The Reaper's Sacrifice Page 10

  I would’ve preferred to have the conversation over the phone with Errol in California and me in Québec. But the chance to help Brent and restore our freedom resonated now more than ever. I’d move things along for Brent, so that he wouldn’t have time to return to one of my dreams and tell me to find a new lover and new life.

  I dropped my hands at my sides. “Lead the way.”

  Errol, Dudley, the Eidolons who had been waiting in the foyer of the Manor, and I passed through another wood-enclosed hall I hadn’t yet seen, to a set of double doors that appeared to have been attacked by a clawed animal more than once. Scuffmarks, nicks, and holes flavored the thick timber. Errol opened both doors to reveal a cylindrical room packed from floor to ceiling with books and papers. Stale, dry air burned the back of my throat.

  “You wanted to show me the library?” As much as I loved books, I wasn’t sure where he was going with this.

  Dudley leaned against my leg. The Eidolons lingered behind me, breathing down my neck like the good Grim Reapers they were.

  “The library is completely surrounded by the rest of the Manor. It is the only space that is fully protected.”

  “You must really love books to secure them like this.”

  He looked at the domed ceiling thirty feet above us. Painted on it was a symbol that I recognized as South Pacific in origin. I knew this from the research I had done on the Maori during my apprenticeship with Gerard. The symbol was a manaia, a creature with the head of a bird and the body of a human. It had an elegant S shape, the human body bowed around its hooked bird head. Its green paint was faded and chipped.

  “That is the mark of Scriveners.” Errol popped the hipflask from his belt and handed it to me. Embossed into the leather was the same bird-human symbol. “The manaia represents a herald between humans and the domain of spirits.”

  Before I could open the flask and sniff out his chosen poison, he took it and hooked it on his belt.

  “It needs a fresh paint job,” Chad said under his breath.

  Errol approached a door tucked beside the end of a moldy bookcase, shoved it open with his shoulder, and gestured to a set of curved stone stairs. Where they led, I couldn’t say, but the smell of must brought to mind a damp cellar.

  “Just a few more steps more, and I’ll be tellin’ you everything you need to know,” he said.

  My laugh, coupled with Chad’s, echoed off the tower’s ceiling.

  “You want us to follow you down there, so you can lock us up?” I said.

  From behind me, I felt the familiar Eidolon chill from my guards. Other than Chad, I might not have forgotten that they were behind me had they uttered any more than one sentence every two hours.

  “Olivia, I would nae hurt you,” Errol said. “What else can I do to earn your confidence?”

  “I know what they do in dungeons. I mean real dungeons, not those play spots for couples.” It had been bad enough that I was in Lethe days ago—I wasn’t about to volunteer my time in the detainee accommodations at Wrightwick.

  He edged into the darkened stairwell. A shadow was cast over half of his body. “If I harmed you, a war would start, and end with a very unpleasant visit from Brent Hume and more of his Eidolon mates. I’m not about to take that risk.”

  Make peace. Make peace.

  I filled my lungs and let out the air in one slow, controlled release.

  Dammit, make peace!

  “Are you afraid of Eidolons?” I said with an eyebrow cocked.

  “Don’t mistake me. I dinna fear them. I’m goin’ down the stairs. If you want to join me, I promise no harm will come to you.” He vanished into the stairway.

  I glanced over my shoulder at Chad and the crew, each of whom was blank-faced and uncertain about how to proceed. Lovely. The one time I would’ve taken their advice, and they appeared as bewildered as I felt.

  When Dudley started toward the door in a measured pace, I regained some confidence in my own ability. Something drew him down there. So I followed, if only because I didn’t want my dog to look braver than me.

  I strode into the darkness. Dirt crunched under my boots as I wound down, down, down the spiraling staircase. Stone masonry, smoothed from the oils of hands over the centuries, encased me in what felt like indeterminate doom.

  As I started to grow dizzy from the circles we were marching in, we came upon the amber glow of a room. And what a room it was. The height of the ceiling explained why we had descended so many steps, because above and around me was a huge cave with a stream running from one end to the other. The smooth, round rocks collected along the edges of the water gave the impression that the stream had once been a river.

