16. Raven
On day five, with zero success toward completing our task, Chace and I set out early in search of reap-ready souls. We both avoided eye contact, and we had yet to speak about the previous evening, or his suggestion regarding Aldine.
The degree of awkwardness between us had become palpable, leaving me feeling like a fifteen-year-old trapped with my most miserable date on the day after. Laser-focused dedication to reaping attempt after reaping attempt became my form of avoidance.
We navigated the formerly vibrant streets for hours.
Faded paint on the nearby buildings told a story of a once-colorful destination.
Each establishment bore a different hue―long ago bright and robust―now faded from time and neglect.
Patterns and pigments adorned various stones along the cobblestone pathway.
At its zenith, the Citadel of Veritas had likely shimmered with the air of a magical festival.
The two- and three-story structures lining our course gave way to a cloudless sky, revealing a brilliant sun that warmed the stone and our backs. Sweat slicked my body beneath my leathers, and I pulled at my collar, praying a wisp of chilled air would sweep through the opening and cool my skin.
Every few moments, I swung my attention to the sky.
More crows circled over the citadel with each passing day―I’d witnessed their arrival through the sky-high tears in the surrounding magical barrier―but no large raven flew among them, and none of the crows came with the written reply for which I waited.
Was the perceived influx of black birds nothing more than my anticipation, wishing for an answer to promptly arrive? Maybe I simply noticed the crow numbers now, when before I hadn’t.
Or maybe, now that I had used the device, they gathered in waiting for the next time I activated the caller.
Reaper’s hell. I wished my electronic communicator worked in this cursed place. Waiting never once ranked as one of my strong points.
The first day after the incident, Aldine had rallied, giving us all hope. False hope, as the case so happened. On day two, our chaperone slipped into a cavernous sleep and had yet to wake. The local healer told us to keep him hydrated and wait―the only perceived option available to us.
And so, Chace and I waited…and worked. Each morning, I cleaned my scythe, privately ran through various combat class tactics, then moved with Chace through a different portion of the citadel, attempting to reap and complete our curse of a job.
Aldine had told us we could (hopefully) find the key needed to solve the citadel’s issue in or near the ruling class. In other words, the castle. Only the path to the castle kept confusing us, and we had yet to identify a way to the palace gates.
Veritas covered an extensive swath of land and the streets were nothing short of a maze designed to confuse. But the more area we covered, the more details I memorized. Slowly piecing the puzzled path together. The citadel’s deterrents would not get the best of me.
We did manage to locate a royal receiving complex at a satellite location, in no way attached to the palace. It also hosted no apparent path between the two venues. The abandoned and neglected building possessed no helpful clues as to which direction we should head.
These discoveries twisted my inner thoughts. The hidden, confusing path to the palace and the separate, seemingly unassociated royal receiving building… What kind of extra paranoia did the ruling family harbor?
The majority of citizens remained in hiding, likely due to gossip and the fear of the strangers in their midst. We probably represented a big unknown in their minds. Still, during daylight hours, life presented itself as individuals did what they must to survive―working, trading, socializing.
The population consisted of humans and others, half-breeds like Aoes, of mixed blood. We spotted none considered purebred whatevers―fae, elven―such as Aoes’s pale friend Winter, and none with pointy ears like him, either.
I could count on one hand the number of children we’d seen since our arrival. And as for any afflicted, statistics suggested they existed in high quantities. Considering the numbers we’d encountered, many were likely kept indoors or hidden from us.
Strangely enough, not all afflicteds appeared on the list of reapings, and not all tasked reapings ended up being afflicteds. Some of our attempted collections looked perfectly normal, and yet they too remained (presently) unreapable. They also yelled or fought back a lot more.
The day had already stretched too long, filled with trial and error, and dinner time remained hours away. I exerted extensive effort to prevent my limbs from dragging in front of Chace as hunger and exhaustion haunted me.
We turned a corner, our seventh of the day, and found ourselves facing an afflicted human…as if my thoughts of them staying hidden had forced her to materialize. The zombified woman stood…or swayed…in the middle of the otherwise empty street.
