Alexiares (Blackwell Brothers Redemption #2)

Chapter One

Wind teased the ends of Alexiares Blackwell’s hair as he sped across the Brooklyn Bridge on his original Harley-Davidson Fat Boy motorcycle.

The roar of the engine, the power of the machine beneath him, and the sheer freedom momentarily quieted the dissatisfaction that never seemed to leave him of late.

He adeptly maneuvered around the taxi in front of him in a race to leave his thoughts behind.

It was too perfect a day to allow the shadows to spoil his mood.

He’d reaped a soul only an hour before. There was no sense of pride in a job well done, not anymore.

It was simply another task that needed doing.

No different than brushing his teeth…or taking out the trash. He winced at the comparison.

“Damn it,” he muttered. Even knowing he shouldn’t, he increased his speed, hoping to outrun his demons.

A large black hole appeared out of nowhere, opening directly in front of him. Unable to stop, he shot through it. One second he was on the busy bridge, the next, roaring down a rural road straight into the path of an oncoming car.

“Fuck!” Reflex had him swerving the same time the driver did. Tires screeched. Rubber burned. He almost made it.

Crunch! Metal hit metal. The muscles in his arms and shoulders locked as he struggled to control the trajectory of the bike, but the force was too great, the momentum unstoppable. An immortal reaper, he wasn’t worried about surviving. He couldn’t say the same for his bike.

Years of experience had him taking the bike down on its side in a controlled slide.

Gritting his teeth, he hung on as dirt and grass sprayed the air around him.

Sharp rocks dug into him. If not for his leather jacket, he’d have a harder time explaining away his lack of injuries.

When he finally stopped a hairsbreadth from several large trees, he released a sigh of relief.

What the hell happened? He hadn’t opened a portal, but he’d gone through one. And there was only one person with the power to pull that off. A stirring in the air had his head jerking to the right. The Grim Reaper, complete with dark robe and eight-foot scythe, appeared before him.

He lifted the bike off himself, got to his feet, and removed his sunglasses, tucking them in his jacket pocket. “Dad.” Alex glanced toward the road, but the driver was still in the car, hands gripping the wheel. Then he noticed a blue jay frozen in midflight. His father had stopped time.

Alex’s gut tightened. His father interfered with reapers only under the direst of circumstances. Whatever his reason for being here, it couldn’t be good.

His father tossed the cowl back. “Alexiares.” His mouth was drawn in a thin line of displeasure. Nothing new there. His old man never seemed to be happy with him.

“To what do I owe the honor?” It had been decades since he’d seen his father, maybe longer. Being the son of the Grim Reaper came with huge responsibilities…and even higher expectations.

“Your older brother…”

Here it comes.

For as long as he’d been alive, their father had encouraged competition among the three siblings.

It was natural enough. Samael was the eldest with Alexiares close behind, and then Kieran.

The friendly rivalry they’d shared as boys had grown into something much darker, something decidedly not fun or friendly, when they’d taken up positions as reapers.

“What’s Samael done now?” And why was it his problem?

“He”—a slight hesitation—“completed an assignment I set.”

Briefly closing his eyes, Alex took a breath.

“Of course he did.” After all this time, his father continued to pit the brothers against one another.

Even knowing it for what it was, it was difficult not to resent Sam, even though he had no more control over it than Alex did.

“Seeing as you’re here, I assume I’m next? ”

His father’s frown deepened. “Yes.”

“Did you blindside him like you did me? Drop him into the middle of nowhere without warning?” Driving into a portal had been like plummeting off the side of a mountain into sheer nothingness, having no idea where you’d land or how messed up you’d be when you hit the bottom.

All things considered, he’d gotten off easy, but it was an experience he could live without ever having again.

A muscle flexed in his father’s jaw, a sign his patience was wearing thin.

But there was also a flicker of what might have been guilt in his eyes.

Alex immediately dismissed it. His father was not one to doubt his actions or experience remorse over them.

The Grim Reaper’s word was law and not to be questioned.

“Be grateful. I left him on foot.” Which meant Samael had gotten hijacked and dumped, too.

Alex stared at his beloved bike. “I’m not so sure I won’t be on foot.” He was hopeful it could be easily fixed, but there was no telling how bad the damage was until he could get it to a garage.

