23. Raven
The Killian lingered in the corner of the room, watching me.
Waiting, I presumed, for my eventual death that would likely come sooner rather than later, as evidenced by his presence…and the pain coursing through my body.
Despite my efforts to clear my vision, the fuzzy edges and blotches of my sight refused to sharpen. Fire and ice cut through my system, compromising my senses, splintering my bones, and melting my skin.
The possibility that the Killian wasn’t actually present and everything I saw was the result of a fever-induced vision was very real. Yet―equally―the chance that he physically stood before me could not be ignored.
His gaze swept over me, not in the greedy, anxious-to-devour sort of way that I expected, but in thoughtful evaluation. Sizing me up.
Was he assessing how much longer I would cling to life?
He took a step closer, and if every part of me hadn’t hurt, I would have squirmed and inched away. Only the ache of my body outweighed the dread of any impending demise. If he could stop the hurting, I’d thankfully follow him without complaint.
My vision blurred before returning in a semi-tunnel fashion.
He dragged a long, slim finger down the front of his cloak. “There is something within you, Raven Gunn of Helvíti. Something I can use.” He swung his arm wide. “We can all use.”
He knew my name. Not surprising for a reaper, much less the Killian. But I knew of no family connection to Helvíti—the Hellfire desert, and a place I had never been.
“I shall let you live…for now.” His voice whispered over me, low and smooth. “But when I summon you, you shall come straight to me without delay.”
“What?” My voice gravelly and harsh with disuse, I spoke between clenched teeth to hold back the scream rising in my throat. Every spoken word became a struggle, gathering and intensifying the excruciation, and I would savor a release from such torment. “You’re not going to end my suffering?”
My attempt to hold my vocals steady failed; I hated the hint of panic my tone betrayed. Far more intense pain radiated throughout my body than I would have expected my wounds to inflict, and I couldn’t help but fear I might succumb to something greater. The curse, perhaps.
Was I changing into something like Earl? Dead but not dead?
The Killian straightened, standing almost too tall for the tiny room with its low roof. “As an act of good faith between us, I have granted your associate clemency. I can easily reverse that decision, snap him away with a simple breath, should you fail to uphold your end of our arrangement.”
“Aldine?” I coughed, and a splattering of blood wet my lips. “He was meant to die today?”
“He was.”
“And you didn’t reap him?” I shifted ever so slightly in the bed to better see him. The movement, small as it was, sent a crackling network of complaints through my body. “How can you not when the name has been assigned?”
I had never heard of a reaper having an option. A name assigned meant the soul required reaping, sooner rather than later. If I succumbed to my wounds, unable to complete my given task, the name etched on my arm would eventually transfer to another able and willing reaper.
While trapped in the citadel, that would be Chace, since he was the only other reaper in the vicinity. Except, maybe, the one my father named, Valen… if he was still alive and existed inside the city walls.
Despite the pit of darkness that hung within the Killian’s hood, I thought I detected a smirk. Of course, I could have been imagining things. In my state, I was not beyond the realm of hallucinations.
“I am not some low-level reaper like those who report to the Hall of Reaping Requirements and Acquisitions.” He flicked his hand as if dismissing my existence. “I have the power to adjust the plan, should I see fit to do so. And right now, I see an opportunity.”
“What kind of oppor—” I choked on the word with a harsh cough.
I hated the idea that his choice would give him power over me. Already he dangled the control of his favor, tugging at my strings like a puppet master, when I could do little to fight or follow. I remained trapped in bed, possibly dying or worse.
I found it unimaginable that any reaper or Killian could possess the ability to adjust the lifeline plan. Such an ability could give him the power of a god. A death deity. And the Killian was no such thing.
Was he?
The death deities resided levels and levels above that of any reaper, even the Killian. And Thanatos, the God of Death gods, wasn’t standing beside my bed. Nor were any of the other gods.
At least, I didn’t think so. Reapers believed that if a death deity ever walked among us, we would know. Somehow feel the power. Not that I knew of anyone who could verify that theory.
“I’m in no shape—”
“Indeed. You are a mess. But that is not the true concern here.” He clasped his hands behind his back, leaned over the bed, and peered down at me, a black hole within a hooded cloak.