“Let’s get this over with,” Chace grumbled.
I reached for my compacted scythe clipped across the back of my belt in the form of a short, fat baton. One hard shake, and the baton expanded to full form—a tall, menacing sickle.
The scythe was a tool, not a weapon. One designed to open the door between worlds so that a reaper might usher the departing soul through to the beyond. Other tools existed in our arsenal, but the scythe ranked as the most well-known and popularized.
In a false sort of way, but whatever.
Over the last few days, we had both tried our collection’s eye and reaper’s grip, neither granting us any success.
Based on the flash Chace and I had witnessed at the time of Aldine’s incident, we had come to the conclusion that our elder had likely tried to use the collection’s eye.
Therefore, until we knew if the issue rested in the collection or Aldine’s flawed attempt, we proceeded with extra caution as to when and with whom we attempted to use that particular tool.
Never with an individual in a zombie-like state.
I sliced the scythe through the air, and the thin, shimmering line of the crossover door for the summoned soul appeared.
“Now.” My voice sounded breathy, overused.
For hours, we’d attempted failed reap after failed reap, and my fuel level now ran low.
A success…just one…would go a long way to reenergize my spirit. And so far, we’d experienced none.
Chace shoved the target forward. The afflicted citizen stumbled over and through the dimensional cut, then she appeared on the other side. Unchanged. Neither dead nor really alive. A handful of seconds later, the door to the underworld sealed shut with a soft sizzle.
Wiping his brow, Chace braced his body against the side of a nearby building and bowed his head, gasping for breath.
He didn’t complain—he never did—but exhaustion showed in his movements, and I knew he felt as tired as I did.
Possibly more. He’d started his day looking haggard, like he hadn’t gotten much sleep.
After last night, and our rooftop exchange, maybe he hadn’t.
Slumber hadn’t come easily for me with my insides heated and roiling. Had he felt the same? I found the prospect of exploring the reason behind his possible restless night somewhat alluring.
“Did it work?” he asked.
“No.” I expelled a moan, and my stomach growled. “How about we take a break? We could go back to the pub, grab a quick nibble, and return to the task a bit more refreshed.”
A vision of weighted despair, Chace pushed away from the wall, stood straight, and tipped his head back, raking his fingers through his sweat-streaked hair.
And…with thoughts revisiting moments from the previous night…I allowed my gaze to wander, lingering in places… I rather relished the way his damp shirt clung to his muscular body.
At that moment, I couldn't recall why our families clashed or why he irritated me so.
His hooded gaze shifted to me. “Are you sure you’re doing it right?”
And…just like that, I remembered. Prick.
“I know what I’m doing. I’m not some newb.” My response exploded free before I could stop myself.
If my words could bite, they would now chew chunks of his flesh.
His glower only served to reinforce my state of mind. With a tiny huff, I averted my gaze. My action would never equal a concession by any means. I merely couldn’t stand to look at his contemptuous face any longer without wanting to punch him.
Holding my scythe at my side, I peered down the road in the direction of the pub. My stomach continued to rumble, but I did my best to ignore the complaints. I would not go in search of food and give Chace the opportunity or satisfaction of calling me a quitter.
With my shoulders squared and my free hand propped on my hip, I counted to fifty, then I glanced back at him.
He had dropped to a sit with his back pressed against the bricks of a nearby building, legs bent and arms draped over his knees. A soft wind coasting along the bordering passageway lifted strains of his hair, but he didn’t seem to notice. His thoughts appeared miles from the wretched citadel.
A tiny pang of guilt squeezed my chest.
The fact that he was here, trapped in the cursed predicament, could be entirely my fault, and I hadn’t forgotten that. Not even for a minute. But also, I hadn’t allowed myself to dwell on the possible facts.
The equal probability existed that we were both called to the citadel because of our family connections.
Either way, I couldn’t change what had already transpired, and dwelling would only weaken my fortitude, causing our overall mission to suffer.
Chace’s attention snapped to his right, and he twisted to peer around the building corner and bordering passageway.
A half-beat later, a sound cracked on my left, dragging my gaze from him and his preoccupation.