The Reaper's Sacrifice Page 8
On the opposite side of the foyer, a group of people with pale, colorless skin stood in a formation resembling a family photo. This bunch looked fit for a North Face catalog shoot.
As Errol led us closer to them, it was the lone girl in front who grabbed my attention, with her blond hair in a chin-length bob, ends looking slightly too dry. My fingers tingled with familiarity. That girl was the one I saw in my yard back in Montana. I would recognize her anywhere. Her big brown eyes looked at me with a challenge, and I glared back, forgoing discretion.
Errol moved between us, blocking my view of her. The group of people gazed over his shoulders, interested as if I were a fly in their soup. They awaited an official statement, something to start off this political visit.
Did I comment on the many animal heads peering down at us or ask if the pool was heated? No wonder people tend to mention the weather when they’re tongue-tied. I went with what had typically worked for me in the past, and that was raw honesty.
“The magic car ride was nice, but I came here to speak on behalf of someone I care about, so I’m gonna be as honest as the day is long. I don’t trust you, Errol, or Delia, or the psycho squad behind you. Either tell me where I can find Dennison so that I can get this visit underway, or my friends and I are going to go postal.” The warble in my voice echoed off the foyer walls and ceiling.
The group turned to each other. Mumbling voices sounded like the roll of distant thunder. Delia smirked. Errol fought back a smile. Guess they expected me to be like Marin’s typical Reaper henchmen and women—stoic and insipid.
“I apologize,” Errol said over the chatter. “You must understand, I’ve not heard anything about you aside from what Marin told me, and what rumors I’ve learned through television and Reaper Quarterly. I proceed with caution in all of my interactions. That has kept me alive, so forgive me for not being entirely forthright.” He laced his fingers together. The gesture tugged on the right sleeve of his parka and revealed the edges of black ink on his wrist. “Olivia, I am Errol Skene Dennison, the steward of Wrightwick, and Master Scrivener.”
I fancied screaming in both fear and excitement, but mostly excitement. Instead, I shouted before realizing it, “I knew you were Dennison the moment I saw you. How’s that for a spot-on spider-sense?”
His reply started with a casual nod. “Well, I was the first one to greet you.”
“I said he was Scottish. He has a Scottish accent. Go figure, Einstein,” Chad grumbled behind me.
Normally I would’ve returned Chad’s snark with my sharpest comeback, but all I wanted to do was run to Errol, another Master Scrivener, and touch him as if he were a museum object, and then ask him a litany of questions about Scriveners. The only other Scrivener I had ever conversed with had been Gerard, my mentor and former boss, who was now dead. He had been careful to keep the minutiae of Scrivener work to himself. Maybe Errol wanted to do the same. Either way, a flurry of questions was inappropriate at the moment.
“You’re the one everyone says is a monster,” I said, a calm assertion even though my skin was ready to leap off of my bones.
“A monster? Errol?” Delia put her hand to her chest. “Dear Lord, what did you think he would be like, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I do mind you asking, Prada.” I gave Errol a once-over and reregistered his sparkling eyes and tanned skin. He was as tall as Chad, only slightly thinner in musculature. His tattoos interested me the most, and I couldn’t see a lick of them underneath his fancy North Face getup.
“I assure you, he is nothing to worry about. He can be a tough tutor sometimes, but he’s a pussy cat.” Delia swaggered to Errol’s side, batting her bedroom eyes.
“Delia likes to think this world is made up of rainbows and sunshine, Olivia,” Errol said. “I am something to fear. However, to Scriveners like Delia and you, I am a friend and ally.”
Well, this was interesting. I had entered this unfamiliar land as a liaison for Head Reaper Marin. I was speaking on behalf of my own enemy. Perhaps Delia and Errol were of my kind, but I couldn’t be sure if species loyalty was a value they upheld, no matter what they said.
“Why did you send your Trivials to harass us in Kalispell if I’m an ally?” I said.
Errol’s brow scrunched in obvious confusion. Just as quickly, he forced a smile, then leaned in close enough so that my Eidolon guards could not hear. “Marin thinks you are here to negotiate a peace treaty, but what he dinna know is that I really brought you here for Master training.”
