Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jackson
S o everything was ready. Everything was in place. There was, however, one small, tiny problem with my plan … Millie's birthday.
Millie was due to die in the early hours of the morning after her twenty-first birthday. To replace her death with an alternative, I had to work that shift. There was no way around it. And the perfect birthday I'd wanted to give Millie, that she'd been thinking about, dreaming about for weeks … well, that meant me missing it, or at least part of it.
I'm pacing my apartment. I've been lost in thought for hours. The sun has set, the shadows of the city cutting through my apartment like razors. I'm not just breaking the rules by saving Millie; I'm going against everything I've followed for the last hundred years since I became a reaper. When I think about that, when I think about the fact I'm going to take the life of someone not due to be reaped, I feel weak. It leaves a prickling wrongness travelling up and down my spine, knotting my stomach, thickening my throat.
The person I'm reaping instead of Millie isn't a good person. In fact, monstrous could be an accurate description. Simply put, the world would be a better place without them in it. But that's not how Death's plan works.
My buzzer goes, and I press the button to let Millie into the building. Maybe cancelling altogether would have been better. Millie would never forgive me, but at least I'd have one less thing to worry about tonight. Instead, I'm trying to work a twelve-hour shift, break the most fundamental rule of being a reaper, and return quickly enough not to ruin my girlfriend's birthday.
I am definitely going to be sick.
When she knocks, I open the door. Millie smiles lovingly at me, swaying into the room, not like a gentle summer breeze, but the first gusts of a storm, forcing herself into the dusty, dark catacombs that used to be my life. She's changed everything, and she doesn't even know it. She has this look in her eyes—happy, excited, just a little nervous. Why is she nervous? She stands in front of me, and for a moment, everything stops. I just stare at her. She laughs lightly before turning away, her fingers in her hair.
“What?”
“You look beautiful.”
Millie chuckles, her eyebrows raise playfully, and she moves towards me, splaying her fingers on my chest. And then it hits me. She doesn't just look different; she's a little nervous, and her cheeks are flushed. Tonight isn't just about her birthday. Tonight is about something else, too.
Now, I really didn't want to miss tonight.
“Am I getting an extra helping of charm because it's my birthday?” She beams up at me.
“No charm. Just truth.”
“Thank you,” she whispers, leaning up to put a gentle kiss on my lips. But it doesn't stay that way. The moment her lips touch mine, electricity passes between us, and I pull her into my chest. She makes this adorable little noise in surprise, but she pulls herself on her tiptoes to meet my kisses with more of her own. I don't know how long we're entwined, how long we stand there, her hands exploring my chest over my shirt, mine moving lower to grip the curves of her ass, pulling her into me.
I pull away, breathless and growing hard. She's panting but smiling up at me, her lips swollen. I reach forward, brush my thumb over that tempting mouth. The look in her eyes as she peers up at me makes me want to drop to my knees.
“We have all night …” she whispers, taking my hand from her face and guiding me into the room.
I'm glad she can't see the pained expression on my face, the frustration.
I want more, so much more, but I can't start something I don't have time to finish. And I need time, lots of it, to give Millie what she deserves. I try to focus, but now all I can think about are the soft moans she makes, the way her fingers rake through my hair, tugging hard when she loses herself, and how it feels to have her shattering in my arms.
I'm adjusting myself discreetly as I follow her deeper into the room. She glances out the window at the city below. She's been here so many times now, and I love it. I like the way I can still smell her scent after she's gone, how the fridge is filled with more of her favourites than mine, and the half-drunk mugs of tea she leaves scattered around, which drive me crazy but also make me smile.
“So … where's my cake? My presents … come on. Tick-Tock, Jackson,” she teases. She twists to look at me. “I have a busy evening planned.”
There is no mistaking the tone of her voice, and it cuts me off at the knees. She has no idea how badly I want her.
I exhale deeply, guilt making me bite my tongue, putting off the moment I've been dreading for a little longer. I know why I need to do this, but all I can see is the sparkle in her eyes, the sparkle I'm about to dull.
“Millie … I …”
“Yes?” She smiles, no idea how I'm about to ruin her night.
I close my eyes and rub the back of my neck.
“I need to go.”
“Go? Go where?” she asks, smiling until it fades into confusion.
“I won't be long, a few hours at the most.” It's not just her face that drops; literally, her whole body seems to sink.
“W … what are you talking about?”
“I need to go to work. I promise I'll be back as soon as I can.”
“You're going to work? Tonight? But it's my birthday? We planned this weeks ago.” Frustration seeps into her voice. “I wanted tonight to be … special.”
I swallow. She glances my way. Disappointment morphs into anger.
“I don't have a choice. I tried everything to get out of it.”
I move closer, but she folds her arms across her chest, putting a barrier between us. The anger on her face makes me want to punch myself in the head.
“OK,” she says finally. She doesn't say more; she doesn't need to. I wait, but it doesn't come. Finally, she purses her lips and narrows her eyes at me. “Shouldn't you be going? Quicker you leave, quicker you can come back.” Her voice is flat.
Something tells me that now I've said I'm going, she just wants me gone. She's that mad at me.
I nod, quickly grabbing my things, not really taking my eyes off her. She just stands watching me, her expression hard enough to cut glass. I know she's mad, but before leaving, I rush back to her and press a chaste kiss to her lips. She doesn't react but doesn't move away, either.
