2. Midnight #2
I’m about to shove my mental scythe up his actual arse when he vanishes and the entropy moth’s mind trembles and settles back into its normal mode of communication.
It shows me a series of possibilities—all of them closed off.
Paths and fates that are no more thanks to the deal the human made with Ignatius.
Scene after scene ripples and swirls, curving through my mind like smoke and shadow.
Reason ten million not to make a deal with a demon. You might think you’re getting what you want, but all a contract does is rewrite your fate. Seal off a lot of possible futures and paths that were once open to you.
Awful really.
A sick sort of twist.
In order to give you what you want, the devil takes everything else.
That’s how the moths are created. They’re the manifestations of closed-off futures. Meaning I can see the soul that Ignatius needs collecting and all the lives they could have lived. And Ignatius, having contracted the poor fool, can communicate with me through those dead futures.
A vision of a young man washes through my mind. He’s skinny and short and holds a wistful gaze that screams yearning.
I bet it was love.
A slide show of possibilities rapid fires through my consciousness. Dancing, kissing, fucking.
Yeah.
He definitely sold his soul for love. Rookie error. Ask me how I know.
As the vision fades, I let out a deep sigh.
The moth’s proboscis pings out of my knuckle. It twitches, fluttering its wings, staring at me. I hold its gaze. That same smug twitch of its antennae shivers through its beady black eyes.
I slam my fist down. It crumbles, bursting into a puff of dust.
Cruel?
Maybe.
But I hate those things.
I flick the entropy residue off my hand and start the bike.
* * *
Do you know what I hate more than entropy moths? Puny ashkissers that beg.
Fighting? That I can respect. I’ll go down fighting when my time comes too. I think that’s why Ignatius likes me; I don’t pander to him like everyone else.
But begging? Pathetic—unless it’s in the bedroom, of course. A pretty bit of meat begging Daddy to stop making her come? Mmm. That I can get down with.
The rave is tucked in an abandoned graveyard behind a derelict building. Even though it’s hidden from sight, there’s no mistaking it’s there. The air is filled with the constant beat of music, the faint hint of sweat and alcohol.
Alas, before I can join the fun, I have to deal with this grinner.
A dribble of piss leaks down the guy’s trousers, and all I can do is wrinkle my nose.
“Please, I just need more time,” he whines.
I scruff his shirt tighter, shove him against the building wall. “You know who loves begging?”
He trembles, his head shaking from side to side.
“The wraiths. You should try begging in hell. I’m sure that will help.”
He lets out a sob. “I just wanted to be loved.”
“We all just want something. How do you think I got in this position?”
His eyes harden, he spits on the ground. “Gravetether.”
I tilt my head at him. “If you think insulting me is going to win you any favours, it won’t. It’s only going to get you sent to the underworld faster.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Please, give me more time. I’ll do anything.” He grips my shoulders, giving them a pleading squeeze. Grinning at me, no doubt the same way he did to Ignatius.
“I’ll pay,” he squeaks.
“Sorry, mate. We’re all pawns in this city. Are you Thaddeus Crowhurst, contractee to Ignatius Corvine?”
His bottom lip trembles as he nods confirmation. Tears spill over his lids. He gives me the most puppy-dog expression you’ve ever seen. Demons, give me strength. Why do they always have to make it hard? Like any of this is on me?
He made the fucking deal, and the guilt trip makes me feel like shit. It’s not like I want to do this.
I figure I can give him another minute. “Out of interest, what was the d—” I ask.
“The love of my life. I wanted her to notice me.”
I knew it. I shake my head. “Did she?”
He shrugs, a few tears spilling out. “For a while.”
“Yeah, it’s never long enough. Never works out the way you want. It’s why we shouldn’t fuck with fate.”
“Hindsight,” he sniffs.
Couldn’t agree more.
“Do you have any last words?” I ask.
He sobs again. Falls to his knees, almost taking me down with him. I’m growing tired of this. He kisses my boots, screaming and pleading. Honestly, if a hot woman kissed my boots, I’d be wet right now, but this is vile.
I shuck him off. “Stop it. You’re embarrassing yourself. Death comes for us all, eventually.”
“But not like this. Please, not like this.”
I unclasp my scythe. Some of the reapers I know choose enormous weapons, I prefer the handheld blade. This one is special, too. I stole it from Ignatius. The bone-white edge catches the moonlight in whorls like stardust. It’s always been beautiful; it’s why I took it.
It’s more intimate and personal to stare into the eyes of a lost one before you rip their soul from their body, so I force myself to lock onto his.
May I never forget.
May I never judge.
For one day, it will be my eyes, and Ignatius looking into them as he reaps my soul.
What’s odd is that reaping this many souls should resign me to my fate—and trust me, I’ve reaped enough of them to believe in fate.
And still, I won’t give up. If anything, having taken so many souls is pushing me to fight harder.
I don’t want to share these mortals’ fates.
I refuse to accept that a year from now I’ll have to stare down eternal darkness at the hands of Ignatius.
I pick Thaddeus up by the collar and read him his final rites. “Whisper your last truth and I’ll carry it to the dark with me.”
His mouth quivers, like his lips are trying to find the words buried in the evening air. I bring the scythe to his neck.
“It wasn’t worth it. Love. Not this way. It never felt real. I think a part of her always knew. Our love entropied, and I sold my damn soul for nothing.”
I nod, understanding in that bone-deep way only someone who made the same mistake as you can.
Selling my soul wasn’t worth it either.
“Thaddeus Crowhurst, 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 slide the scythe through his neck, tensing and pushing hard when I hit his soul spine. It has to sever the cord, or I won’t remove his whole soul, and that is not a fate I’d wish on anyone.
I shove hard. His mouth opens, a silent scream whispering into the air. His eyes widen and dull, his body growing heavy in my arms.
The scythe slips out the other side of his neck and I drop him to the ground.
I wipe the blade on my trousers. Not that there’s anything there.
The blade doesn’t cut skin, it only cuts soul.
But habits are hard to break, and all blades need cleaning, whether it’s from blood, brains or a beautiful soul.
I glance down at him, all crumpled and piss covered. He seems small.
Poor bastard.
Death isn’t kind to anyone, least of all the grinners.
A white cat appears, all fluffy and orange eyed.
It’s cute, though the scornful sneer it’s giving me is not.
I kneel down to stroke it. It purrs and rubs around my legs, its head butting my hands for harder chin tickles.
It’s pure white, like a ghost, save for a single black blemish over one paw, like a sock.
“You’re a sweet thing,” I say.
And then it bites me.
I yelp, but it just headbutts me again, demanding more strokes.
Strange creatures, cats. I get up and walk away, I don’t have time for strays. When tonight is over, I’ll have three hundred and sixty-four days to avoid the same fate as Thaddeus.