Midnight
“How did it go?” Lex asks as I reappear in our apartment.
“Not well.”
Bastien hands me a cup of tea and a bagel stuffed with chicken and avocado. I slope towards the table, but he stops me.
“What?” I ask as I pull out the chair to take a seat. I’m suddenly starving and exhausted and the fact he won’t let me eat this delicious smelling bagel he’s just handed me is irking me.
He brushes his thumb over my cheek; it’s strangely intimate. He runs his finger down to my chin and tilts it up so I’m looking straight at him.
“What?” I snap a little stroppier this time.
He glances to Lex, whose features are pulled into tight lines. “I see it too,” she says.
I knock his hand away and huff as I sit down. He takes a seat next to Lex; they’re both the other side of the table. I take a massive bite of bagel and moan. It’s so good.
“Is this an interview? Can’t you leave a girl in peace?” I say between chews of food.
“Are you okay?” Lex whispers.
My expression scrunches up. “Are you on necro-crack? Do I look fine?”
“Midnight… are. You. Okay?” Bastien says repeating Lex’s concern.
I’m not sure whether it’s the way they’re both staring at me, the concern filling his words with horror or the fact that every piece of me is exhausted.
A line of wet slides down my cheek.
“No, Bastien. I’m not fucking okay. Nothing about any of this is okay.”
They glance at each other.
“Oh my gods, will you just spit it out,” I say and shove another massive bite of bagel in.
“It’s just that you seem to be deteriorating,” Lex answers, but Bastien jumps in.
“We don’t mean just emotionally, either. You look super pale and just… I don’t know.”
I shrug. “I probably need to sleep. Ignatius has had me reaping souls for fifteen hour stretches.”
I inhale the last bite of bagel and thank them as I head to my room. No doubt Ignatius will send me moths tonight, but if I can get a few hours’ sleep before I have to work, I need to. They’re right, I do feel off. Out of sorts.
As I collapse on the bed, not even bothering to take my boots off, their questions worm into me.
Deteriorating.
It’s heavy as it settles in the back of my mind.
They’re right, I am so tired. A tired that isn’t just in your bones, it’s in your soul.
As I drift off, all thoughts of what’s wrong with me disappear into the warm embrace of sleep.
I’m woken to the stab of moth proboscises jabbing my wrists and neck and any other flesh they can get their parts on.
“Motherfuckers,” I groan as I slap random parts of me in the vain hope I can squash the bastards and avoid having to spend the rest of the night reaping. I’m not sure I even know what day it is.
My dreams were riddled with moths and reapings. I woke a dozen times because of the quakes and no doubt corresponding Veil cuts.
The clock on my bedside table reads 2:30 a.m.
“Fuck you, Ignatius,” I say and pluck one of the moths off my hand. It’s wing detaches. I gag and flick it off my finger like it’s on fire.
“Fucking rotten ash-kissing shitbags, gods, I hate moths.” I crawl out of bed, my head swimming with images of all the people that need reaping. I’m so exhausted I can’t even be arsed to play my usual game of guessing what deal they made.
I no longer care.
Too weary.
That makes me stop. Lex and Bastien’s words drifting back into my thoughts. Nah. They’re wrong. I’m just wrecked levels of tired.
I head out of the apartment and House Inferos as quietly as I can, find my bike and head into the city. I make it to the centre, ready to reap an old man when I clock a familiar face walking down the street.
My spine goes rigid, cold slithers through my insides. The bike wobbles. I have to readjust, skidding to a halt besides the man.
I flick my visor up. “Thaddeus?” I breathe.
I reaped him. He’s dead. What the fuck is going on?
He looks at me strangely; his mouth opens but no sound escapes. It makes the hairs on my arms rise.
His face collapses, his features crumpling in an agonised expression. I swear he mouths the word help.
And then, he’s gone.
Gone.
I blink.
Flick my visor up and down.
Up and down.
One more time.
But he doesn’t reappear.
I glance around me, but it’s the middle of the night. A homeless woman sleeps on a bench a few feet away. But no one else is there to validate the fact I’m not hallucinating.
I’m not.
Right?
Who the hell am I even asking? Demonsake, I am losing the plot. Maybe Lex and Bastien had a point.
I don’t have time for this. I need to reap the souls and get back to bed so I can figure a way to get Lucy out. Whether she wants anything to do with me or not, I have to get her out of that dungeon. It was never my intention to do that to her, no matter how pissed I am at her.