“I'll be back as soon as I can.”
She nods, and as I shut the door behind me, all I can see on her face is that hard mask of dismay. If only I could tell her the truth.
I battle through my shift, using every weapon in my arsenal of persuasion and charm to get people through their doors as quickly as I can. Not a simple task when you're dealing with the unpredictable nature of people who have just died and aren't necessarily that happy about it. It's not like I can actually tell them the truth.
Hey, I need you through that door ASAP so I can sleep with my girlfriend for the first time.
By the time I get to the last person on my list, almost a week has passed for me, which works out to almost four hours in real-time. All I've been able to think about is peeling that dress over her head, laying her down and kissing every part of her creamy skin.
And how much she's going to kill a man who’s already dead.
But right now, my thoughts are fixated on something else entirely. I'm walking through another hospital, my third of the shift. It's not the usual cocktail of chemicals and bodily fluids that's churning my stomach today. Dread is making sweat drip from my forehead, making my hands fist at my sides. I'm about to do something so unspeakably wrong, against everything I've believed, everything I've worked towards for so long … but I'm going to go through with it. I have no doubts about that. I'm going to save Millie's life, but a piece of me is going to die in her place.
I slip into the room. The pulled blinds keep the room dark and airless, like wandering into a cave. He lies unmoving in the hospital bed, machines beeping and flashing around him. Dry flakes of blood coat a yellowing bandage that covers most of his face. What is visible is bruised and swollen. His only clear feature is clumps of greasy blonde hair. Months of lying in a hospital bed, pumped full of drugs, machines keeping him alive, have left no signs of the person he used to be.
This man has been in a coma for weeks, hit by a police car as they chased him down for a list of crimes so vile they turned my stomach just to read about them. His file is so full of horrors that my vision turned hazy until I could barely make out the words. Maybe it was a blessing to find such a terrible person, so unworthy of life compared to Millie, but it doesn't make this right. I won’t lie to myself or be righteous about it. I check the Scythe app, still relieved the plan is working, and that it was his and not Millie's face flashing on my screen.
Leaning over him, I put my hand on his clammy skin, just above the pulse on his wrist. I take a deep breath before making him take his last one. The app beeps, and his machine shrieks one last final time.
I know immediately something's wrong. I sense it. A coldness seems to descend on the room. I feel it under my skin. I shiver right down to my bones, down to the marrow. My heart races. The machines screech and light up, flashing like Christmas trees, and then the ground shakes. The harsh overhead lights flicker and die, descending the room into semi-darkness. Outside the window, hidden by blinds, I hear the cries of birds, black flutters shattering the faint shards of light.
I stumble backwards until my back slams against the wall. Looking down at my phone, I see the app is glitching madly. Outside, the ravens keep squawking, and I can feel them. Just like now, I can feel him.
And then he's standing there. Not the bloody and battered criminal, but the real him. The first Ethereal. The personification of death. The black smoke created by the first spark of life.
He towers above me like a composite of every nightmare anyone has ever had. The dark sockets of his skull bore into my skin, and the dark fabric of his hooded cloak is faded and torn. It's Death … and he looks pissed.
His bony jaw lowers slightly like he's about to speak. The door appears from nowhere, plain black except for a small symbol of a scythe in its centre. This is Death's door.
Panic tightens my chest, my heart hammering wildly. What the hell was going on? Why is Death here? How can a door appear without me requesting it? This shouldn't be possible; none of this should be happening. I glance down at the app, but it snaps to black. The screen cracks into a silver spiderweb.
The door swings open, unleashing a powerful wind that seems to suck everything in the room into its void. Chairs, the bed, and anything not attached are pulled through the door. I'm yelling, my very breath being ripped out of me. I move along the wall, my fingers desperately seeking something to grip, to cling to. Finding the window frame, I wrap my hand around the handle, holding on with everything I have.
“What is this?!” I shout to Death.
It grows stronger with every second. I'm lifted off the floor, my body suspended as the wind pulls me towards the door. My arms burn, and debris slams into me painfully as it shoots towards the door.
In the corner of my eye, I see him, Death. He's just standing there, staring right at me.
I can't hold on anymore. It's too strong, the force ripping me away from this world. I know I've broken the rules, that whatever is happening is my fault. The furious wind is too loud for me to shout over, but I will him to hear me. To know my thoughts.
Let her be safe, let her be happy, let them take me, but please let her live.
My weakening fingers loosen on the handle. I see Death being pulled towards the door. His fingers grip the frame, he clings on desperately as the wind picks up speed, determined to wrench Death in.
In his deep, gravel voice—the voice of endings, of oblivion he speaks. He says one word.
“Jacqueline.”
He's torn from the room and dragged through the door. It slams shut behind him, disappearing instantly.
The room returns to normal. Lights back on, furniture in place, the heart monitor still making one long final beep. A mortal body still lying still. It's as if nothing had happened.
Shock takes me out at the knees, and I'm slipping down the wall until I'm crouched on the ground. My throat's coarse from yelling, and my hands hurt from gripping the window handle. I'm staring at the vacant beige wall where the door had been.
Death's door.
So … I'd found him, I'd found Death. A hysterical laugh bursts from my lips before I run my hands through my hair and groan. I'd just reaped Death.
I wonder what punishment Jeanette would give me for that?