“I have faith you’ll adapt and do what you need to do.”

His father’s casual disregard for the destruction he’d caused grated. “What if I don’t particularly want to take up the challenge?”

Resistance was futile. He might be one of the most powerful paranormal beings in existence, but no one trumped the Grim Reaper. Not his sons. Not even the gods.

“You don’t have a choice.”

There it was; the reminder that his father could yank his chain whenever he felt the need to flex his power. “When have I ever?” he muttered. His life had been mapped out from the moment he’d taken his first breath.

“I’ve left you and your brothers to your own devices but have seen a marked change these past decades.”

“I’ve reaped every soul I was responsible for.

” Doing so for millennia wore on him, but he’d done it all the same.

It was a point of pride. Reaping wasn’t only what he did.

It was part of him, his heritage, his purpose.

While he might not find the satisfaction in it that he once had, it was necessary to him on a fundamental level.

“But you find no fulfillment in it.”

He shrugged off the criticism. “I didn’t realize that was a job requirement.” He was pushing his luck—his father’s tolerance would stretch only so far—but was past caring. “I understand I’m a disappointment to you.” He’d come to terms with that a long time ago.

His father sighed. “I’m disappointed for you, not in you.

As I said, your brother completed his assignment.

Now it’s your turn. You get the same terms. Reaping souls is an honor, not a chore to be ticked off a to-do list. If you cannot do it properly or choose not to accept the task, you will be banished from Earth and exiled to Shadowland for eternity, never to reap again. ”

An icy hand gripped his heart. “You can’t be serious.

” He’d grown up in Shadowland—the realm of the reapers, the home of Death—running wild with his brothers, but hadn’t been back there since he’d taken up the task of reaping.

To lose his home here and everything he’d built, the activities and things that gave him pleasure and kept him sane—not happening.

He’d lose his mind confined to Shadowland.

“I’m very serious. You’re a reaper. Prove you can do the job properly or lose it and all the privileges attached to it and be confined to Shadowland forever.”

“Imprisoned, you mean. You can fancy it up any way you want, but that’s what it is.” His gut knotted, the punishment too terrible to contemplate.

His father’s black eyes seemed to soften. Most likely it was Alex’s imagination or a trick of the light. “I do this for your own good, my son.” With that, he was gone.

The blue jay resumed its flight as though it had never stopped.

The world had gone still for no more than a minute or two, but everything had changed.

The life Alex had carved out was in jeopardy.

It all hinged on a mysterious assignment, and he didn’t have a sweet clue where to begin or what he was expected to do, other than reap a soul properly.

Whatever the hell that meant. His father hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with details.

Hands fisted at his sides, he ground his teeth together. “Great. Just fucking great.”

…

Priscilla Wainwright—Cilla to anyone who wanted her to answer them—clenched the steering wheel, heart pounding in her ears. Everything had happened so fast. One second she’d been driving around a bend in the road and the next…

“Oh God. I hit someone.”

Her fingers didn’t want to cooperate, but she clawed at her seat belt and managed to get it open.

The car had gone off the road, but the airbag hadn’t deployed—she hadn’t been going fast and hadn’t hit that hard.

She was okay, but she had no idea about the other driver.

Grabbing her phone, she shoved the door open.

The acrid scent of burnt rubber assailed her nostrils. Heat rose in waves off the pavement.

Hands shaking, she fumbled with her phone. Before she could call for help, a town police car rolled around the curve in the road. She waved her arms in the air. “Help! Over here.”

As the cruiser pulled over onto the side of the road, Cilla hurried toward the rider as fast as her unsteady legs could manage. Miraculously, he was already on his feet.

“Are you all right? You took a hard spill.” There was no telling how bad the damage might be—broken bones, internal injuries. Her train of thought came to an abrupt halt when eyes as black as midnight met hers. Mesmerized, all she could do was stare at the compelling stranger.

“Sir, are you injured?” The arrival of Officer Calvin Jones broke the spell, releasing her.

Moving out of the way, she took a deep breath, thankful Cal was here.

Not only was he a dedicated police officer, he was a lifelong friend, more family to her than her own.

“Paramedics are on the way,” he reassured them both.