Page 104 of Reaper's Pack

“Yes, yes, that one. He had eight hellhounds, and you only chose three.”

“I went for quality, not quantity,” I gritted out, to which Charon snorted.

“Well, all that quality sealed your fate. Imagine my delight to discover two viable reapers in the city where I chose to settle… Richard selected the weaker of the two, the one with the smaller pack, the inexperience. He’s been monitoring you all for quite some time now… Set up traps all over that industrial park today, didn’t you? Look at him…” Charon flicked his gaze in Richard’s direction, mock pity in his voice as he said, “Can’t you see how exhausted he is? All that hard work—”

“And how did Richard know we would be training there?” I demanded. Today’s test had been decided on a whim, something that had always been on the agenda, but had only come to me last night as the first practice test to run.

“It’s where the trials take place in Lunadell,” Richard said dully, only after Charon prompted him with a dramatic roll of his hand. I sighed; this god was such a fucking diva.

“And you know that—how?”

“Tortured the information out of one of Alexander’s hellhounds,” the warlock told me, “then we killed him.”

I slumped in my chair, wrists on fire, ankles aching—heart breaking. Some poor hellhound had had to die for all this to come to fruition. But given Charon’s peculiar appetite, his obvious insanity, I shouldn’t have expected any less.

“So, new deal…” Charon leaned forward, the table clear between us, our staring contests no longer buffeted by twitching candlelight. “You reap for me, or I kill your pack. One at a time, starting with the little one. You’ll watch me pick them apart until they’re no more than scraps of fur between my teeth—”

“My boys will rip you to pieces,” I snarled, knowing I needed to say something, to stand up for my pack—even if I didn’t totally believe it. Charon and Richard had magic on their side. Wards and spells and sigils. My pack had… themselves. Brute strength and coordinated hunting strategies. Their silent bond. And that was it. Without my scythe, we were at an obvious disadvantage.

Hopefully they realized that.

Hopefully…

Hopefully they were long gone by now, despite everything, despite the trio of permanent marks across my body. This was their opportunity to get the hell out of Lunadell.

But I knew in my heart that they wouldn’t go.

Because they loved me.

And I loved them.

And that love would be their undoing.

The room swam, and if I blinked, I’d give myself away—I’d damn them all. So, I looked up, focused on the skull chandelier. Had he killed humans to make that? To acquire souls? It wouldn’t surprise me if Charon farmed them and ran his own slaughterhouse—

“You cherish them, don’t you?” the god asked softly. “I can smell them on you… With your hair back, I can just about see the mated marks on your—”

“You’re pathetic.” Disgusting. Vile. And as soon as I got out of this chair, I’d rip him apart—feed him to something ancient and terrible. My insult didn’t land; Charon merely gazed back at me like the cat who’d caught the canary.

“You love them,” he whispered. “Not like that other reaper… He didn’t bat an eye when one of his pack went missing, did he, Richard?”

“No, Lord Charon… I chose the smallest. The reaper was unfazed.”

My opinion of Alexander had faltered since this whole hellhound business started, from the way he spoke about them at the kennel to the methods he’d suggested I use to discipline Knox, Gunnar, and Declan in the beginning. But now? Now, my respect for him had reached rock bottom.

“How will you feel, Hazel, when I make the wolves howl?” Charon tapped one long, sharp white fingernail on the table, grinning. “When I pull out their fur, pluck out their eyes, carve out their hearts—will you mourn?”

I pressed my trembling lips together, struggling to not react, to pretend just the thought of my pack in pain didn’t gut me.

Charon clapped his hands together, positively giddy. “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to see, won’t we? Run a little experiment… See if my working hypothesis has merit. Richard!”

The warlock dragged himself from the shadows, walking like he bore the weight of the world on his shoulders, his eyes circled in blood and exhaustion.

“Bring the pack here,” Charon ordered, never once looking away from me, “and let’s test this little bitch’s mettle.”

“You won’t find them,” I said, hating when the tears finally spilled down my cheeks, the floodwaters too high, the levies broken. “They’re gone. Without me and my scythe, without my wards, they would have left. Taking me means they can escape this life for good.”

Charon let out a hauntingly callous sound that made even his warlock cower.

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