Page 9 of Paris and the Reaper

“We’re about to find out.”

Liam drew his brother into a tight embrace and mumbled words Paris couldn’t understand. “Ní hiasc é go dtí go bhfuil sé ar an mbanc.”

Mac’s gaze flicked over his brother’s shoulder, catching on Paris’s, and when he said, “I hope you’re right,” Paris didn’t think it was only about whatever miserable duty was directly in front of him.

FIVE

Twinkling orbsof light led their caravan down a winding limestone road and through a dense grove of towering trees. The last car in front of Liam’s turned off at another cabin, this one the same as the handful of others they’d passed—four green walls, a stone chimney, a shingled roof covered in moss.

“Is there another one back there?” Paris asked, peering into the darkness.

“One more,” Liam said. “If memory serves . . .”

He drove them under a stand of trees whose branches had woven together over the road, and darkness swallowed them whole for an endless few seconds. And then they were out the other side, moonlight filtering through the branches to reveal a single cabin at the end of the road, barely visible among the tangle of green that stretched as far as Paris’s human eyes could see.

Liam pulled the car into the gravel drive, and Paris stared out the windshield. “What is this place?”

He’d been born in the city, had rarely traveled outside it, and never to any place like this. His world consisted of concrete, fog, and waves that crashed against sheer cliffs. The only thingremotely similar about this place were the breakers he could hear in the distance, from the direction they’d come along the ocean road. He’d thought they were going to the roadside motel by the coast, but they’d driven right past it and down the road that led to this forest. Or was it a jungle? Paris couldn’t say, all of it new to him.

“Well,” Liam said as he shoved his car door open, “when I was a kid, it was a campground.” He waited for Paris to exit the car before continuing. “Then it was a resort property. Little cabins in the woods that the rich folk in YB and Portola could run away to.”

“And then what?” Paris said as he grabbed his bag of borrowed clothes, bandages, and paint supplies from the trunk. “The moss won?”

Liam chuckled as he shouldered his duffel. “More like the Rift won, but yes, when people stopped coming out this way, Nature took over. Call it her anti–Canyon Lands.”

Paris couldn’t think of a better description. He rotated where he stood, inhaling deep and taking it all in. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s so dark out here you can hardly see.”

“But it smells like life and the ocean, all rolled into one.”

“Don’t forget the rotting wood.”

Paris glared in his direction, certain the shifter could see his rueful expression, even in the dark. “I’ll amend. It smells like life and death, thenaturalkind. Nothing smells like this in YB.”

“Fair enough.” He fished a key out of his pocket and opened the door, holding it for Paris to enter first.

Into total darkness.

Paris extended an arm, searching cautiously for the nearest wall and, once found, backed himself against it, staying out of Liam’s way. He moved around in the dark, seemingly undeterred, removing what sounded like sheets on furniture and stacking logs in a fireplace.

“You’ve never been to Talahalusi?” he asked from Paris’s left.

“Dad forbade it.” Shot him down every time he’d mentioned visiting the vineyards and farmlands north of Yerba Buena. But others had told him about the region. About the more temperate climate, the changes the governing Indigenous tribes had made to preserve their lands, the wash of colors so absent from YB, from the vegetation to the wine to the artwork. Jason had brought him sunflowers from there once, and Paris had spent months painting them in secret.

“It’s like this,” Liam said, drawing Paris out of his thoughts, with his words and the strike of a match. “But without the mustiness.” Fire flickered to life in a corner fireplace, the flames casting enough light to make Liam visible again.

“That’s where you and Mac are from?” Paris asked him as he continued to survey their surroundings. A stone hearth, a table, a rustic kitchen, and a couch and oversize chair. And if Paris squinted hard enough, a bed on the far wall and an enclosure in the far dim corner that he guessed was the bathroom. “Talahalusi?”

“Our family owns a vineyard up there. Monte Corvo.”

“Mac works a vineyard?” Even if Liam weren’t able see his face, Paris’s voice—and the bag he dropped—would have given away his wide-eyed surprise. In no universe could he imagine the intense raven tending vines. “What’s he do? Stomp the grapes?”

Liam laughed out loud, that same carefree guffaw from earlier that couldn’t be more different than his brother’s small, soft smiles. By the time his hilarity subsided, the flames had grown healthy, casting a warm glow about the cabin. But before Paris could get a better look, Liam’s answer to his joking question stopped him cold. “No, Mac’s a cop.” Then sent him scrambling for the door. Liam beat him to it, blocking his path. “We know who you are, Paris. We know what you do.”

“And what’s that?” He hated the wobble in his voice, but there was no help for it. He was at a disadvantage—trapped in a strange place with a shifter, at the mercy of others who would use him against his father. Sure, they might have rescued him, but now that they had him, how far would they go to get information about his father’s operations? His dad was right; he was a fool. He’d spent the past few days painting pictures when he should have been learning everything he could about his captors and plotting his escape.

“You’re a dealer,” Liam said. “You work small jobs for Vincent.”

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