Chapter Four
A Chance Encounter
The OtherWorld
My pep talk must have had some effect on the moody, French, former doctor because things have been decidedly different in the OtherWorld over the past several moonturns.
Following Rue’s cross, so much has changed—not for me, thankfully. I remain the lead reaper in Catastrophes, alone and isolated from the noise found elsewhere in this shithole.
Though that’s not entirely true.
The thoughts continue to fester. My mind becomes infected by memories of Maddy and a love that could have been. No, that’s not quite right. The love existed, but life intervened. What I thought had long since been buried has clawed its way back to the surface, and its talons are sharp.
I’ve been walking the back alleys of the OtherWorld for the past hour, trying to clear my head and outpace the memories. It’s not working.
The steady ping of metal pulls me from my unwelcome thoughts.
The sound is rhythmic and measured—ping, ping, ping.
I stop and scan the alley ahead.
A large figure emerges from the shadows and walks toward me with unhurried confidence.
He appears to be slightly taller than I am, I note as he approaches, which must put him near two meters in height.
A coin turns lazily above his palm, never quite touching his skin, as though gravity doesn’t apply to him.
When he steps into the moonlight, I find myself staring at a man with dark, purple eyes and an amused smile, the kind worn by someone who knows far more than he should.
He wears black pants and a black hoodie, with wisps of platinum hair peeking out; his nondescript attire allowing him to blend into the darkness. His presence commands my attention as he approaches in a steady march. I can also see a wooden toothpick poking out from the shadow cast by his hood.
As he nears me, he flicks the coin once more, getting dangerously close in the otherwise vacant alleyway.
“Heads or tails?” His voice is playful and excited, but there is a hint of madness that gives me pause.
“What?” I respond, caught off guard.
“Call it in the air.” He tosses the coin up. “Heads or tails.”
“Heads,” I say, wishing I could ignore this guy, but the likelihood of that seems low.
The coin lands in his palm with a soft slap. I don’t look down, and he takes notice.
“You don’t want to look at the coin?” he asks, and I can hear the smirk in his tone.
“Nope. I’ll leave it to chance.”
The hooded figure lets out a raspy laugh as he holds the coin up to reveal the back side, which features a bird. “Tails. You lose. What are the odds?”
“Fifty-fifty,” I answer dryly.
“Ah, right, that would be true if this coin had two different sides.” He flips the coin over, showing me that the opposite face has the same image—the same bird.
“That’s cheating,” I state flatly.
“Can’t cheat at a game without rules.” The stranger flicks the coin into the air again, and the sharp ting of metal against fingernail reminds me of something, but the sound doesn’t last long enough to fully tether me to a memory.
I’ve had enough of this stranger and his odd riddles. The windows of freedom I’m given between possible catastrophe-related crossing assignments, or CAT calls for short, are limited, and I don’t intend to waste another second engaging in small talk with him.
“Been a pleasure, mate,” I say brusquely and move past him.
His next words stop me in my tracks.
“Read any good books lately?”
I turn back and stare at the figure intently. “What did you say?”
He shrugs his shoulders, feigning innocence. “Nothing. Just trying to make conversation.” The toothpick moves to the other side of his mouth. “But I can see you’ve got places to be. Which way are you headed? North?” There is a dramatic pause before he adds, “Or south?”
The emphasis he places on the last word makes my skin prickle.
Does he know about the book in Rue’s room? Maddy’s book. How could he? Who is this person?
“Doesn’t matter which way you go in the OtherWorld; you always manage to end up right where you’re supposed to be.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” he asks earnestly, sounding genuinely disappointed, possibly even offended. “Those in charge really don’t appreciate the thrill of spontaneity. It’s enough to crush a man’s spirit. It’s all so structured … predictable.”
“It all has to make sense in the end. Everything in its right place,” I state dryly, mildly disgusted by how much I sound like a company man at this moment.
This place has a way of dulling one’s edges. I look up at the fixed moon as my hand travels reflexively to the hilt of my soul separator at my side. I don’t plan to use it right now, and I’m not sure I can. But the feel of it grounds me and brings me some comfort.
“Right place.” He laughs again, shaking his head.
“You know what I think? I think the ‘right place’ is wherever you land. Not where you’re told to be.
