Page 16 of Reaper's Pack

How could you trust anyone after a lifetime in Hell, raised under the boots of demons?

Hazel guided us down a gentle slope, drifting toward the forest, her scythe resting on her shoulder. She looked rather delectable in her thigh-length trousers, her flowy black shirt; when the wind hit her just right, that loose fabric stretched taut over her curves, eliciting an intense physical interest through our pack bond. When she finally stopped, her feet bare and toes wiggling in the grass, her eyes narrowed against the sunshine, so did we. Knox set the distance, while Gunnar and I stood behind him.

Without realizing it, all three of us had crossed our arms, a united front of fuck-you to the reaper before us. Frowning, I dropped mine to my sides, fidgeting with the fit of my new trousers—jeans, Hazel had called them. A gust of hot air toyed with my hair and ruffled Hazel’s white waves, her scent catching and carrying toward us. A quick glance at Gunnar, then Knox told me my packmates would have preferred to be upwind from her. Their nostrils flared, same as mine, and a renewed desire twanged through our bond. Gunnar’s jaw clenched briefly as he looked back toward the house.

“Today we’re going to work on recognizing a soul signature on the celestial plane,” Hazel told us, planting her scythe’s wooden staff into the earth. When she released it, the most powerful weapon in all the realms stayed upright on its own, its hooked blade carved with ancient glyphs I’d never understand, somehow both terrifying and beautiful. Hazel caught her wild hair in both hands, smoothing it back and out of her face as she said, “A freshly departed soul will be different than the souls you’ve seen in Hell. It feels different. Smells different. Behaves different. So, it’s important to recognize that.

“If we pass the final trials, you will be responsible for tracking souls without me and holding them until I can reap. Lunadell is substantial. Bigger than anywhere I’ve ever reaped. Hundreds of humans die each day—from disease, murder, accidents, and old age. One reaper, even with their hellhounds, can’t manage that. It’s paramount that you can scent, track, and contain souls on your own and as a pack.”

My last reaper had kind eyes too, a warm presence despite his ice-cold flesh, but I hadn’t had the chance to train with him; my old pack turned on me the second we left Hell, eager to pick off the perceived weakest link before we even started. I welcomed the challenge now, the chance to prove my worth, no matter how the others felt about doing what was asked of them.

“The first step in all of this is accessing the celestial plane,” Hazel remarked, snatching up her scythe and huffing her hair out of her face with a frown. “No matter what anyone has told you, you are celestial beings—like me, like demons, like angels, like the old gods. You can travel the celestial roads through worlds, and you can do it without me.” She cleared her throat, cheeks pink—perhaps from the wind, perhaps from the way Knox and Gunnar looked at each other like she had just given them their key to freedom. “I mean, the ward works on both planes. So. You know. It’s not… Never mind. Let’s practice going in and out of the plane together.”

For once, my packmates had no objections to her command, which didn’t surprise me. Going from the mortal realm to the celestial was a valuable skill that we had never been taught by our demon trainers; this was our first taste of power, so of course Knox and Gunnar wanted to take advantage of it. We reaped on the celestial plane. Lost souls waited for us there—and I wanted to help them. Finding my way onto it, through it, was essential.

Not easy, mind you, but nothing in our lives ever was. Hazel insisted that, as with all magic, it was about intention. Wish it, want it, think it hard enough and your mind can make anything happen.

My mind was just a little too interested in a certain reaper, unfortunately, which meant I was the last to eventually access the plane. We spent the better part of an hour on the attempt, Gunnar sliding from one realm the other first, then Knox, then finally, finally, with the assistance of all three and Hazel standing downwind from me, I crossed over.

Like walking through a blast of cold air, stepping from the mortal realm to the celestial plane was disconcerting at first. Inside, the world was so much brighter, every element in sharper focus, yet somehow muted too. Scents lacked their potency. Twittering birds turned to whispering echoes. The wind through the piney branches no longer sang but hissed. Standing there with my pack, a little light-headed now that I’d mastered a smidgen of magic, I decided the mortal realm was just better. More exciting.

But the souls were here, and so was Hazel, the smell of honeyed dates and incense the only one not dulled—which made it all the more overwhelming. The others sensed it too; Knox and Gunnar immediately found a position upwind from her, at a distance, and I followed in their footsteps so that I could concentrate.

