Chapter Twenty-Six #4
He took one fist, grabbed the torn fabric of his shirt, and ripped it free.
The shirt fell to the side, revealing his bare chest. Intricate patterns of scars covered his torso, arms, and back.
Ebony armor coated every inch of him, making his skin shine in the light of the gas lamps.
The grooves of his muscles were smooth and polished, as though they were carved from onyx.
More vines leapt at him, and he parried them one by one, slicing through them with his walking stick.
It shifted in his hands as he fought: What was once a walking stick had grown to a staff that was nearly Kehinde’s height.
The tip swelled and then flattened into a blade, forming a spear.
Kehinde continued slicing through the attacking vines, but for each one that fell, two more grew from the Reaper’s head.
Kehinde drew his hand to the side and a leaflike blade of ebony wood formed there, shining and sharp.
He launched it at the creature, striking him in the chest and driving him back.
The creature raised his right hand, and a gray pustule swelled on his palm—it opened into a black flower, and a spray of thorns burst from its core.
The thorns collided with Kehinde, who crossed his arms before his face, blocking them.
Still, the force of the blow pushed him backward, and he slid on his heels toward Elswyth.
Thorns protruded from his arms and torso, dripping green poison.
In the moment of his distraction, the Reaper shot a vine from beneath his sleeve, directly at Kehinde.
Elswyth leapt in front of him, intercepting the vine before it could strike.
It wrapped around her wrist, so tightly that she cried out.
She clenched her jaw against the pain and reached into the vine with her floromantic sense, feeling the thrill of vitae there, and ripped it from the vine.
It flowed into her and the vine withered, fading to black, and then collapsed into ash.
The Reaper, to her surprise, didn’t send another vine at her. Instead he seemed to stare at her, somehow, from his face of ivy.
Kehinde, armor still speckled with poison thorns, sprinted forward, leaping with inhuman speed. He kicked off the brick wall to his right, launching himself high and soaring toward the Reaper’s head. Kehinde brought his spear down, screamed, and drove it through the creature’s skull.
It was silent for a moment; the creature twitched, Kehinde still on him, pushing his spear deeper.
Then, slowly, vines crept out from the Reaper’s cloak, wrapping themselves around Kehinde.
One of them tightened around his waist, lifting him into the air.
Another wrenched his spear from the meat of the creature’s skull with a sickening crunch.
“Kehinde!” Percival shouted. He knelt to load his gun again, but his hands shook around the bullets.
The Reaper’s vines twisted, tightening like pythons around Kehinde.
He gasped, his eyes bulging, and Elswyth heard a cracking sound.
Then the vines reared back, throwing Kehinde and his spear across the alley, directly at Percival and Elswyth.
Elswyth dove for her uncle, pulling him to the ground.
Behind them, Kehinde’s body hit the carriage, shattering the door into shrapnel.
Mrs. Rose screamed. Kehinde lay across from her in the ruins of the carriage, unconscious, his right arm twisted at an unnatural angle.
Elswyth leapt up, taking Mrs. Rose by the hand and guiding her out of the ruined coach.
Percival looked at Kehinde and then roared.
He propped up his rifle and fired. The explosion rocked her, and she clamped her hands over her ears. Behind her, Percival’s gun smoked.
The Reaper’s head—if it could be called that—jerked backward.
A wet hole appeared in the middle of his face, a tear in the tangle of vines.
It hit right where its brain should be, and yet the creature didn’t flinch.
The hole resealed, new vines coming to replace the old, sliding over one another like worms.
The creature stepped into the alleyway and began to rise into the air. His tendrils latched onto the buildings behind and in front of him, lifting him skyward. He seemed like the center of some dark web, like a spider with a thousand legs, lording over them from above.
Percival fired again. This time, the buckshot hit the Reaper just below the throat. The fabric of his suit tore away, revealing something beneath: a necklace on an ancient bronze chain with a shining jewel at the center. An amber.
Elswyth stared at it. Her heart thundered in her ears. “No…”
The Reaper made a hissing sound that was almost a scream. He swept his arm to the right, and vines followed, striking Percival. The old man flew to the side, landing painfully on the cobblestones, his gun clattering to a halt alongside the ruined coach.
Elswyth’s mind raced. She looked at the amberheart, hanging around the Reaper’s neck. For a moment, it was as though the creature was looking back at her. As though he, too, knew that he had been revealed.
A gunshot sounded to her right, snapping Elswyth out of her stupor. The bullet struck the Reaper in the side, producing a small squirt of black blood. The moment between them vanished, the Reaper’s head turning to search for his attacker.
Elswyth turned to see Mrs. Rose standing there, legs spread wide, shakily holding a revolver. Her hat had fallen over her eyes, and she scrambled to put it back in position. A shocked expression trembled on her face.
“Mrs. Rose?” Elswyth asked.
Mrs. Rose didn’t respond. She fumbled with the revolver, trying to cock it again. She fired it once, twice, three times, flinching each time. The bullets hit the Reaper’s chest and shoulder, more black blood pooling on his suit.
Vines swept down at Mrs. Rose, thick tendrils wrapping around her waist and wrenching her into the sky.
“Mrs. Rose!” Elswyth screamed. The Reaper crawled over the street, vines latching onto the roofs of nearby buildings, Mrs. Rose dangling beneath him. The woman screamed, thrashing against the ivy that wrapped around her waist. Her revolver dropped, clattering on the cobblestones.
Then Percival was up, limping toward his gun.
He reached it, pushed his sweat-soaked hair from his eyes, and aimed.
The gunshot struck the Reaper in the back as he passed into the next alley, sending a spray of black blood over the stone street.
Percival cracked the gun open, reloaded, and then aimed again…
The Reaper lifted Mrs. Rose behind him, guarding his own body with hers. Elswyth pushed Percival’s rifle away at the last moment, and his shot went wide, hitting a nearby building. Stone shards exploded into the alley, kicking up a cloud of dust.
“Stop! You’ll hit Mrs. Rose!”
Percival shouted, throwing down his gun. Then he ran to Kehinde, who crawled from the ruined carriage on shaking limbs.
Elswyth watched the Reaper hover above the street. All around them, people had come out into the open, watching the commotion. A crowd of them pointed at the creature, screaming at the sight of it.
The Reaper lowered himself slowly. Beneath him, two vines found a manhole cover and pulled it off, tossing it to the side as though it were nothing.
Silently, like an octopus returning to its den, the Reaper lowered himself into the sewer, his vines keeping him steady, and then following him inside.
Elswyth watched his body disappear, and then his monstrous head.
Last to go was Mrs. Rose, still screaming and thrashing against the ivy wrapped around her.
She disappeared into the sewer after him, reaching out for Elswyth.
A straggling vine grabbed the manhole cover and pulled it back into place.
It slid into position with a metallic shink, and then even the echoes of Mrs. Rose’s screams were gone.
Elswyth stood, panting, in her ruined wedding dress. Percival took Kehinde by the shoulder, and the two limped over to her. Kehinde cradled his arm close to his chest, and Elswyth could see shards of his Ebony armor jutting at odd angles, tipped with blood.
“What was that monster?” Percival said.
Elswyth swallowed. When she spoke, her voice shook. “That,” she said, “was Silas Blackthorn.”