“What makes me you think I need Master Scrivener training?” I bristled, looking over my shoulder at the guards, who were moving toward us with no effort to hide their actions. They knew Errol was sharing information that they’d want to hear.
Aware of their approach, Errol stepped away from me and said, “Every Scrivener does at some point. Even you.”
No, no, no. My stomach churned and then began to boil rage. I was here to save Brent. That was my solitary goal. Nothing more. Nothing less. If I didn’t save Brent and lift the ban on our forced separation, then there was no reason for me to be in California playing with sociopaths and other Master Scriveners.
Yet, Master training, huh? Maybe I could use a few pointers here and there. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt at all to take a few notes. But no way in Hades would I dare fuck up the plan to save Brent just to follow in Errol’s shoes. It would not happen. I would not allow it.
“Let’s talk negotiations,” I said to take back control of this conversation and to quell my Eidolon guards’ suspicion.
“Very well. I’d like to speak with you one-on-one, if you would nae mind.”
“She’s not to be out of sight,” Chad and Don said in unison.
Pierre peered down at us like the lion head inside the foyer. Gabriel stood glaring with his arms crossed. And Don the five-foot box hooked his thumbs on his belt loops.
“We’ll keep close,” Don added.
“I’d like to speak with her, too.” Delia moved between Errol and me, attention seemingly honed in on what part of my appearance she’d make over first. Errol nudged her out of the way, and she hopped backward on her spike heels, her red barrel curls bouncing.
“Chadwick, Don, Pierre, and Gabriel may follow behind if you wish. Delia, you’re late for your meeting with Jeremiah,” he said.
“Oh, fine. He hates it when I keep him from my company anyway.” She clicked out of the foyer, swinging her buttocks with added sass.
“Is Jeremiah her boyfriend?” I asked after Delia disappeared behind a door.
“Her in-house masseuse. She begged for one for decades, so for her birthday this year, I hired him.”
“Decades, huh. How old is she?”
“Eighty-nine. Born in the Roarin’ Twenties, grew up during the war, and as Hollywood was blossoming. She had always wanted to be a movie star.”
“Has she had work done?”
Errol’s green eyes captured mine. They weren’t horrifying to look into. Marin’s fear of him had jaded me, but I had expected him to be twelve feet tall with red skin, black horns, and cloven hooves. Errol Skene Dennison seemed ordinary and not like someone who was powerful enough to escape Marin’s Master Scrivener Purge years ago. Then again, I wasn’t a likely revolutionary either.
Poise radiated off of Errol just like his brogue danced off his tongue. “Fancy a tour of the Manor as we talk?”
With his hand outstretched so that I could take it if I wanted, Errol back-stepped into a hallway that was enclosed in wood from floor to ceiling. I didn’t accept his hand, but I followed, occasionally checking behind for Chad and the Three Stooges.
“I’m sorry we dinnae get off to the friendliest start, lass. Delia insisted she come with me to pick you up this morn. She likes to be the center of it all, and your visit is gettin’ in the way of that.” He led us through the hallway. “I brought Murray as a buffer for Delia. He’s no’ very good at such a duty, I’m afraid. Too quiet.”
“Is he a—”
“Then you know about my relationship with Brent.”
He paused. His face showed all the signs that he knew quite a bit.
“Brent is the only reason I am here,” I went on. “I need you to let Marin know that I’ve successfully arranged a peace treaty. That’s all I need from you.”
“I understand.” His voice was thick with diplomacy. “What I was about to say was that if you agree to train with me, away from those Eidolon escorts of yours, I will do whatever I can to absolve Brent of any wrongdoing in the Purge. While I’ve led Marin to think I still want Brent’s head, I believe he is on our side—the rebellion’s side—since he is working with you. But if he shows any sign of betrayal or duplicity, I will revoke my agreement.” Behind his statement was a warning—do not wholly trust anyone. And here I was, a Master Scrivener who trusted many because I knew so little about my world and its complex history.
“Do we have a deal?” he asked after a long pause between us. “Train with me, lass?”
