convinced.
Huh.
“We skimmed through it earlier,” Nathaniel explains. “Wanted a head start with Cassian, but figured we’d need you. The method it describes is... tedious. Honestly, it sounds insane. But since it’s all we’ve got, we should follow it.”
I glance at the diagrams, which look more like fever dreams than anything tactical. The margins are filled with frantic notes like don’t let it taste you and never let it sing.
One line reads: The sound started soft, almost beautiful. Like humming underwater. Like memory echoing back at me. But by the time I realized what it was, I’d already lost two fingers and half my mind.
Shady doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Nathaniel crosses his arms again. “The guy who wrote this might’ve been a drug addict.”
“Might’ve?” I echo. “Where the hell did you even get this thing?”
I flip to another page. More smears. More frantic notes. Some diagrams have names scratched next to them. One page is filled with the word REMEMBER, scribbled over and over until the ink tore through the paper.
“Same place we got all our materials,” Nathaniel says. “The dark web.”
I pause.
“You know,” I say slowly, “I didn’t think it was possible to make this journal seem more suspicious. But here we are. Honestly, I don’t even want to touch it now.”
“They don’t exactly sell Grim Reaper binding manuals at your local bookstore, babe,” Talon says with a smirk. “Where did you think we got our information?”
Truthfully, I had no idea. In my lifetime, I’d never dabbled in anything remotely supernatural.
I was the type to assume every horror movie with a based on a true story label was just using it as a marketing gimmick.
I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking for anything about Reapers, Wraiths, or something as complex as karmic balance between life and death.
“That’s... actually kind of horrifying,” I say at last. “The idea that you guys could’ve messed up the existence of any Grim Reaper out there just because you pulled some sketchy guide off the dark web? My god.”
“Actually, Talon’s wrong,” Cassian cuts in. “The knowledge we have on Grim Reapers didn’t come from the dark web. Most of it, I gathered myself. The rest we pieced together by cross-referencing various religions and belief systems.”
“Oh, right,” Talon mutters, like the memory’s just coming back. “Only the grave-digging part came from there.”
Cassian nods. “Exactly.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
“So what, you’re some kind of supernatural expert now?”
“No,” he says, calm and flat. “I’m just the one who’s been obsessed with this the longest.”
That shuts me up for a moment. Cassian doesn’t say things like that, especially not without meaning them. His voice is too steady for how dark that admission is. And he’s not looking at me when he says it. Just staring at the journal like he’s seeing through it. Or beyond it.
“Obsessed,” I repeat quietly.
Cassian finally meets my eyes.
“Wouldn’t you be, if your sister was murdered in front of you and you saw her literal fucking soul leave her body?”
The silence is immediate. Heavy. Like the oxygen’s been sucked out of the room.
Nathaniel’s jaw clenches, and even Talon stops smirking. I don’t say anything. Because what is there to say?
“Thought so. Flip two more pages,” Cassian adds. “That’s where it gets to the point.”
I flip.
This page is different; cleaner, but somehow worse. The handwriting is tighter, more meticulous. Like whoever wrote it had finally stopped running and decided to document their own slow descent.
The Wraith is made of absence. To kill it, you must make it remember.
I glance up. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Her human life,” Nathaniel says. “Apparently, the wraith is just a shell of who she used to be, driven only by her worst instincts. The writer calls the process a Binding of Memory. The idea is to summon her human self first, which should make her vulnerable.”
Well, I see now why Cassian is so unconvinced.
From what I saw, the Candy Maker knew exactly what she was. There wasn’t a trace of guilt or grief in her. She enjoyed being a monster. And Binding of Memory? Sounds like something a wannabe necromancer came up with after licking too many suspicious rocks.
“Okay,” I say, “let me get this straight. We’re going to trust some untested, borderline-insane ritual written by what’s probably a lunatic, and what? Wave it at the wraith like it’s holy scripture and hope she takes a walk down memory lane?”
“No, there’s more about how to do it on another page,” Nathaniel says, deadpan. “And before you dismiss it, it’s better than doing nothing.”
“Is it, though?” I shoot back. “Because honestly, betting on my powers kicking in long enough to track and flicker to her might be more reliable.”
“If your powers were stable enough for that, we’d jump on it,” Nathaniel says. “But they’re not, are they? Otherwise you wouldn’t have to sleep until…” —he checks his watch— “two p.m.”
Two p.m.? I glance at Talon.
“My shift ended at seven,” he offers. “You passed out around two a.m. the first time.”
I do the math in my head. The nightly sex break couldn’t have lasted more than thirty minutes. It was fast. Intense. So I slept… what, just under twelve hours?
What the hell?
“Anyway, according to this, we’ll need three things for the binding,” Cassian cuts in.
Nathaniel steps over, scans the page, and reads aloud: “‘A piece of the wraith’s body… a relic from its life… and an offering of soul-bound power.’”
I stare at him. “I’m sorry, a what now?”
He looks up. “Soul-bound power.”
Talon raises a brow. “Alright, that does sound made up.”
Cassian mutters, “It all sounds made up.”
But Nathaniel’s not smiling. Not even a hint of it. “Probably. But soul-bound power could mean energy tied to the other realm. Where the wraith resides, maybe?”
I blink. “You mean… my energy?”
Nathaniel doesn’t answer right away.
That’s not comforting.
“I’d wager yours could work,” he says eventually. “A locket of hair, a piece of bone, your blood. Something physical from your... new body. It aligns with the prospect of Death giving it to you for a specific reason.”
Talon gives a low whistle. I just breathe in deep. So this is what Nathaniel meant about wanting to try it with Cassian first, but realizing they’d need me in the end. Not me, exactly. Just a piece of whatever Death stitched back together.
“I see,” I say. “So to recap: we need a piece of the wraith’s body, a piece of its past, and a drop of my blood? That’s the master plan?”
Nathaniel nods once. “In theory, yes.”
“In theory?” I echo.
“Assuming you can bleed,” he says. “Which we haven’t exactly tested yet. And it might take more than a drop. For rituals like this, a small cup of blood is usually safer. Anything less tends to lower the odds of success.”
I… I stare at the ceiling. Trying not to scream. Trying to convince myself I’m still asleep. Maybe I never woke up. Maybe I’m still passed out from Talon’s marathon sex session and this is just a very weird dream.
But no. I’m awake.
Very awake.
And apparently, I’m about to be part of a magical ritual involving chunks of flesh and a donation of my blood.
“Fine,” I say at last, voice brittle. “Where do we even start?”
Cassian meets my eyes. “Nathaniel and Talon will head to the exchange point and retrieve the body. We’ll need to extract bones from it. You and I will go find a sentimental item from her past. That means going back to the... murder scene.”
The Candy Maker’s house.
With a groan, I throw off the blanket and sit up. Every muscle in my body flares to life with a vivid reminder that I was, in fact, very thoroughly, and very enthusiastically rearranged.
“Great,” I mutter. “That’s just lovely. But before we go, I have two demands.
One: I haven’t eaten a single thing since I popped into existence naked in the middle of that car crash last night.
And two: if I have to leave this abandoned hospital wearing the neon-orange scrubs, I swear to God, I will lose what little dignity I have left. I’m not doing that.”
It’s not about vanity. It’s about identity.
I’m supposed to march into a haunted house and dig through the wreckage of a woman who killed children for fun while dressed like a radioactive janitor?
Absolutely not. That’s how missions fail before they even begin.
I need real pants. And food. In that order.
Cassian exhales slowly, then pinches the bridge of his nose like I’m giving him a migraine just by existing.
“I’ll see what I can find,” he says.
I swing my legs off the bed and follow him.