Page 25 of Reaper's Pack

I charged through the blue metal door and took the stairs four at a time, my paws seldom on the tiled ground for long. A part of me hated to leave her, but she had stressed the importance of catching and keeping all departed souls. We couldn’t lose them—not one. Not if we could help it. And while she was otherwise occupied, I could help it, and so I would.

The soul’s song grew louder, fiercer, with every floor I climbed. Not the second level. Not the third either. I bypassed the fourth, then paused on the fifth, ears up, alert, every cell in my body on fire. No. It wasn’t here. I’d gone too far. Snorting, I padded down the steep steps between levels, then sprinted through the next metal door to the fourth floor. A sign over a nearby desk told me all I needed to know: Intensive Care Unit.

I’d heard that combination of words recently—from the television, in fact, from that doctor program where they seemed to fuck more than they healed.

A commotion erupted from a room to the far right: beeping, shrieking, shouting. Above it all, the soul.

I might have been the smallest hellhound of any of my packs, but I was still quite large. Intimidating, most likely, to a recently departed soul. So while I moved with purpose, I also practiced patience. I slowed my approach, padding toward the door with a group of humans crowded in front of it. A woman screamed and wailed into her mate’s chest. He looked on into the room, tears streaking down his cheeks. Humans who smelled like those two, whose presence hummed on a similar frequency, clustered around them—family, perhaps. I threaded through the group and paused in the open doorway.

Pink curtains over the windows. Drawings on the walls—poorly made, most likely the work of a human child. An enormous stuffed bear on an overturned chair. Flowers in glass containers. Humans in—what were they?—scrubs, hurried but calm. One beating the chest of the small, frail girl in the bed, tubes coming out of her arms. The machine beside the bed had been featured on the television shows; its somber, low-pitch note, no longer beeping in a steady, constant rhythm, always told the viewers that the patient had died, the doctors had failed.

But still they tried.

Admirable, these humans.

And in the end, not my concern.

For there was her soul, this frail girl with a mane of black curls and sunken cheeks. She sat huddled in a corner in such a tight ball, like she was trying to make herself as small as possible. My heart softened immediately, for I knew that posture well.

She was frightened.

Wide eyes gobbled up the scene unfolding, the humans on the mortal plane fighting to save her, not realizing she was already gone. Slowly, that terrified gaze slipped to me and widened farther. She shrunk deeper into the corner with a wail, her little body shimmering—pale with death, but somehow still vibrant, her skin the same light brown as her mortal body, her nails stained with purple polish. She wasn’t wearing the hospital dress anymore, but a beautiful yellow ball gown. She was a lovely thing, and I had but a second to react before I lost her.

Before I, a creature who had never scared anyone, sent her fleeing across the plane.

We locked eyes for a moment, our connection tenuous and strained, before I licked my lips and dropped low, backside in the air, tail wagging. My toes spread as I slumped forward, back bowed, the universal posture to invite another hellhound to play. Only Gunnar and Knox had ever taken me up on the offer; all the others used the invitation as an excuse to attack.

Perhaps the hounds of this realm behaved the same, because the little lost soul blinked back at me, her hands that were once so tightly clutched around her bent knees slowly lowering to the floor. My excited yip had a smile inching across her lips, hesitant, innocent, blossoming when I wagged my tail harder and whined.

She needed the distraction. I bounced forward a few paces, mouth open, tongue lolling out, then trotted to her side, all the while keeping as low to the ground as I could, not wanting to tower over her unnecessarily.

Although the little creature remained fixed to the floor, tucked snugly in the corner, at least she didn’t run when I dropped to my belly and scooted to her side. She withdrew her hands, hiding them in the flourish of her yellow gown. Faintly, her old body’s scent permeated the air: decay and vomit and brine. Her soul smelled sweet, like the bluish-purple weeds that dotted the overgrown gardens back at the house. Energy hummed off her, the air thick with it, with a new soul, but I focused on her—the human child in the yellow dress—and not the physical beckoning of her life force.

Snuffling at her dress, I nuzzled my snout against her leg, her whole being the size of my head and neck. But I made myself small, sidling closer with a low, insistent whine. When I stilled, the girl shifted in place, and suddenly there was a teeny, tiny hand in my fur. She gingerly brushed over the top of my head, and when her knees lowered ever so slightly from her chest, I seized the opportunity to shove what could fit of my head—just my snout, really—into her lap.

Her lips bore a half-smile now, her eyes glossy with tears, her cheeks slick with confusion, with fear. My tail thumped noisily against the wall beside us with every back-and-forth beat, and she exhaled a giggle when her hands found my ears.

Aren’t they soft, little one? Soft and safe.

As she rubbed them, explored the tufts of black fur, I closed my eyes. I trusted her to touch me. She could trust me not to hurt her.

And in that moment, a bond was made.

The tiny creature beneath me stiffened, and I scented Hazel before I saw her. So near, so suddenly. Fear pounded through me; I had left her side—without permission—and acted impulsively on my own. I had approached a soul, my first soul outside of Hell, without her.

She must have been furious.

How would it feel, her rage? Would she use her hands or the blunt end of her scythe to remind me of my place?

A shuddering whimper from the girl’s soul had me slowly, fearfully looking back to the door. There stood Hazel, robed in black, billowing material, cheeks a dull pink. Beautiful. To a soul destined for Hell, I imagined she was rather terrifying too—a grim reaper in the flesh.

But she wore a smile now. Slight, subtle, calm. I had tasted anger all my life; it was something every single one of my senses experienced, even at a distance. See the rage in their eyes. Feel the fury rolling off them. Hear the gnashing of teeth. Taste the blood in my mouth as I bit down on my cheeks to stifle my cries.

There was no anger here.

Only serenity.

And with an exhale, I let go, settling my snout back on the girl’s lap and keeping her pinned as Hazel swept across the room. She entered my periphery like a shadow, then floated to her knees like the gentlest falling rain.

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