I gave our surroundings another careful inspection as they started to take on a different meaning. I couldn’t help but imagine a secluded temple in the mountains of China and a soft-spoken Kung Fu master twirling his long gray beard. Somehow I found myself nodding in reply to his questions, and that was that. I had agreed to secretly train with another Master Scrivener who I’d known for less than a few hours.
More importantly, by agreeing to train, I’d saved Brent and shined a tiny light on our dark future. Or so I had to believe. But it all seemed too easy.
“Long ago, this place was crawlin’ with Scriveners from across the globe, here to train to evolve into Master Scriveners,” Errol continued as he again dug his hands into his jeans pockets. “I’ve made it my job to preserve our heritage and kin at all costs. For instance, Delia. I found her in Las Vegas when she was a teenager. She was easy to find, to be frank.”
“Was she a prostitute?” Seemed a legit question.
“Showgirl. And an orphan. I took her in and cared for her with the promise to teach her about Scriveners. She’s never left Wrightwick since the Purge.”
With nearly casual wonderment, I glanced at paintings of men and women as we passed by. I assumed they were Scriveners from long past. He stopped, and I walked several steps ahead in deep thought over that idea before I realized it.
I kept my gaze on a portrait of woman with a sad gaze, her hair cut into a short bob. “Is Delia a Master?”
“She is not destined for Masterhood like you, no.”
Errol didn’t see the image in my head of my fire-red hands and the Deathmark I had left on Nicholas Baird’s cheek two years ago. The memory vanished as quickly as it came, but my hands were hot nonetheless. I threw them behind my back; nothing like inflamed mitts to advertise my inner turmoil.
After a long pause, he started walking again. He didn’t ask me to follow, or even if I wanted to. I didn’t want to, but I quickstepped to catch up anyway. We exited the hallway and headed into a solarium that was as large as the foyer. Three-story windows revealed a stretch of vineyard and peach orchard. The patio was canopied in lush grapevines that wrapped around the Manor, and I wanted so badly to run out there, sit in a chair, and read a good book.
“Tell me about your first mentor, Gerard Bastille. Did he teach you everything you know?”
A cutting laugh escaped me, one that he didn’t acknowledge. “Gerard saw the signs that I might become a Master Scrivener, and in light of the Purge, he didn’t want that to happen. He told me very little, to slow my growing into one, I think.” I brushed my hair behind my ears, feeling all at once out of place. “Look, Errol, your reputation isn’t very positive back home. I’m not sure what to make of all of this.”
“Your reputation is hardly positive back home, either. See? We have somethin’ else in common. Now, tell me about your trainin’. How did you discover your Deathmark?”
I had to hand it to him—he was a much better conversationalist than Marin. For that reason, I lowered my guard an inch. I may have come to California only to save Brent and secure peace between Scriveners and Reapers—but I was warming to the idea of getting some answers about my birthright, if time permitted.
I stuffed my hands inside my jacket pockets. “I was assigned to assist Gerard when I was sixteen. When I was confident enough, he introduced me to tattooing. I liked the living art aspect of it, so I started working, and that was that.”
That wasn’t all of it.
We passed by a stone fountain with a portly cherub on top. Errol led us toward a set of doors opening to the patio and the green expanse outside. Fresh air, after hours on a plane with four sweaty Eidolons, was much appreciated.
“When were you assigned this Deathmark of yours?” he asked.
“When I was sixteen.” I laughed grimly. When I was younger, a Watchman had come to our door with an official letter from Lethe, telling me that my Deathmark was to be a skull. Mama and Papa had explained what my job as a Scrivener was, and I’d been tattooing skulls ever since. To the best of my knowledge, every Scrivener was assigned his or her Deathmark. “What’s your Deathmark?”
“Reptiles. You’d be surprised how many people will be askin’ for snakes.”
Snakes…like the one in my shop.
A small flame of rage began inside of me.
“In the car, you were interested if I have artwork myself. Care to see?” His voice was distant as I wandered through the solarium and around the fountain, pondering his Deathmark and possible involvement in the attack in Montana.
