Page 69 of Reaper's Pack

Who needed a pack of eight, ten, twelve hellhounds when three perfect ones would do?

Unfortunately, even with all of us combing through the tower, skirting fires and sidestepping corpses, ignoring wounded humans because we had to, the task was monumental. Alexander could only reap one soul at a time, which left a lot of management for the rest of us at the site. With our brief bit of tension shoved aside, he and I fell into a competent rhythm without ever once going over the game plan. I spoke with each and every soul, calming them, assuring them, informing them what had happened and where they were going. It saved Alexander time when he reappeared, took their hand, and whisked them down to Purgatory.

For the better part of an hour, we reapers and our packs were a well-oiled machine, shuttling some fifty fresh souls away for judgment. Twenty-eight to go—two more had died from their injuries since we’d arrived. Declan had found one of the most recent dead down at a gurney; I spotted them in passing, the soul on an empty stretcher, numb, vacant, staring at the thickening clouds overhead, and Declan snuggled in beside him, his head on the soul’s chest.

Despite the catastrophic nature of the accident, everything on this side seemed to be going smoothly—until Knox caught my attention. Insistently. Noisily. Barking, barking, barking, the sounds rougher and more aggressive with each passing second. A howl erupted from somewhere down below, and as Alexander grabbed the most recent soul I’d soothed, he shot me an annoyed look.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” I ground out, refusing to badmouth my alpha in front of him, all the while hoping that Knox hadn’t lost control again.

Another hoarse howl. My confidence in him plummeted, and I teleported from the fifteenth floor to the street, scanning the organized chaos.

And finding him nowhere.

“Knox?”

Heart in my throat, I jogged around a few bulky vehicles. Since we’d arrived, police had pushed the crowds way, way back, well beyond the initial cordoning, allowing a few blocks of space for them to work.

“Knox!”

At the far end of the interior accident zone, I finally found him in a sprint, headed straight for an alley between two brick apartment buildings. He moved effortlessly, like a great black shadow, paws barely touching the ground with each stride, and I cursed under my breath when his snarl reverberated across the celestial plane.

What now, for goodness’ sake?

I cut the distance between us in an instant, teleporting to the mouth of the alley, fury in my chest and fire on the tip of my tongue that he would do this to me again.

“Knox!” I shouted, scythe at the ready. His name bounced off the brick walls, buildings looming tall on either side of the narrow corridor. The hellhound slowed, and just as I was about to rip him a new one for abandoning his post, for ignoring me, I saw it.

Saw him, actually. A man in black—dragging one of our newly departed souls down the alley. His thin arms locked around the squirming soul’s waist like a bear trap, and when she shrieked, eyes wide and wild, he clapped a hand over her mouth.

A hand with a symbol cut into it, too bloody now to identify with any certainty. In fact, he was covered in runes, every exposed bit of flesh artfully sliced and diced and bloody beyond repair. My arms fell to my sides, stunned.

What…?

Who…?

Knox shot off in a burst of speed, powering down the alley at a gallop, leaping at the figure just as he had Christopher.

Only he didn’t make contact this time, didn’t tackle the villain and rip open his chest with claws tougher than steel.

Because the ground opened up and swallowed the bloody creature and the soul whole. Gone. A familiar eerie ripple shuddered across the celestial plane, and a shiver cut down my spine, the cold hand of fear gripping me once more after weeks of quiet.

Confounded, I staggered deeper into the alley, eventually breaking into a run and coming to an abrupt halt where I had last seen that terrified soul. A huge red symbol had been painted across the concrete at our feet, stretching the width of the alley, intricate in its design and bloody in its origins. Brows furrowed, I crouched down and traced the circle with my eyes, inside of which was a smattering of runes from a number of cultures, many of which even I didn’t recognize.

This was old magic. Very old.

And totally not in my wheelhouse.

Panting, Knox stalked to my side and shifted back, the heat rising off his body hitting me like a hurricane.

“What the fuck was that?” he demanded, voice low and harsh. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his handsome face, steam coiling between us. I shook my head, totally at a loss.

“I have no idea.”

“I saw him walk her out of the wreckage by the hand,” he growled as I tentatively pressed my fingertip to the markings at my feet. Hot and wet, the metallic tang was so painfully obvious that it made my stomach turn. A quick sniff confirmed it: blood.

“Was he a reaper?”

“He was dressed like one,” I muttered, wiping my finger on the ground with a grimace. “But no, he wasn’t. Reapers don’t… We don’t deal in blood magic.” I nudged at the nearest sigil with the base of my staff. “We don’t need to.”

---