Page 2 of Paris and the Reaper

He howled and staggered beside the altar, trying to swat the raven away with the hand not holding the magical orb, but the raven wasn’t backing down. He came at the giant, again and again, while other voices shouted in the background.

“Mac, watch the globe.”

“We need to neutralize it.”

“Adam, take the shot!”

KRAA.

The familiar sound of gunfire rent the air and fear rocketed up Paris’s spine. He didn’t want the raven to be hit. But the bullet, it turned out, was the least of their worries. Before it reached the monster, the fireball in his hand exploded, engulfing him and singeing Paris’s skin.

“No!” Paris shouted, his voice rough, barely a whisper, but no less urgent, no less filled with fear for the fate of his rescuer.

He scrunched closed his eyes and screamed through the pain and fear until the heat began to recede, until cool air wafted over him once more.

A gentle weight landed on his chest, and for a moment it felt like freedom, like his soul could breathe knowing the raven had lived and would carry him to the love waiting for him above.

But then another voice called to him.Help me.

And another, then another, more and more until the cacophony of pleas were as loud as the thunderous waves that crashed against the cliffs beneath the condo he called home.

He shook his head, trying and failing to block out the noise.

KRAA!

He opened his eyes and locked his gaze with the violet one staring down at him. The sense of freedom was gone, but in its place was a lifeline Paris’s soul grabbed onto with both hands.

The raven jumped, its giant wings fluttering.

KRAA!

Paris didn’t let go, even as pain ricocheted through his head and darkness clouded the edge of his vision. The riot in his ears coalesced into those same two words, over and over, the only two he could manage before his own world went dark.

“Help me.”

Paris liked soft things.

In a world that was sharp and brutal, soft was the sensory antithesis of violence. The buttery leather of his car seats, the silky bristles of fresh paint brushes, the plush warmth of cotton jersey, the delicate threads of satin and lace.

The gentle brush of skin on skin. His best friends’ arms hooked through his. A courtesan’s tender touch. The backs of someone’s fingers stroking his temple, oh so softly, and ruffling his hair.

He moved to tilt his head, to chase after the feather-light touch, but barely managed to angle his chin before pain lanced through him. His head, his arms, his legs were all on fire.

Fire.

Like the globes that had hovered above the monster’s hands.

As the horrific, terrifying past came rushing back, so did nausea and bile, rocketing up his throat. He shifted, needing to sit up before he choked on the sick, but fucking hell, the pain.

Far beyond anything his father had ever inflicted on him.

But his father had done this, hadn’t he? Had offered him as some kind of sacrifice. Had almost succeeded in killing him this time.

“Fuck,” he cursed, and even that hurt.

“I’ve got you,” someone said, their voice deep and calm, soft in its own way. Like their fingers had been. “Let’s get you on your side.”

Gritting his teeth, Paris let the person help roll him. Just in time, the pain and his roiling stomach conspiring to expel what little was in it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten.Couldn’t fathom it now, the thought of food sending another wave of bile up and out and into a bucket.

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