When I heard my tense sigh echo off the solarium, I realized that I had been lost in thought, and Errol Dennison had been waiting for a reply. Letting my mind wander angrily with this Master Scrivener around wasn’t wise. I had to keep my wits about me, even when he used crappy pick-up lines like “yo, wanna see my tattoos?”
“Sure,” I said and hoped I didn’t regret it.
Chapter Eight
“A man without tattoos is invisible to the gods.”
—Indonesian Proverb
Errol’s tattoos stretched from his wrists to his shoulders and down his chest and stomach—save for a small patch on his left pectoral muscle. I had been so captivated by his sleeve work that I hadn’t even inspected his back. Both arms had matching lions intertwined and linked together with swirling black lines and dots. Errol’s tattoos appeared to have been done yesterday, but I knew that couldn’t be true. It must’ve taken years to acquire this bodysuit.
I ran my fingertips along the dotted curve on his right forearm. His skin was warm to the touch. I expected him to be warm, of course, but I had never touched another Master Scrivener to know for sure. The connection was purely educational.
“The line work is stunning.” I stepped back and tried not to gawk at him when he stretched his arms over his head and pulled his shirt back down over his muscular body. “What do your tattoos mean?”
“They represent my Celtic heritage,” he stated proudly. “Each tattoo is a notch in my journey, but some of the work has yet to reveal its meaning.”
I hadn’t forgotten that I hadn’t a single tattoo of my own. Admittedly, I was a little jealous that Errol had a bodysuit of artwork. I wondered why his stayed and mine always disintegrated.
“Knowing me, I’ll probably never get a tattoo,” I said, slightly disdainful of my own noncommittal attitude.
“I dinna get my first piece until I was fifty-five.” He didn’t look at day over thirty-five. “One day, I gave myself the stag on me left arm, thinkin’ it would disappear, and it dinna. My theory is that as you evolve into your abilities, you earn the ability to retain tattoos.”
“Meh.” Enough with the philosophical talk. “Maybe I sho
uld stick to being on the other end of the tattoo machine for now, thanks.”
“That’s what I said when I was your age, but somethin’ changed one day.” He went on after a hearty chuckle. “Haven’t you ever let go during a session with a client an’ felt that your body wasn’t yours, almost like you’re sittin’ next to yourself, watchin’ yourself work?”
The most recent case with David and the mysterious Deathmark came to mind. I still had not made sense of it. I knew deep in my gut that I had nothing to do with it. Aside from the Mystery of David, there had been a couple of times that I had drifted off while I worked in the shop. I had assumed that had been from the exhaustion of living with half of my soul.
Was some artistic muse channeling me? Pfft. Unlikely.
“I’ve never felt trancelike,” I lied.
Errol opened the door to the solarium and gave me a nod. I stepped onto the wide veranda that looked over vineyards and orchards, bordered by the redwood forests and mountains. A breeze played with my hair. This part of Northern California was sunnier than Montana or Québec. Still, souls swirled and moved high above us, hiding the sun from Stygians in shadow.
“Pleasant view, no?” his voice followed me as I walked ahead to survey the landscape.
I made my way to a white stone guardrail that separated the patio from the landscape. As I leaned onto the banister, Errol moved in next to me and placed his hands on the stone. He had long, masculine fingers that reminded me of Brent’s hands, ones that my body knew and yearned to feel again.
“This is idyllic,” I forced myself to say as I shoved the desire for Brent’s closeness to the background. Brent needed my wit, confidence, and determination to get Marin to end our separation. Without my successful negotiation here, we would surely never be together again. “But Montana is just as beautiful in its own way. Have you ever been?”
“No, but maybe you could show me around one day.” Errol sounded wistful.
I glanced over my shoulder at the large wood house to see my Eidolon fellows were watching through the windows of the solarium. Errol followed as he glided his fingers over the stone railing. I didn’t like the sparkle in his gaze nor how his eyes gripped my curiosity. I was lonely, sure, but I was also in love with an Eidolon. That had not and never would change. But still, there were visceral needs that the rules of love and the heart just simply didn’t give a damn about. It was a terrible thing to be torn between love and the animal within. One is lofty and worth every bit of one’s soul. The other is a temporary fix for emptiness.