Not where you’re supposed to end up. Just …
whatever side the coin lands.” He emphasizes his point by flipping the coin in his hand again before continuing, “Life’s a series of measured wagers.
Death’s the final gamble. Everything after is just …
” He tosses the coin up and catches it. “More of the same. Except for here. Here, someone has a coin with two tails. They’ve rigged the game, taken all the chance out of it. ”
“And you have a problem with that?”
“I have a problem with boredom.” He pockets the coin. “And this place? It’s boring. No chaos. No surprises. No possibility of things going delightfully, catastrophically wrong.” He says it with genuine enthusiasm.
“Anyway,” he adds from within the dark hood, his playful tone returning, “I should let you go. You’re a busy man.”
I shake my head and turn to leave, done with this conversation and this strange man. But before I can take two steps, his hand makes a quick motion. His fist comes out in front of him, and the silver of the coin glints in the moonlight. He flicks the two-tailed disk in my direction.
Ping.
The sharp ting sound rattles me again, and this time, the image of my forge appears in my mind, hot metal pulsing in shades of red against the hard surface.
“Catch,” he says. “A souvenir.”
I reach for the spinning coin without thinking and catch it cleanly.
The instant my skin touches the metal, a thousand forgotten moments explode through my mind.
Faces. Voices. Fire. Pain.
Memory crashes over me with such force that my knees nearly buckle. The last thing I see before I’m swept away is the gleam of white teeth beneath the stranger’s hood, his face splitting into a sinister grin.
England, 1868
The hammer strikes the iron, and the vibrations run through my arm until it burns. The stubborn metal finally bends to my will, shaped by sweat and heat. Smoke stings my eyes, and I wipe my forearm across my face, leaning over the anvil as I watch the iron cool.
London never stops making noise. Horses clatter on the cobblestones outside, market hawkers shout over one another, and behind me, the bellows hiss and breathe like some great beast. The noise crawls under my skin; there’s no escaping it. Not in this city. Not in this life.
A woman’s voice cuts through the din. “Is the Master in?”
I don’t bother looking up. “Not today.”
“Then who—”
The hammer stills in my hand, and I turn, forgetting how to breathe. The forge fades, the heat and smoke dissipate, leaving nothing but her.
A river of memories floods my mind, overwhelming my heart. It can’t be her. It can’t be.
Maddy. I dare not voice her name aloud, fearing I might somehow be mistaken.
She does not seem to recognize me. While I am not the boy she once knew, have the past six years done that much to change my appearance?
I am covered in soot and grime, my shirt clinging to my chest with sweat, my hands blackened by coal.
My smooth face of youth has taken on the rough stubble of a man at work, and the seasons of maturation and toil have broadened my shoulders and strengthened my arms. But I am still the boy she grew up alongside.
Or perhaps I’m not. That boy died years ago, the second I left the Whitcomb estate, starved out of existence in soot and ash, while she …
has become exactly what she was always meant to be.
She doesn’t belong in the East End, not in a room that smells of smoke and hard labor. Not in my life. Not anymore.
Some things remain unchanged. Her spirit radiates with the same restless energy. For a fleeting moment, I can almost feel the tall grass whipping at our legs and hear her laughter echoing across the fields as she outruns me again. She always ran faster, and I always chased.
Other things have changed though. Her confidence and the cant of her hips remain, but the curve of those hips has filled out.
The swell of her breasts briefly catches my eye, as does the line of her collarbone and neck.
She is still Madeleine, but the girl from my childhood has transformed into the radiant woman before me now. Beautiful.
Her childhood dresses have given way to understated finery. She wears a tailored coat, pristine gloves, and her honeyed hair is pinned neatly, not a strand out of place. She carries herself with quiet assurance—shoulders back, chin lifted.
I clear my throat, attempting in vain to rid my mind of the memories of her. I force a neutral expression, feigning indifference. “You’ll be wanting me then.”
Her gaze travels over me without apology—slow and deliberate.
It’s not the glance of a lady pretending she hasn’t noticed a man or the sneer I’m used to from women of her class.
She assesses me as if she’s making a decision.
Does she recognize me? The look causes my skin to prickle, and I feel as though I were standing before her naked, vulnerable in a way I haven’t allowed myself to be in many years.
I should look away, but I don’t. I can’t.
“Are you …” She leaves the question unfinished.
The uncertainty hangs in the air between us.
“Am I what?”