  “You wanted to show me an underground creek?” I asked as the Eidolons filtered into the room after me. I had a good idea what it was, but it was hardly a river, as Marin had described.

  “This was once the River Phlegethon,” Errol explained, confirming my thought.

  “The river of fire.” Chad whispered in my ear.

  “I know, idiot. Shut up.” I batted the annoying pest away from my ear.

  Lethe, the river of forgetfulness, encircled Lethe, Marin’s seat of power. And now, here was Phlegethon, the river of fire. There was an obvious winner in which river I would prefer to wade through in my free time. Too bad Lethe was quarter of a world away.

  Across from us, on the other side of the once-great River Phlegethon, was the same group of North Face-clad Trivials who had greeted me when we had arrived at Wrightwick. Standing among them were Delia, Murray, an old bearded man in a long gray robe, who I had not yet met, and the blond problem child, Percy. The old man was the only one among the group to greet me with a smile. Naturally, I smiled back. Even though I was filled with anxiety for what was happening or about to happen, I maintained my manners. Mama would have been proud of her foster daughter, that’s for sure.

  “The River Phlegethon is what Wrightwick Manor was built to protect.” Errol walked to the creek bed. “Myth tells that Phlegethon is a fiery river of blood that boils souls.”

  Murray broke rank from the group of Trivials and carefully marched across the stream. A black cloth covered whatever he carried in his hands.

  Dudley’s black nose twitched when Murray pulled back the cloth to reveal a basket of fresh croissants. I couldn’t smell the treats over the overpowering stink of mold and must. But Dudley’s sense of smell outdid mine one hundredfold.

  He reared up on his thin hind legs. Murray lowered the plate of croissants, and before he could set it on the floor, the hound dove in. His white tail whipped from side to side, not with the excitement he had greeted me with earlier, but with the intensity of his hunger.

  “We came here to feed the dog next to an ancient, soul-boiling river?” Chad said, preempting me.

  After he said it, however, the tension in the room grew too thick to ignore. Faces turned grim like guests at a funeral, except for the Eidolons, whose eyes shifted back and forth between red and gold. Unsure what to think, I tried to heed the knot of anxiety tightening inch by inch.

  “Thank you, Murray,” Errol said. “The river is what we’ve been fightin’ over for many decades. My task has been to protect Wrightwick Manor from those who wish to destroy it. Marin has been vyin’ for what is inside this room.”

  Apprehension festered as Dudley’s blissful gobbling echoed in my left ear. “Is the myth true that it boils souls?” Because it looked fairly harmless trickling over the rocks.

  “It’s time, Don,” Errol said to the Eidolon.

  “Time for what?” I was abruptly nervous.

  Don gave me a look that curdled my blood. All at once, my hands began to shake, and when I turned to the remainder of my allies, I saw their red eyes, prepared for war. But they didn’t act. Even Chad, who always seemed fit for battle, was motionless from uncertainty.

  “What the…?” I couldn’t say more. Nothing.

  Errol backed against a wall of stone.

  Don drew a pistol and pointed it a
t Dudley, who was licking his chops.

  My heart thumped. I tried. God, I tried to run at Don, but someone restrained me, gripping me so tight, I couldn’t feel my hands even though they were glowing like fire. “No! You son of bitch, don’t you dare.”

  Don trained the weapon on Dudley, who was unaware of what threat loomed over him as he finished the last of his breakfast.

  “Oh, God, no!” Searing tears poured over my cheeks. Restrained as I was, I couldn’t even try to save my best friend. “Errol, don’t let him do this!”

  “Trust me, love,” was all he said.

  “Dudley, run,” I cried, with the hope he’d listen to me this once.

  Don cocked the gun.

  “He’s just a dog, you sick bastards!” I thrashed against the iron grip that twisted my arms. “Shoot me instead!”

  “Do it,” Errol provoked.

  “Please. Don’t!”

  “Don, now.”

  “NO!” I wailed.

  Don nodded at Errol and then fired three bullets into Dudley’s side.

  Chapter Ten

  “What counts is not necessarily the size of the dog in the fight; what counts is the size of the fight in the dog.”

