Page 11 of Paris and the Reaper

One evil man who was his father. Who Paris had unwittingly helped by giving him Icarus’s contact info. Under duress, granted, but part of this was his fault. He’d find a way to do more; he had his own wrongs to rectify.

SIX

Hushed,clipped voices teased the edge of Paris’s consciousness.

He didn’t try too hard to listen, didn’t let them pull him out from under the flannel sheets and heavy quilt that chased away the forest’s nighttime chill. Besides, convos he couldn’t hear had become the norm. The witches had frequently visited the cabin, regularly checking in with Liam. They were always careful to talk in low, whispered tones, too quiet for Paris’s human ears to discern.

He didn’t take it personally. He was Vincent Cirillo’s son. Why would anyone trust him? Liam had agreed to tell him if anything happened to Icarus or Mac, and in return, Paris had agreed to do what Liam asked, what Mac needed. Stay safe and out of whatever mess was going on in YB.

He thought maybe something major had gone down last night. He’d been outside behind the cabin, picking wildflowers for the vases he’d found under the kitchen sink, when the waves in the distance thundered so loudly it was like being back home, in his condo right on top of the cliffs. And there’d been a weird energy to the forest around him, almost like it was vibrating.

He’d returned to the cabin and found Liam pacing from one end to the other, his typically relaxed manner vanished. But Liam had had no answers, just nervous energy, so Paris had put him to work kneading dough for the bread he’d wanted to make, the fireplace hearth too tempting to pass up. Then, after the dough had set the requisite time, he’d tasked Liam with babysitting it in the Dutch oven while he slept.

Which couldn’t have been long, judging by the dim light behind his eyelids. Early morning, he guessed; definitely not time to get up yet. He yanked the quilt higher, aiming to pull it over his head, but then Liam’s hand landed on his ankle, shaking it lightly.

“More sleep,” Paris mumbled into his pillow. “Icarus and Mac okay?”

“It’s me, Paris.”

Sleep fled in an instant, Paris rolling onto his back and looking up into dark, haunted eyes. Mac’s face was drawn, his shoulders slumped, the tan of his skin pale and his dark hair unruly. And his aura was an absolute train wreck. A speck of lighter relief, the red edge a tiny measure brighter, but darkness clawed at it—exhaustion, regret, sadness dominating.

Untangling an arm from the sheets, Paris reached up and palmed his cheek. It was so much colder than Liam’s. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Mac covered his hand but not to pull it away, as Paris expected. He nuzzled into it instead, as if he were searching for warmth, and Paris barely managed to swallow his surprise.

“What about Icarus and your friend?” Paris asked once he could make words again. “Liam said?—”

A small smile teased the corners of his lips. “Also fine.” He lowered Paris’s hand, squeezed it, then stood. Paris recognized his clothes—dark jeans and a black sweater—from the stackLiam had put in the bin outside. “I have some news for you,” Mac said. “Get dressed, and I’ll meet you on the couch.”

Paris wrestled free of the sheets and quilt and pulled on the sweats and hoodie he’d left by the bed. As he straightened, he noticed Liam was no longer in the cabin. He made a quick pit stop in the bathroom—no Liam there either—then ventured past the table to lay a hand on the loaf of bread wrapped in a towel, exactly the way he’d shown Liam to do it. The loaf was cool, taken out of the fire hours ago, the Dutch oven washed and drying upside down by the sink. “Was that you and Liam talking before? Did he leave?”

“He was needed at home.”

“At Monte Corvo?” Paris said, and Mac cocked a dark, questioning brow. “He told me that’s the name of the vineyard your family owns.” Paris circled the chair and lowered himself onto the opposite end of the couch. “In Talahalusi.”

“What other secrets did my brother spill?”

“He told me you were a reaper. Is that why you look so wrung out? Why you’re cold? What happened last night? It felt... weird,” he said, recalling his friend’s too-accurate description.

Mac made a harsh sound, somewhere between a laugh and a groan, and drove a hand through his hair, disheveling it further. His gaze lighted on the waning fire and stayed there. “There was a battle,” he said, tone as haunted as his eyes. “The first of many, likely.”

“Right,” Paris said. “As we get closer to the date of the Rift.” It had happened that way every year for as long as Paris could remember. As mid-October approached, skirmishes between magical forces would escalate and most humans would plan their vacations out of YB accordingly. Well, most humans, except those like his father trying to profiteer from the madness. Sometimes the increased activity subsided after theRift anniversary, sometimes it carried through to Samhain, and on several occasions, it had lasted all the way to winter solstice.

“It’s different this time,” Mac said. “Nature is back in the war.”

Paris gasped aloud, no help for it. In all his tutors’ lessons about the Rift, and in all the other books he’d read about it and the decades that followed, Nature hadn’t been directly active in YB since that fateful October seventeenth thirty years ago. Her cause was still championed, otherwise places like this forest, like Talahalusi, like certain other parts of YB wouldn’t exist. All of it would be like the Canyon Lands, which she’d ceded in the Rift, but in the battles and years since, she hadn’t directly played a role. Until now. The weirdness both he and Jason had sensed.

“Last night,” Paris started, “I was outside picking flowers, and there was thisenergyin the forest.” He splayed his hands and wriggled his fingers, hoping Mac understood what he was trying to convey. “And the waves were so loud, even through the woods. It was like being back on Sunset Hill.”

“She needed to pull the energy for what we had to do.”

He shifted on the couch, angling toward Mac and pulling up a knee, intrigued to the edge of his seat. “Which was what?”

“Save a phoenix from your father.”

Paris jolted. “They exist? For real?” Phoenixes were mentioned in some texts, but they were so rare, so few and far between, their identities closely guarded secrets, that the stories and reports about them were a patchwork of myth and magic. No one was quite sure how they began or even how many remained alive.

“They do, and they belong to Nature, but your father and Chaos were hunting them.”

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