Chapter 2
Ulysses
I tied my shoes quickly and threw on a light jacket.
I was so going to be late. I hated being late.
Everybody would turn in their seats and stare at me with their judgy sneers.
Even if they didn’t say it out loud, it would be written all over their faces.
And if there was one thing I knew as a sin-eater, it was the secret toxic inner voices inside people’s heads.
Nobody was exempt, not even the nice ones.
Especially them. It was so unhealthy to bottle all that up.
The ones who said exactly what they thought, though, their souls were surprisingly clean.
I nearly tripped over a stack of books on the way out the door and muttered a curse.
Now, contrary to appearances, I was not a slob.
My apartment was clean, spotless even, but it wasn’t even a little tidy.
The vibes I was going for were chaos chic.
Books were piled on every available surface, shelves full of trinkets that had been given to me by grieving families as payment for a purging, and not a single bare patch of wall to be seen between the various artwork hung with no rhyme or reason, reminders of all the countries I’d lived (and inevitably fled from shortly after).
Which was exactly why I was retiring. Today. No more sin-eating as of right now. I was going clean, cold turkey.
I wasn’t entirely sure what kind of consequences to expect.
Like, would I become mortal if I stopped consuming the sins of others?
Would I care if I did? It made sense. I’d lived more than my share of years, so it would only be fair if there was an end in sight, right?
And if I died, where would my own soul end up once I crossed over?
Not that there was much left of my soul at this point.
It had been fraying over the centuries, worn thin in places, overwhelmed by time and darkness.
I decided retirement was something to be celebrated.
I had a lot of plans for my golden years.
Bingo, walks in the park, matinee movies.
I wasn’t sure what shuffleboard was, but I’d heard people say it was all the rage at the retirement home.
Dinner at 4pm? Sign me up! I was really looking forward to that senior discount.
I gnawed on the inside of my cheek as I hustled down the sidewalk in the direction of the Valleywood Community Altar: non-denominational, for all your sacrificial needs.
No sacrifices would be made today, as far as I knew.
It was just where the ex-supernatural support group met every week.
Which I would be… as of right now. Ex-supernatural.
With a deep breath, I allowed myself a tiny smile.
I was going to rock the hell out of this mortality gig.
I would just have to learn to ignore the tingling in my fingertips as I walked through a crowd, itching to reach out and touch those with the most delicious sins.
The rich chocolate of greed, the bitter bite of wrath, the sweet effervescence of lust, like champagne across my tongue… My mouth watered at the thought.
Whether it was irony or karma, that was the exact second my phone rang in my pocket.
I missed a step and nearly bumped into a streetlight.
That little ember of hope for a sin-free future was snuffed out with that chirpy trill, because nobody called me just to chat.
I had no friends who checked to see what I was doing this weekend or sent me pictures of their cat. No, it was always business.
Dread weighing me down, I paused right there on the sidewalk, the traffic splitting around me like a stream around a stone as I pulled out my phone. “Hello?” And even though I’d been retired for less than a day, I suddenly found myself back at work.
The air within the small home was stifling, death hovering thick and oppressive, clinging to me like a shroud.
I stepped inside with no outward sign of the emotional hurricane going on inside me, and as the door closed with a resounding click, I forced my expression into one of polite condolence.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I told the elderly woman before me.
She nodded her thanks, swallowing thickly but saying nothing.
Her eyes were sunken and red-rimmed against her soft papery skin, creased with a long life lived, silver hair an untidy halo around where her bun had come loose.
“Thank you for coming,” she finally managed to say, out of habit as a host welcoming someone into her home, though I knew better than to feel welcome.
“Of course. Will you take me to him?” Him being her husband, Samuel.
As we walked down the narrow hallway to the back of the house, I tried to ignore the hushed conversation being had behind a closed door, where two people were arguing about money.
A common dispute after someone’s death, as though their life meant nothing more than the wealth they left behind. It made me unbelievably sad.
Although, I knew better than to offer my opinion on the matter.
My being here was already a tenuous thing when emotions were at their highest. The very nature of my being meant I would forever be linked with death, and even though my presence came after a person had died, many associated me with the cause of it.
It was that blame that made me wary. After being chased from my home too many times to count, I’d learned to keep my head down.
Of course, a sin-eater was not called to every death.
There was usually no need. For those who believed in absolution, a priest could grant forgiveness before death.
But in the cases where a loved one passed before the priest could arrive—or the ones whose shame was too great to confess—a sin-eater could be used to cleanse the soul in preparation for their journey to the underworld.
The bedroom was lit only by a few candles, the daylight blocked by heavy drapes.
Through the dim light, I approached where Samuel lay on the bed, arms limp at his sides.
His eyes were closed, gravity pulling at his wrinkles making the slack skin sag, an unsettling shade of gray.
His body had been washed, his hair combed back, a blanket pulled up to his bare shoulders—but there was no hiding the cause of death.
A deep gash, now bloodless in death, ran down the side of his neck, before disappearing beneath the blanket.
Whatever had caused the wound had been sharp.
An accident, surely. It would no doubt be covered up before his funeral, concealed beneath putty and flesh-toned makeup, before he was dressed in the suit hanging on the closet door.
It looked expensive, silk perhaps, more than the modest home implied they could afford, but either way, the man would be moving on in style.
I sat down on the edge of the bed. I could still hear the murmur of conversation through the thin walls, a soft hiccupping sob, and my heart squeezed in my chest. Glancing over my shoulder at the man’s wife, I saw her make a symbol with her fingers to ward away evil, and it sent a skitter of unease through me.
“Monster,” I heard my mother whisper from another life. “Abomination,” my father hissed.
