Asher of the Afterlife

Prologue

You Reap What You Know

The OtherWorld

I died in a fire. But unlike the phoenix, I did not rise from the ash. I am the ash. I am what remains after the final smolder, what is left when the very last spark has extinguished.

I’m not sure what I thought would happen after I died, but it definitely wasn’t this.

I’m sitting on a rather unremarkable wooden chair in a courtyard, alongside seven other souls, none of whom look particularly happy to be here.

What I do know is that I have been flagged for possessing a specific temperament and skill set during an induction process called AfterLife Processing, or ALP if you’re in a hurry.

I am decidedly not. So, here I sit, surrounded by a group of similarly confused apparitions, all wondering what in the fuck happens next.

Four walls around us stretch stories high, capped by a glass rooftop.

The moon slices through the glass, illuminating the curved Gothic windows of each floor of this strange place.

Dead trees line the outer area, their black branches shooting off at odd angles.

Silver vines climb the walls and coil around some of the chairs.

Black and red candles drip wax from candelabras placed throughout the area, adding flickering light to the otherwise dark room.

I look around at the seven ashen faces of the undead souls sitting with me.

I recognize a few of the faces from training, others I’ve never seen before.

We are all dressed in similar versions of the same outfit—a white dress shirt and a black suit.

Some of the gathered wear straight ties; a few have black bow ties; and a few others, myself included, have nothing restricting our necks.

I scratch at the exposed portion of my collarbone in apprehension.

A sonorous crack reverberates throughout the space. Several souls flinch. I keep my eyes on the black-and-white mosaic tiles on the floor in the center of the room.

Whatever’s coming, I cannot stop it. No point in panicking.

A resonant voice fills the courtyard from all directions at once.

“You are the select few, chosen for your precision, your incisiveness, and your skill. You have demonstrated an aptitude for mercilessness and an appetite for carnage that make you a perfect fit for the OtherWorld’s most revered commission. ”

A couple of the souls in the circle snicker.

“You are the next class of reapers, and this is our most coveted and secretive ritual. The Blade Ceremony.”

The voice now physically materializes in the center of our circle. His feet obscure the mosaic. He’s tall, imposing, with eyes that seem to shift, though that could just be the light playing tricks on me.

He holds his position in the middle of us and performs a slow turn, taking each of us in.

His eye contact is insistent and unnerving, as though he were sizing up a prize mare.

Maybe he is. Once he’s done a full turn and inspection, he shoots his arms out to either side of his body and booms, “Clap, you fools.”

We do. A chorus of obedient applause follows his request, and a smile breaks out on his face.

“That’s better. Obedience will serve you well in your time as a reaper. Obedience will serve me well in your time here, and serving me well is a very good idea. Trust me.”

He pauses and scans the assembled faces, as though making sure each of us understands this declaration clearly.

Seemingly satisfied, he goes on, “You do not know me, but I most certainly know you. I am Death. Call me D or Big D. I may answer to either … or neither. Depends on my mood. And my levels. Anyway, I am in charge. Do as you’re told, and you will be rewarded with comfort and freedom that most in the OtherWorld never even dare to imagine.

Disobey me … disappoint me … doubt me … well, just don’t. ”

A couple across the circle from me mumbles to each other and snickers.

Big D’s eyes turn to flames, and his single command flattens the room. “Silence!”

Big D continues to pace. “I have observed your training from afar. I have received feedback and recommendations from your trainers. Thousands of souls are considered for each reaper class. Eight of you earn the distinction. Your mandatory enlistment begins now with your division assignment and blade issuance.”

He stops his movement on the outer edge of the circle. All eyes are on him as he explains the purpose of this clandestine meeting.

“This weapon is crafted specifically for the user and is imbued with the energy and power you wielded during your mortal days. It will serve as your instrument to separate spirits from their hosts. It is one of a kind, impossible to duplicate or replace. Do not lose it. Do not misuse it.”

The ground beneath us begins to rumble. The chairs shake, and the mosaic tiles rattle and separate. A crack forms in the center of the design, and the floor opens.

Our chairs do not sag, nor do we move toward the opening.

“Ah, and now, we begin,” he says, his voice carrying satisfaction. “This is the OtherWorld’s Welder of Wonder, the Flawless Forger himself—Angus.”

A giant, chiseled figure emerges from the depths, standing in front of a forge with an anvil before him.

His broad, rounded shoulders enhance his imposing presence.

He wears a charcoal-grey apron with no shirt underneath.

To his right lies a large mound of hard silver metal, and to his left, there is an oversize hammer.

He moves his head, cracking his neck in the process.

D smiles and asks the mammoth man, “Ready to begin, Gus?”

“Mmmm.” The response is a deep groan.

D snaps his fingers. “Asher comma Thomas. Welcome to the OtherWorld. Your Reaper Division is … Catastrophes. Oof, tough start. Come forth and receive your blade.”

I rise and approach Angus, who’s been appraising me since I stood up.

Without taking his eyes from me, he reaches his meaty paw to his right and digs impossibly into the hard metal pile.

The moment his hand makes contact with the silver substance, it softens and clumps in his palm.

He fists a ball of it, which has somehow transformed from a solid to a thick liquid in his grasp, and places his hand over his anvil.

He pours the metal onto the black surface and looks intently into its center as it pools.

“You were born of fire.”

“I died in a fire,” I correct, but his eyes narrow at my words.

“A death there begins your life here. I repeat, you were born of fire. You know the ways of the flame,” he says, and now there’s something almost lyrical in his guttural voice.

“Your former life was spent shaping with fire. Bending metal to your will. Creating things of beauty and strength from raw material and pure intention.”

He raises the hammer above his head.

“That gift does not die when you die. It transforms into something greater.”

He brings the hammer down.

The strike is a single flawless blow that instantly shapes the molten metal into the form of a blade. The sound of impact echoes through the courtyard like a death knell. The metal doesn’t cool gradually; it solidifies instantly, hardening into something real and deadly.

Angus sets down the hammer and picks up the blade. He inspects it with the care of a craftsman examining his masterpiece. Turning it over in his scarred hands, he runs his fingers along the edge, the curve of the blade, and the hilt. His expression is unreadable.

He brings the blade in front of him and lays it across both palms.

“Master of heat, felled by flame. You are now a mountain of fire. You reap as the volcano. Ifaísteio.” He extends his arms toward me.

I step forward and reach for the blade.

The moment my hands touch the hilt, I feel it.

Power.

Not the abstract power of authority or rank. The raw, fundamental power of my own essence-given form. The fire that burned in me when I was alive. The passion that drove me to create, to build, to become someone despite my station. All of it pours through my hands, my arms, through my entire being.

The blade is warm, not hot. It fits my hand like it was grown from a piece of me. Like I was forged around it.

Angus speaks again as I grip it firmly. “Ifaísteio.”

As he says the word, I turn the blade over and see the word etch itself along the metal in elegant script.

As the letters slice into the side of the blade, Angus continues, “Some see the volcano for what it destroys while others see it as a force laid bare to be made new again. You now contain the power of both. You are creation and destruction. You are the end and the beginning. You are a reaper now.”

“Ooh,” D purrs from his spot just outside our circle. “What a dramatic beginning to our proceedings. Welcome to the reaper class, Asher comma Thomas. May you serve me well.”

I glance from D to the sharp blade in my right hand.

I test its weight and feel the magnetism radiating from it.

I grip the hilt firmly and feel sparks dance across my palm.

“Ifaísteio.” I whisper the word. “Volcano.”

To some, it means an ending. To me … a new beginning.