“To be of any real use to me, you’ll have to become something more than what you presently are.
You will need to rise above a lowly reaper minion, recognize the blood thrumming in your veins, and embrace your truth. ”
I strained to improve my view of the Killian through my blotchy, tired vision. If I could see him better, maybe I could gain a clearer sense of what he asked of me. Because his words… They sounded like nonsense.
Surely he wasn’t suggesting I was something other than myself—Raven the reaper. My family might have developed a history of being excellent at what we did, but that didn’t make me anything more than my fellow reapers. Not really.
Unless…
A difference often made me and my mother stand out from all the others of our kind. The blend of red in our hair and the blue and gold of our eyes. And our secret misting talent.
As I pushed up onto my elbows, my weak and wobbly muscles shook. “Who or what do you think I am?”
I wished for answers that would immediately satisfy. Only the Killian no longer stood in the room. He was gone. Vanished like the hallucination I hoped he was.
My arms gave out, and I collapsed back onto the surface of the bed.
A woman’s face appeared before me, arching over where I lay.
“Raven?” she asked.
I didn’t know this woman. Nor did I know where I was. And presently, I didn’t care.
I closed my eyes and drifted away, back into the blessed darkness.
A crestfallen refrain filled my ears and the dark, stone-encased chamber in which I dwelled. Aged gray stone covered everything that shadow didn’t envelope. My surroundings had to be a dream…or a nightmare. Nothing around me sparked a memory or an inkling of understanding.
And yet, the tune continued, the words heavy and mournful.
A soft brush across the top of my hand drew my gaze, but nothing touched my skin. No gentle hand, no bandage, no fabric or material of any sort. My imagination?
I followed the sad melody from the chamber and through even darker catacombs, wandering a labyrinth of uninviting tunnels and halls, with only the dim flickering of occasional candlelight to illuminate my way.
I kept clear of the openings on either side of the passage and held my travel true to the calling melancholy.
The ballad grew louder and louder, and the path I followed eventually opened into a new, gloomier chamber. If gloomier was possible in an already depressing setting.
Within the cavernous chamber, I located the source of the singing. A woman, blending into the shadows with her dark hair and black attire, kneeled in the center of the space.
In front of her, in an oversized, chain-wrapped chair, sat a too-still child. A child who looked oddly familiar―warm features, softly pointed ears. The woman’s hands pressed to the sides of the child’s temples, their faces inches apart.
I moved closer, approaching in a wide arc.
Whether the woman had noticed my presence or not, she continued to sing without a hitch or a pause.
I circled them, taking in their features from every angle. Light from the few torches mounted around the chamber danced off the young girl’s face and sparked a hint of recognition. But from where, I couldn’t recall.
What was a child doing in the catacombs?
And what was wrong with her? Why wasn’t she moving?
She didn’t look afflicted. Not in the usual manner I had become familiar with.
The song ended, and the female kneeling before the child shifted to face me. Her somber attire appeared somewhat tattered and worn, and her hair a mess of long black frizz, but her eyes shone like brilliant emeralds.
“I have been watching you. I see both the afflicted and the guards failed to undo you. You have to know you and yours should not be here.”
Undo me?
What in reaper’s hell did that mean?
I could ask so many things in that moment: Where were we? Who was she? Why was she watching me? What was her interest in me?
But I held my tongue and nodded to the girl in the chair. “What’s wrong with her?”
I wished to summon the child to my side and whisk her far from the darkness of the catacombs. Reflexively, I reached out to the girl, calling her.
The chains wrapped around the chair shifted, but the girl did not move—didn’t even glance my direction.
A half smile lifted the woman’s lips. “She’s currently suspended in the space between life and death. Belonging to both and neither at the same time.”
Like Earl, but not like Earl.
“She gives a fraction of her life energy for another in need,” the woman continued. “One deeply lacking. I am merely the conduit.”
I grimaced. “That’s unnatural.”
“Is it?” Her teeth shone brightly, a stark contrast against the dull palette consuming our surroundings.
She tilted her head. “Maybe so, but all things evolve over time. What was once considered unnatural has become the new norm. The people of Veritas seem to have adjusted relatively well to this new life of theirs.”