  —Mark Twain

  I dove to my dog’s side when he toppled over. A cloud of acrid gunpowder lingered over his limp body, which was sprawled on the stone floor with a trail of blood trickling over his white fur. Pastry crumbs were stuck to his wet nose.

  “Dudley!” I cradled his body to my chest—I had to. My head was full of the moment when Dudley had raced past Errol and Delia’s legs to leap into my arms, giving my visit to Wrightwick an unwelcomed emotional boost.

  How could I go on with this hell-spiral now that he was gone?

  His remains sagged in my arms, and his head drooped over my elbow. He was warm, but there wasn’t a heartbeat or last gasp for air. No dog could’ve endured three gunshots. Why in the world would they have done this? And how could anyone shoot an innocent animal so callously?

  Don. That piece of shit.

  Everyone remained quiet, watching my nightmare play out like some tasteless movie reel.

  Don stood in front of the group, gun lowered at his side.

  As reverently as I could, I lowered Dudley’s body and then lunged at the son of a bitch. My voice echoed as I shouted something guttural and vile. My scarlet hands clamped around Don’s thick neck. His eyes bulged. The gun fell to the floor when he gripped my biceps. But he immediately let go, as if he were touching a scalding stove. My arms, not just my hands, were on fire with wild, uncontrollable rage. I didn’t want to control it, to be honest. Instead, I wanted it to unfurl into a demon and kill everyone in the room for permitting this cruel act. And I would. I’d mark them all before I’d take another breath.

  The stink of overcooked meat meant Don’s neck was melting. This wasn’t a Deathmark attack. My hands wouldn’t leave a skull-shaped brand when I let go. I was disintegrating the bastard, and I was glad of it.

  Don collapsed to the floor and wheezed for air after I released him. His neck was ravaged in bubbly third-degree burns.

  The heat I knew well, though not to this degree, burned me from the inside out. I shook. My innards boiled. Nausea took a hold of my core, causing me to heave forward. My hands were braced against my knees as if I were panting from a sudden sprint. Heat radiated outward; it pulsed in the beat of my breaths. Even if I wanted to cool down, I felt like it was too late. This nuclear reactor had been initiated. The countdown had begun.

  Unsure of what to do—whether to kill everyone or run from the monster I seemed to be transforming into—I looked at the Eidolons, whose expressions were as horror-stricken as those of the Trivials around them. Then I looked at Delia and Errol.

  Errol.

  When I set my murderous trajectory toward him, he dipped Dudley’s lifeless body into the river. Steam rose around my murdered dog, scorching his remains. The River Phlegethon lived up to its reputation—one they didn’t need to display for me to believe.

  “Get away from him.” I launched my entire body at Errol’s backside. I was already attached to his throat the moment our bodies collided.

  “Errol,” Delia wailed.

  He released an unintelligible grunt when he landed on his back next to Dudley’s body and inches from the soul-boiling river.

  I aimed to shove him into the trickling water, determined to punish him as he’d punished my Duds.

  “Stop!” Delia kicked my side to little effect.

  It only took Errol a moment to thwart my attack. He flipped me around. My back slammed against the river’s edge, forcing the breath from my lungs. Still, I clawed as a wolf would over her fallen pup. Errol showed no sign of relenting, despite the fact that my fingernails were digging into his neck, arms, and face—etching little slices of wrath into his flesh. My heat didn’t affect him. No burning skin. No billowing smoke.

  Thrashing, I banged my head against the rocks encasing the river. A rush of lightheadedness blurred my vision.

  “She’ll melt you.” Delia continued to kick, her foot missing more than it hit me.

  “Help me, Delia. She’s gonna hurt herself before she ever hurts me.” One of his hands slid underneath my head, cushioning it, as the other cupped my left cheek.

  Every kick of my legs, lash of my arms, or twist of my torso gave Errol and Delia leverage. Within seconds, I couldn’t move except for my toes and a finger or two. But I was still hot. My veins throbbed with magna.

  All of us panting, Errol was nose-to-nose with me, his breath beating against my lips. Delia was at my side, wheezing as she held down an arm and a leg, her red hair disheveled.

