Chapter Nineteen
Sikras
THE STENCH OF A ROTTING corpse upon opening the mansion doors had turned out to be an unwelcomed surprise, but nothing a few open windows and a gallon of patchouli oil couldn’t cure.
After ensuring Helspira’s parents had settled inside, safe from the banneret, the trio left the mansion behind them, Sikras glimpsing Benjamin from the corners of his eyes as they paved the way toward Stow’s Peak.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he said, “I’m confident Canida didn’t feel any pain when the spell wore off. ”
“Yeah, sorry, I couldn’t just kick her out to rot in a ditch after we, uh”—Benjamin shrugged, ever the gentleman—“finished checking off her dying wish.”
“Looks like she took her last un-breath on your silk sheets,” Sikras said. “I’ve seen people die in worse places.”
As they passed into the open terrain where snow covered the sunken paths worn by decades of caravans and wandering feet, Sikras stared into the sprawling, open field, a chilling breeze tossing his hair.
Some amethystle managed to poke up from the white powder, peppering little purple dots across a bright landscape of sleet.
Fortunately, the owligators typically hid after the first snowfall, but beaked reptiles with long jaws and serrated teeth promised to be the least of their problems.
Sikras faced Helspira. “You trust your parents will be comfortable in the mansion until we return?”
She met his inquiry with a flawless smile, a vision to focus on in the near-blinding terrain. “Mum already started cleaning up all that paperwork you left on your dining room floor, and Da is digging a grave for Canida out back. At least they won’t be bored.”
Good. Helspira’s parents were settled. That only left one thing.
Sikras’s short strides did little to delay the inevitable.
Like it or not, he had to summon Death at some point.
At least it wasn’t like he had to put the hardest part of the plan into action immediately.
Once they confirmed the details of the bargain with the reaper, he would have the entire walk back to Stow’s Peak to savor the comfort of Benjamin’s presence. Unless ...
“You’re absolutely certain you’re okay with this?” Sikras asked, gaze landing on Ben.
“As certain as I’ve ever been. I want to help Saelihn. I want to help Nyllmas. But don’t worry.” Benjamin nudged Sikras with his shoulder. “I’m an expert at dying by now.”
“Right.” Sikras nodded too many times to pull off a visage of confidence. Nevertheless, he clapped his hands together. “Here we go.”
His eyelids fluttered closed. In his mind, he reached out, beckoning Death to appear.
And so she did.
Sikras felt her presence before he saw her. Forcing his eyes open, he beheld the reaper’s commanding figure, her scythe leaning against one shoulder. With a curt nod, he mustered as formal a greeting as he could. “Death.”
“Mr. Nikabod.”
An awkward silence surrounded them, until Benjamin waved. “Hi, Death.”
Sikras thumbed in the opposite direction. “She’s over here.”
“Oh.” Following Sikras’s gesture, Benjamin waved again, unaffected. “Hi, Death.”
The reaper pushed the hood from her fleshless skull, revealing the sprawling dark hair and ochre-hued bone beneath. “Kindly tell Mr. Reese that I extend salutations.”
“She says hi,” Sikras whispered to Benjamin. “So”—he regarded Death again, arms crossed—“how’s the scythe?”
“Sharp. I see Helspira is looking well.”
Without hesitation, Sikras leaned into a deep bow. “Yes. I’ll forever be in your debt for that.”
Another extended silence followed. Gods, it was like standing in Enos.
Surely, the unsettling quiet brought no discomfort to Death as it mimicked her soundless domain, but a rattle of unease shook Sikras’s shoulders.
“Right, well, now that we’ve got the pleasantries out of the way, I’ll cut to the chase.
I’ve a final bargain I’d like to make if you’re willing. ”
A rumbling sound of consideration echoed from somewhere in Death’s jaw. “We’ve had bad and good bargains. You’ll understand why I’m hesitant to accept another, particularly when you lack anything I want.”
“I think I have something you’d like very much.” Sikras held up eight fingers. “Eight somethings to be exact.”
“Wait, eight?” Breaking her silence, Helspira stepped forward, unknowingly rippling through the visage of the reaper she couldn’t see. “Are you bartering with your lives?”
Sikras offered her as gentle a smile as he could muster. “They’re all I have left to give. I’d relinquish the power of the Cat’s Eye itself if I could, but given that the little bugger is fused with my soul, I suppose the lives it gives me are the next best thing. What say you, Death?”
“Sikras”—Helspira shook her head—“I don’t like where this is going.”
