Page 103 of Reaper's Pack

“Unless they all share his… attitude,” I offered. If the angel saw us as lesser beings, as animals, then they wouldn’t care what we had to say. They would just take us out for standing up to a reaper—and then it would all come crashing down.

“We find safe ground,” Knox told us with one last backward glance at Hazel’s scythe. He fell silent for a moment, his gaze roving the blade like he was memorizing it.

Like this might be the last time he ever saw it. Something cold gripped my heart at the thought.

But the moment passed. Knox rolled his shoulders back and tossed his head side to side, cracking his neck, gearing up for a real fight.

“After that, we find that fucking coward who took her,” he growled, “and we bleed him until he talks…”

30

Hazel

“I won’t reap souls for you, Charon,” I said, unable to keep the trembling fury out of my voice. What he was asking me to do… It was blasphemous. I had come back to this world with a sacred duty: to guide, protect, and escort wayward souls to their destiny. There was nothing this sick shit could offer me that would entice me to reap souls for him to eat.

The screams of that poor girl still echoed through this awful place, faint but present, reverberating in the darkest corners, in Charon’s predatory smile.

“Come now,” he crooned. “What does Death give you in exchange for your service? Nothing. I can pay you—in anything you desire.”

“I don’t reap for a reward.” I let my head thump back against the chair, my answer final. “Find another warlock to do your dirty work.”

The old god stared at me for a few beats, his smile slowly fading. Beside him, Richard shifted his weight from one leg to the other, nervously glancing between the two of us. Apparently, I had said the wrong thing. The stretched flesh across Charon’s barbed chin quivered, and he launched out of his seat onto the table. Kicking candles aside, he stalked to the middle of the stone surface, glowering at me.

“If you won’t take a reward, then perhaps you’ll take punishment.”

I tipped my head to the side, refusing to give him anything that he could use against me. “Are you… threatening a reaper? You know we’re basically indestructible—”

“Is that what you think, girl?” he sneered. Charon vanished with a delicate little pop, then reappeared in front of me so suddenly that I squeaked, heart in my throat. He shoved my chair back, and I hit the ground hard, pain dancing through my skull. Slowly, the god dragged his hands up my body, from my bound ankles to my knees, down my thighs—just as he had the soul. The same hungry look glimmered in his yellow gaze, and I squirmed, nauseous at the sight, at the feel of his spidery hands roving my body unchecked. They went wherever they pleased: one up my belly, over my breasts, the other coiling around my neck and squeezing.

He might not be able to kill me—hopefully—but he could absolutely hurt me.

“You reapers are nothing more than souls in titanium wrapping,” Charon hissed, his hand locking tighter and tighter around my throat. My lips parted, my eyes widened, and I shuddered in disgust when he delved under my robes—when his papery cold touch found my skin, pinched at it, plucked at it.

“F-fuck y-you,” I forced out. He could do what he wanted to me; I would never collect souls for him.

“If you don’t reap for me, then I’m going to peel your wrapping away, one strip at a time, and make you my fucking Christmas ham!” he bellowed, spittle raining down on my face, the edges of my vision tinged black. I struggled against my restraints, the ropes slicing deeper, cutting grooves into my bones.

The pressure eased just enough for me to draw a full breath, and I hurriedly filled my lungs, unsure when I would get the chance again. Charon cupped my chin, the rage melting from his bony features, giving way what he must have thought was a sympathetic expression—forced concern.

“What do you have to say to that, Hazel?”

His whisper smelled like rotted flesh. I twisted my head to the side with a grimace and scanned the darkness, the rocky walls, Richard’s blank stare. If my choice came down to me or them, my soul or the souls of countless innocents, I knew where I stood.

Looking Charon square in the eye, I lifted a challenging brow. “You want to eat me… Do it, then.”

I braced for rage, for fury, for more screaming and spitting and groping and splitting headaches. What I hadn’t expected was disappointment. Apparently, my refusal to fight was just so pitiful. Charon clambered off me, scowling, and with a snap of his fingers my chair whooshed upright at whiplash speed.

My captor strolled to the other side of the table, kicking scattered candles and their silver stands out of the way as he went, taking his sweet time to settle into his chair. He appeared to be mulling over my response, reassessing, changing tactics. I swallowed thickly, unsure what else I could sacrifice that was bigger and more meaningful than my own soul.

“You don’t care about yourself? Fine.” Charon leaned back in his seat and wove his hands together again, resting them on what I suspected was a very bony, hollowed-out chest. “I should have expected that… Pious, pretentious bunch, you reapers.” The corners of his mouth crept up. “But what about your hellhounds?”

My heart skipped a beat, and Charon’s whole being seemed to blossom when the color drained from my face, leaving me cold and numb. I schooled my features as best I could, but that vile smile told me he had found the perfect button to press.

And he was going to stab it with everything he had.

“Ah, yes, your pack,” he sneered with a few breathy chuckles. “You know, your pack was the reason Richard chose you and not that other reaper… The blond with the penchant for designer suits.”

“Alexander,” the warlock loitering in the shadows muttered, and Charon waved him off, annoyance flickering through the god’s smugness.

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