Page 27 of Reaper's Pack

Cleo shook her head at Hazel’s offer but still said nothing, not even as the reaper stood and adjusted her robes—robes that seemed to billow on their own accord, the air dead around us.

“Do you want to walk, then?”

Still nothing.

A knowing smile touched Hazel’s lips, and she tipped her head toward me. “Would you like to ride on Declan’s back?”

Cleo shot me a shy glance, and I perked up, tail wagging at the thought. Of course, little one. Of course I’ll carry you.

Fidgeting with her enormous skirt, Cleo finally managed a slight, blink-and-you-miss-it bob of her head. Hazel scooped her up and set her just below my shoulder blades, and tiny fingers scrambled deep into my fur. She rode me with both legs to one side, neither foot dangling lower than the curve of my rib cage, light as a feather and seated like a true lady.

Hazel’s touch carried more weight. Clutching her scythe, she dropped to her knees before us, gaze locked on Cleo, then pressed a hand to my side.

“Close your eyes, sweetheart,” she told her. “We’ll be there soon.”

Teleportation came easier this time. No longer a bundle of nerves, I was so concerned about Cleo’s experience with it all that when we vanished from the hospital’s intensive care wing and reappeared in what I could only assume was Purgatory, I barely noticed.

Until the cold hand of nothingness crept over me. I blinked, wincing when Cleo ripped at my fur, her breath quickening. Grey fog shrouded the realm in perpetual shadow. Beneath my paws, a pebbled path stretched out ahead and way behind, probably to the horizon and beyond. Lampposts dotted the walkway, tall and metallic with a great white orb at their peak. The air smelled of gravel and smoke, silent as the grave until Hazel took her first step.

Her robes fluttered around her as she strolled forward, slicing through the fog, her scythe catching the lamplight and looking like the star from which it was born. Rock and dirt crunched with each of the reaper’s steps, and I followed, paws quiet over the cruel earth, my pads absorbing the bite of the pebbles. Cleo wrapped her arms around my neck as best she could, hugging tight, and then buried her face in my fur. I stood straighter, walked faster, eager to get her out of here.

A short while later, great golden gates silhouetted through the mist, slowly coming into focus. They stretched up for what seemed like miles, their spired tops lost in the grey sheen. I snorted the damp earth smell out of my nose, which had Cleo looking up briefly. While the gate was intimidating for what it represented, the figure looming before it was enough to send any soul fleeing.

Or so I thought—until the fog cleared, a temporary respite inside a perfect sphere in front of the gates. As soon as we crossed into the circle, I stopped, stunned, to find myself face-to-face with an angel.

He was lovely. Tall. Olive-skinned and green-eyed, white wings that could withstand an attack from any weapon save the might of Heaven. Dressed in a white robe that mirrored Hazel’s black attire, he clasped his hands together as his supple lips stretched into a warm smile.

“Hello, Cleo Avante. Welcome.”

“Cleo, this is Peter.” Hazel helped the soul from my back, and instead of shrinking away again, Cleo seemed instantly infatuated with the angel, her eyes wide with wonder now, her cheeks dry, her tread confident as Hazel led her to him. My reaper crouched down beside her, likely for the last time, and pushed her curls over her shoulder. “He’s going to take you inside.”

A part of me didn’t want to let her go, but I did nothing as Hazel slipped Cleo’s hand into Peter’s. The angel radiated warmth, kindness, something reserved for the souls headed upward, surely. Damned souls deserved a colder reception.

The golden gate opened on its own, swiftly and soundlessly, and Cleo paused at its threshold to glance over her shoulder at us. Scythe held loosely at her side, Hazel waved. I offered a low whine and a tail wag, which made the child giggle. Peter unfurled his feathery wings to their full width, sweeping Cleo under them, and the pair disappeared into the white mist on the other side of the gate. Even if I couldn’t see her anymore, I watched, squinting, trying my damnedest to peer into the ether—to make sure she was safe. But before I could ask, Hazel stroked a hand down my back, the world went black, and we reappeared in the moonlit forest where all this had started.

“Oh my god, Declan!” Hazel leapt away as I muddled through the teleportation aftershock, clarity coming for me hard and fast when I spotted her throw her hands up, scythe and all, and spin in place with a whooping cry. Somewhere nearby, birds chattered indignantly back, the morning young, the forest at rest—and interrupted, now, by a cheering reaper.

Giddiness frolicked about in my belly, and I hastily shifted from beast to man, naked and sweaty, content to watch her spin and dance forever.

Until she found her way into my arms quite unexpectedly. I caught her with a grunt, her body flush with mine, her arms around my neck, her scythe’s staff pressed straight down my spine. Startled, mind abuzz with the sensory overload of her, I stumbled back a few paces before drawing Hazel closer, welcoming her soft curves home, my nose in the nape of her neck.

“You were amazing,” she squealed, her head thrown back, her voice echoing through the trees. While I couldn’t see, I imagined moonlight glinting in her eyes, every part of her a thousand times more exquisite than that angel. Gone was her mask of calm neutrality, replaced with a girlish glee that made me want to spin too, twirl her around so that she giggled and held tighter. Her reaper façade was so painfully obvious now; here, her voice pitched higher, lovelier, and as I clutched her, felt her hair whisper across my bare arms, I swore that she was trembling.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered, praise that seared straight to my marrow, words I would remember for as long as I lived. “You were incredible. I knew you would be. I chose her for you, and you… you were perfect.”

Tears welled, my heart full, my knees weak. I clenched my eyes shut and buried my nose deeper, breathing her in, willing her scent to tattoo across my flesh so that I would never go anywhere without her ever again.

“Thank you, Hazel,” I forced out after a few beats of silence, my voice rough, my throat thick. She stiffened, as if finally remembering herself, and withdrew from our embrace with flushed cheeks and eyes that refused to meet mine. Brushing her white mane behind her ears, she positioned her scythe between us, perhaps unconsciously, perhaps on purpose, and then looked in the general direction of the house.

“You’re welcome,” she said almost breathlessly. She then fetched my stack of folded clothes and handed them back to me. I made no move to put them on, not wanting to miss a moment of her blushing, of her lips as they fought her brilliant smile.

“Let’s go back,” the reaper said with a nod to the nearby ward, “and tell the others how well you did.”

I gestured for her to lead the way, and she did, walking a few long strides ahead of me. When we passed through the ward, however, the shimmering magical wall sealed up tight behind, we fell in step together and returned to the house without a word.

Our hands occasionally brushing along the way.

10

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