Scythe planted at her side, Hazel produced a brilliant white orb between her delicate hands, molding it, perfecting it, making it round and thick. Recognition rippled through the pack bond; she had created something to mimic a soul signature.

And she’d been right—it was different to the human souls we had seen in Hell. Brighter, stronger, it hummed with an enthralling energy that the damned lacked. It buzzed and trembled, full of life, like the essence of humanity still clung to its depths.

“Every soul feels different, but this will give you an idea of what to expect,” Hazel told us softly, her hands circling the orb almost with reverence. It possessed one other element the damned souls didn’t: it smelled like… like… I stepped closer, entranced, racking my brain for a word to describe it and coming up short. Sweetly scented, it invoked relaxation and calm.

“It smells like an orchid,” Hazel said, her eyes on me when I shook myself free of the orb’s hold. “Humans associate the flower with death. It’s sometimes used at funerals, the symbology… They don’t understand why they associate it with us, but they do. Most souls smell like this, the sweeter fragrance of the flower, but there are some that smell like sour meat, just like some orchids smell absolutely foul. Those ones usually have a one-way ticket down, if you know what I mean.”

Knox and Gunnar exchanged another silent look, and in that moment, Hazel deflated just a little. She really was trying to connect, and there was nothing worse than trying your fucking hardest only to be met with outright rejection. Been there. Done that. And it felt like shit.

“This one smells wonderful,” I offered, leaving my packmates behind and closing half the distance between us. The orb cast an unearthly white glow across her already deathly pale skin, and it made her look like an angel—like the queen of angels, especially when she smiled.

“Doesn’t it?” Hazel slowly brought her hands up, sniffing the orb as one does a wildflower, her eyes closed, expression peaceful. “I’ll never tire of that smell.”

Would I ever tire of making her look like that? Making her feel whatever she did right this second, lifting her spirits?

The connection between us should have frightened me—my desire to please her even more so. But I had bonded with Gunnar and Knox in an instant, the feeling mutual, so why couldn’t I do the same with Hazel?

“Today we’re going to work on a simple find and retrieve exercise,” Hazel informed us, slowly rolling the orb between her hands, suddenly more like a ball than a floating celestial lookalike. “You’ll practice tracking and herding, two really important skills for hellhounds. Find the orb. Bring it back. Easy.” She wet her lips, her hair rustling in the muted breeze. “Losing souls isn’t an option, okay? We’re going to save everyone we can, because they all deserve judgment.”

Gunnar chuckled coldly, watching her as if Hazel were just like all the other fuckwits we’d had to deal with day in and day out in Hell. His expression made me bristle, my irritation streaking through our pack bond like a jolt of lightning. My packmates’ stares burned into the back of my head, both of them catching my slip, and I squared my shoulders, almost daring them to say something. Gunnar was being an asshole for no reason; he deserved to feel it.

Hazel’s hand had wrapped around her scythe in the few tense beats of silence that stretched between us, no doubt sensing the friction, maybe even preparing to intervene. Scratching at the back of my neck, I forced an impish grin and nodded.

“Got it. No lost souls. We can manage that.”

Knox’s stare intensified; I was talking too much today, acting like I ruled the pack, like I had the right to speak for them. But no one else was saying anything, and it was getting awkward.

Besides, I loved herding. Of all the tasks I’d been trained in, this was my favorite.

Without a word, Hazel launched the orb into the forest, and all three of us tensed. Senses on high alert, every muscle in my body stilled as I tracked the target. It arced over the pointed treetops—cedars, Hazel had called them—and then vanished beneath the canopy. That lovely sweet scent trailed after it; if we were in the mortal realm, the elements would have swept it away like the tide, but the celestial plane seemed to offer a buffer, which made the smell of a human soul linger. It called to me, to us, interest and focus and energy pulsing through our bond, crashing together, threatening to whip us into a frenzy. Heat rose between me and the others, the shift calling us home. My tensed body shook at the effort to remain on two legs.

No one moved.

All this energy flowing under the surface, a riptide ready to drown us, and no one did a damn thing. Painful as it was, I turned my back on the forest, on my goal, and met Knox’s dark gaze. Head lowered, I asked permission without uttering a word, and nothing about his stiff, looming figure suggested he had denied me.

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