  “Calm down,” he said, his breath heavy.

  “Fuck you!” I roared.

  “You’re scarin’ us.”

  “You’d better be scared. I’m gonna slaughter you. All of you!”

  “Olivia, take one deep breath and look to your right,” Errol insisted in a cool-as-ice tone.

  “So you can have Don shoot me, too, you piece of horse shit?”

  “Look to your right.” He turned my head with his hand.

  Standing there, his tail wagging, was a soaking wet Dudley, licking his chops free of soggy croissant crumbs. Blood stained his side where I had watched bullets blow through him, but no wounds remained. He wasn’t melted or scorched.

  He was alive?

  Alive!

  My fury washed away, like floodwaters wash away a brushfire. My skin and insides, my veins, turned cold with relief.

  “Duds?” my voice broke.

  Errol and Delia leaned back. I sat up, feeling wracking sobs overcome me as Dudley trotted to my side. He looked at me as if I was loony. Maybe I was. He had been shot, I’d flipped out, melted Don’s Adam’s apple, turned into a molten suit, and now Dudley was alive. It had happened so fast I didn’t have a clue what to think…or what to say.

  Speechless, I pulled Dudley into my arms, kissing his forehead with thanks to a god I didn’t know. Perhaps there was someone more powerful to thank. Dudley returned my affection with croissant-scented kisses, ones that had me quietly laughing through my tears.

  His wet fur snapped me back to where I was and the iniquity I had just witnessed. I eyed Errol as Dudley licked my cheek.

  “What in hell just happened?” I said.

  “Uisge beatha means ‘water of life’ in Gaelic.” Errol raked his fingers through his tousled, wet hair. “Uisge beatha comes from the Phlegethon. It does nae boil souls—it brings the dead back to life.”

  I had always been told that once the gates to the Afterlife closed, there was no opening them, not even for Reapers. It had been an explicit rule.

  How did this river have the ability to go against Death? And how come Errol had access to it and not someone like Marin? The answers to those questions popped into my head the second I thought of them. Of course Marin would want this homestead for his own. Of course anyone who wasn’t Marin would want it for their own. The
reason for the bitter rivalry was flowing right next to me…or trickling.

  But Dudley. It was not still settled in my mind. “Is my dog a zombie?”

  “Oh, heavens, that’s the first time I’ve heard that.” Delia brushed dust from the skirt of her Armani dress. “There’s absolutely no such thing, Teacup.”

  “Is that what created the Trivials?” I added, ignoring Delia.

  “Not at all. I gave the Trivials sanctuary from Marin,” Errol said. “They are loyal to me because of this—and they are capable of loyalty. But I don’t control them or create them as some would have you believe. Trivials may be born without souls, but that doesn’t have to make them wicked. And I’m hardly a monster who uses them to wield fear and power. I take in Stygians who have been cast out, ones like Scriveners and Trivials. I take in ones who need help and protection from corruption. As for your dog, he is no’ a zombie. He’s perfectly normal. No harm done, you see.”

  My anger spiked again. “Water of life or not, you still had him shot, you fucker. That had to have hurt!”

  “He has no memory of it. I know, because I have been in Dudley’s place,” said the old man who had waved at me when I entered the basement. He ran a hand along his long gray beard and sheepishly grinned at me. I felt a tinge of guilt for wanting to kill everyone in the room earlier. This nice old man just didn’t seem to deserve such fate. Knowing that he had suffered Dudley’s recent nightmare in the past made him even more of a victim, someone to protect. I leaned in, observing his dark brown eyes, which held the same gentleness as Dudley’s familiar hound eyes.

  “Nicodemus is an old mate and an Eidolon.” Errol described the old man at my side. “He is a unique case. Similar to you and your friend who resides in your wee necklace.”

  I fingered the lotus pendant. Eve’s soul was there, awaiting her delayed salvation, one that only Nicholas Baird, if he was still alive, could give.

  “You…” There was a thankful, albeit uncertain, catch in my throat. “You died?”

  “My dear, yes,” he said, in a wonderfully thick Scottish accent, and nodded like the jolly man he resembled. “It was long ago, when the River Phlegethon raged.”