Ignatius is not going to have control of her. I have to make amends, even if that means she never speaks to me again.
But first, reap, sleep, eat. Otherwise I’m going to end up in the medical wing on campus.
I twist the throttle and the bike kicks out, fighting me a little tonight—bit like my body. The bike is clearly as tetchy as I am.
The old man’s house is only a short ride away. As I park, an uneasy feeling slinks into my belly.
In fact, this whole night is off. I’m still not sure if I saw Thaddeus or if I’m just so tired the old reaper guilt is plaguing me.
Most of us are able to ignore it, after all we’re just doing a job—and every mortal has a choice whether they take the deal or not.
That’s on them. Just like my deal is on me.
And yet, the quakes, the way I reaped that lady and no soul shreds were left on the scythe, the tear straight through into the Celestial Realm.
It makes me think Interitus might be closer to her goal than any of us realised. It’s like magic itself is breaking.
I shake myself off, place my helmet on my bike and grip my scythe. “Focus, Midnight.” We have shit to do, a Lucy to save, and a devil to dispose of. I am never getting out of the deal I made with him, so this is the only solution.
It’s me or him.
I enter the old man’s house, it’s quiet and a little musty. There aren’t any lights on but there’s a hint of fresh cigar smoke. My nose wrinkles, I loathe the smell of smoke, but especially cigar smoke. It’s thick and bitter and sticks in your throat.
I find him in the living room, a side lamp lit but turned to the dimmest setting. The room is choking on cigar smoke, but he continues to puff on the end of the stub anyway.
“You ready?”
He shakes his head. “Is anyone ever ready?”
I huff out a laugh. “Nope.” I move to stand behind him. He flinches at the creak of leather as I take out my scythe.
“Does it hurt?” he breathes, then coughs. It’s hacking and filled with mucus.
“Change always hurts,” I say and squeeze his shoulder. It’s not the comfort he was expecting, but it is a truth. I take a deep breath and search the memories the moth left me for his name.
He laughs, it’s soft and sweet and filled with the sounds of regret. It makes my chest ache, but there’s nothing I can do for him now. Nothing other than a final offering.
“Charles Cederic Shenley, whisper your last truth and I’ll carry it to the dark with me.”
He sighs, nods and then says, “We all spend our lives searching for what matters. For that ineffable meaning. The significance that will make us feel whole. But in the end, it’s all pointless. What matters is what we choose to make matter. And that is the lesson we never learn until it’s too late.”
His words make my eyes sting. I rub his shoulder. I don’t normally, but I offer one last kindness.
“What mattered to you?”
“She did.”
It’s always love. My throat thickens; I have to swallow the lump down knowing that Lucy is what matters to me, I choose her. I choose to fix this for her.
“Charles Cederic Shenley, all debts must be paid, in silence or soul. May the weight of your choices carry you gently down. The gods forgot you, the demons won’t. Rest now. Omnia mors aequat. Death renders all equal.”
I bring my scythe to the side of his neck. I’ll make this quick for him, it’s the least I can do. I don’t know what his deal was, but he seems to have learnt his lesson and he’s taking the reaping like a champ.
I pull back and swipe hard and fast.
There’s a heavy breath.
My heart thunders in my chest.
No moths appear.
I blink.
Still no moths.
Beat.
Beat.
Beat.
Splat.
I frown.
That’s wrong. There shouldn’t be another thud.
Why is my face covered in warm stuff?
I blink again. Staring at the space where Charles was.
Bile claws up my throat.
The cloying scent of iron fills my nose.
Warm spurts of liquid keep hitting me in the face.
Slow.
Really, fucking slow, I look down at the space where Charles’s head was.
It’s gone.
From the floor, a set of lifeless eyes stares at me. His neck spurts thick rivers of blood, though it’s already slowing.
I scream.
Stagger back.
My arse hits a chair, or maybe it’s a table. I’m not sure.
I’m on my knees throwing up.
This isn’t supposed to happen. Scythes don’t cut flesh. They only cut souls.
A godsawful sound rips from my stomach as I throw up again.
Again.
Again.
Until there’s nothing left but a pile of puke covered in red droplets dripping off my face. I scramble away, out the door. I wipe my face, but it’s covered in so much arterial blood that it’s useless.
Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh gods.
I killed an innocent.
What the fuck is happening?