He faced her, shoulders relaxed, voice steady. “I promised you and Benjamin both that we’d save Nyllmas. It’s my own fault for dragging my feet this long. Saelihn was right. This is something the Cat’s Eye needs to do.”
While Helspira stuttered protesting half-sentences, Death sidestepped to get out of the demon’s path. “You’d barter with the lives given unto you when the Cat’s Eye fused with your spirit?” the reaper reiterated with skepticism.
Sikras nodded. “Only on these terms. Give me one hour per lifetime. Every hour that passes where I haven’t killed Vessik, you have my express permission to take a life.
Picture it, Death. Even one less lifetime without me flitting in and out of Enos like an uninvited guest. What a gift, huh?
You’d be one step closer to the Cat’s Eye unraveling from my spirit and returning to Enos, and if I were to run out of lifetimes entirely, you’d have Benjamin as well.
I know you and Dionus have been vying for him for some time. ”
“Where is she?” Helspira spun, searching for a figure she would never see. “What’s she saying? There must be another way.”
“A tempting offer,” Death said with no regard to Helspira’s concern.
“It would be a lie to say I didn’t crave eternal peace for Mr. Reese, and it would certainly get Dionus off my back.
It’d be an even bigger lie to say I didn’t miss the company of the Cat’s Eye.
Enos is quiet without it.” She stepped away, her long tattered robe leaving no marks as it dragged across the snowy ground.
Helspira pursed her lips. “Sikras, I want to save Nyllmas more than anything, but this isn’t a fair trade. Less than eight hours to kill Vessik? You couldn’t even do it in four years.”
He regarded her with a smirk. “Nonsense. It’ll be easy. Like dominating your opponent in a game of Rack and Ruin or learning new steps to a dance.”
Helspira frowned. “Your life isn’t a boardgame. Not to me. You can’t just list off arbitrary things you’re good at and hope that inspires confidence.”
“Can’t I? Damn. That usually works if I say it with enough certainty.”
“Besides,” Helspira continued, “eight hours? That’s insane. You wouldn’t even make the walk to Stow’s Peak in that time.”
“That’s where you come in.” He hoped he injected enough sureness into his expression to discredit the panicked beating of his heart.
“We’ll get as close as we can to Stow’s Peak first, to give us more time, and then .
.. I’ll kill Benjamin to start the countdown.
It’s my hope that you’ll watch over his bones while I do what needs to be done. ”
Her focus darted from one eye to the other, until she sent an inquiring look Benjamin’s way. “Ben? How do you feel about all this?”
A long pause preceded his reply. “I think you know, Hels.”
Death lingered in the space between the three before issuing a nod. “Mr. Nikabod”—she proffered a hand—“you have yourself a deal.”
With mild hesitation, Sikras reached forward. Cold hands wrapped around Death’s skeletal fingers, and he shook.
With that, his fate was sealed.
A well-timed, icy wind blew between them, whistling through the tall grass that poked up from the snow. Death released Sikras’s hand and stepped backward. “I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Nikabod.”
The chill of her touch somehow felt like frost bite and burned flesh. He wiped his palm across his vest in hopes of relieving the sting. “Wish I could say I looked forward to it. Nevertheless, thanks for accepting the terms.”
She nodded. With a swoop of her scythe, she vanished.
“Well,” Sikras mumbled, smoothing the wrinkles in his sleeves, “I suppose we best start hoofing it. We’ve a long walk ahead of us. Cross your fingers the Red Sentinel is still alive by the time we arrive.”
“I don’t like this at all. I think—wait.” Helspira paused, brows furrowing. Fresh concern layered over her existing dread. “The Red Sentinel. Rowan said he was returning to Vinepool at first light to regroup before they attempted another attack on Stow’s Peak.”
“Really?” Sikras frowned, recounting his conversation with Rowan prior to his departure. Yes, he recalled the banneret arguing with his advisor but had overheard a clear plan to return to Vinepool. “You’re right. We kept a swift pace, but there were no signs of them trailing us so far as I recall.”
As if on cue, a flash of red emerged from the distant, densely packed tree line. And another. And another.
Caught in his peripheral vision, Sikras turned toward the movement. “Ah. There, see? Late but present. We worried for nothing.”
Benjamin rounded his shoulders, posture stiff. “Something’s wrong.”
Shielding her eyes, Helspira squinted. Red Sentinels hobbled closer, limping, shuffling, crimson scarves blowing behind them, like bloody banners. “They’re not in formation, and their gait is ... strange. Are they injured?”