They’re wrong, I reminded myself, taking a steadying breath as I turned back to the body. I was no monster. But it was hard to convince myself sometimes when the ghosts of my past decided to remind me of where I came from.
As much as I yearned to retire, it was impossible to ignore the draw even now to help those who were dead and dying, who needed their soul to be cleansed before they could pass over to the next world. Because if I didn’t do it… who would?
With the utmost respect, I folded the blanket back to uncover his narrow chest. I had to bite back the gasp at the further wounds inflicted upon him.
Were those stab wounds? One looked like a gunshot.
What on earth happened to this man? His family wasn’t required to confess his sins to me; I would purge them either way, but whatever happened, it was obvious he had not passed gently.
I took the man’s hand, too cold, knuckles thickly knobbed with arthritis, and addressed the deceased.
“Samuel Lear, may I offer you forgiveness so that you may find peace in the next life.” Then I set my other hand over his heart and closed my eyes.
I could feel it there inside him, the residue of whatever sins he’d committed, but it didn’t feel like anything I’d tasted before.
Not the smoky whiskey of gluttony or the sour lemons of pride.
Beneath my palm, I focused on unlatching it from his soul, but I swore the thing had claws. It fought me every step of the way.
This was wrong. There was no peace, no resolution here. This man’s soul was not at rest.
An uneasy dread settled into my gut as I leaned over Samuel’s body and hovered above him, my lips over his. Emptying my lungs, I used my powers to pull, drawing in not just breath but also his sins, purging it from his body. A thick, swirling smoke billowed out of him and into me.
My body seized, but I could not stop. It just kept coming, choking my airway, clogging my lungs.
I was drowning on it. My eyes rolled back, tears streaming down my cheeks, and when I at last pulled the last tendrils from his body, I staggered back and collapsed onto the floor on my knees, gasping, retching at the thick, oily feel of it coating my tongue.
“W-What… did he do?” I asked between panted breaths.
Samuel’s wife just shook her head and recited prayers in Latin, banishing evil. “Sicut déficit fumus defíciant; sicut fluit cera a fácie ígnis, sic péreant peccatóres a fácie Dei.”
God’s not here, I thought as I struggled to get upright. There’s just me.
I blinked blearily, eyelids like sandpaper, as I realized I was standing in front of the community altar.
I had no clear memory of how I got here, but I somehow managed to pull open the heavy door and stumble inside.
No need to worry about interrupting the meeting since it was already over, and everyone had gathered around the snack table.
It felt like I was somehow standing on the outside, looking in at everyone chatting and laughing.
My body felt impossibly heavy as I tried to process the oily sin into immortal power.
It felt like I’d just binged at the all-you-can-sin buffet.
At this rate, I wouldn’t need to eat again for a year.
“Hi,” someone said to my right. “Is this your first time here?” Were they talking to me?
I blinked once, twice, before I managed to swivel my head, finding a young-looking man standing beside me.
He stood about my height, with short brown hair and haunted brown eyes.
My tongue felt too thick in my mouth as I said, “Yeah. Sorry I’m late…
Looks like I missed the whole thing.” My voice came out raspy, as if I’d been screaming. Maybe I had.
“Not a problem. We’re a pretty easygoing bunch here, seeing as we’ve all been through too much to sweat the small stuff now. My name’s Cameron, former Chosen One?.” He offered his hand, and it took all my energy to lift my hand to shake it.
“Ulysses, sin-eater,” I said without thinking, before I winced. “I don’t know if I should be here, since I’m still struggling with the retirement part.”
But Cameron just waved it off like it was no big deal.
“You’ll find no judgment here. Like I said, we’re pretty lax.
And see that guy over there, who looks like he has a fatal case of jaundice and who smells a bit like sour milk?
That’s Zeek. He’s a lower-level demon, and he can’t really leave that part of himself behind.
He also happens to make the best spinach puffs, so nobody minds that he keeps coming back.
Half the people here just show up for the food. ”
There was such a casual relaxation coming off Cameron that I couldn’t help leaning closer just to bask in his golden glow. “How do you do it?” I whispered without meaning to. I clarified, “Retire, I mean. Leave it all behind.”
He offered me a sad smile. “I don’t know if I’m the best person to ask.
While I am technically a former Chosen One, I’ve also recently become kind of a god?
I’m still trying to figure out what that means.
But a lot of supernaturals find their way here when their role in life changes, whether through their own choice or not, perhaps a witch’s curse or spell reversal, maybe injected with an antiviral, like Selena over there.
Some of them, like my brother-in-law, try to bargain their powers away in some sketchy back alley—which totally backfired on him.
Serves him right for making a deal with the devil.
Anyway, a lot of them feel like their purpose in life is over…
I know I did. I promise, it’s completely natural to deal with depression and confusion, a sense of grief after losing something that’s been a part of your identity for so long.
Personally, I found it helpful to find a new purpose. ”
“A new purpose?” I asked, hopeful.
“Well, after I saved the world from annihilation, I drifted for a while. I tried being a superhero’s sidekick, but that wasn’t what I needed.
I actually became quite sick from all the power that built up in my system.
It’s been a real adjustment learning to live in the aftermath.
But it wasn’t until I became a husband and a father that I found ultimate peace. ”
“Oh…” A happy ever after wasn’t in my future.
“Hey, don’t be discouraged. Not everyone’s path is the same.
You took the first step in coming here today, and I promise we’ll help answer your questions and support you in any way we can.
” He smiled, revealing a dimple. “Come on. Why don’t you come try some of Zeek’s mini quiches. That’ll cure anything.”
I shrugged, appreciating the lie, all while knowing there was no cure for me. “Couldn’t hurt, I guess.” And even though I was far too full to eat, I let him drag me across the room, supporting my weight with an arm around my shoulders.