Page 24 of Paris and the Reaper

“I can stay,” Liam said, rejoining them in human form.

Jenn shook her head. “You need to rest too, but you also need to get this one”—she tilted her head toward Paris—“and Mac back down the mountain in one piece. Leave the rest of the birds. We’ll text when we get home.”

Paris was still learning about the team Mac spoke of often, still sorting out the hierarchy, but he surmised Adam was at the top and Jenn close by, given how easily she issued orders and how quickly Liam acquiesced. She was all business. Was she theherthey spoke of? In any event, Paris was caught off guard when the gruff leader likewise drew him into a hug. “Thank you for doing this for her.” The embrace was stiff and awkward but the words sincere, and despite the awful day, Paris couldn’t hide his smile. He liked Abigail a lot, and Jenn clearly loved her and would do anything for her.

The coyote had another message for him. “Adam needs Mac,” she said. “And she’s not done with him yet either. We’re trusting you.”

Soshewasn’t Jenn, and Paris didn’t think Jenn was referring to Abigail either. Nor did he think he’d ever been trusted with something so important. It scared him but also filled him with pride, something that had been in short supply during his relatively short life. He intended to keep earning it.

“I’ve got him.”

“What do you need?” Mac asked, even as Paris, shoulder under his, hauled him through the cabin door.

Between the full-body shivers, chattering teeth, and cold, clammy skin, Mac had deteriorated more with each passing mile on the drive back to the cabin. Concern for him at fever pitch, Paris guided the raven across the room and lowered him onto the end of the bed. “I need you to lie down and go to sleep.”

“Paris—”

“And leave your clothes on,” he ordered, borrowing some of Jenn’s authority. “You’re freezing.”

“It’s normal.”

“I don’t think it is.” He held up the sheets and blankets for Mac. “You’re overworked, like you were that morning after guiding Icarus and Adam.”

“He’s not wrong,” Liam said as he closed the cabin door behind them. “About any of it. Go to sleep, brother. I’ll keep an eye on Paris.”

Mac’s answering glare gave Paris a measure of comfort, as did his acquiescence, the exhausted reaper finally crawling under the covers. By the time Paris was back with another blanket to throw over him, he was snoring. With Mac tucked in and warm, Paris closed his eyes to recenter himself, breathing in the scents of life in the cabin—the vases full of wildflowers, the bread he’d made yesterday, the lingering scent of fresh paint.

“You should sleep too,” Liam said from where he was crouched in front of the fire, stoking it back to life.

Paris righted his head and flexed his fingers. “I need to paint while the giant is fresh in my head. I don’t want to forget any details.” This giant looked nothing like the one who’d taken him. He was big, bulky, and bald, and there were more things to distinguish him. Hazel eyes that weren’t quite the same size, eyelashes so thick they looked kohl-lined, a birthmark in front of one ear, a tattoo inside one wrist.

He grabbed his paints and brushes and the wooden platter he’d repurposed as a palette and stood in front of the freshly repainted wall, close to the light of the fire.

Liam appeared at his side a couple minutes later. “Here,” he said, offering Paris a mug of steaming tea. “For your stomach. I know that drive wasn’t easy on you.” Liam, bless him, had sped down the mountain so fast Paris’s stomach was left somewhere back there on the winding road.

“I wouldn’t have told you to slow down, no matter how sick I felt.”

“I know.” He glanced Mac’s direction as he lowered onto the couch, the concern in his gaze the same that thrummed through Paris. “Thank you for that and for helping him. He couldn’t have done that today without you.”

“Or without you.”

“I wish he’d let me do more.”

“I know,” Paris said, parroting Liam’s earlier response. He swiped his brush through the brown and green paint and started the mural with the giant’s eyes. “Your aura is pure indigo. Empathy, according to the witches.”

“You can read auras?” Back to Liam, Paris couldn’t see his eyes, but by the tone of his voice, he bet they were wide.

“It started with Mac’s, then today I could see Abigail’s, and now yours. I’ve been working with the witches to understand what I’m seeing. Still not sure on the who or the why yet.”

He worked more on the outline of the giant’s face—a larger than average forehead, a square, clean-shaven jaw, a crooked nose that had been broken multiple times. The silence was comfortable, Liam’s presence familiar, but conversation helped keep the fear at bay. “Can there be two reapers at once?” Paris asked.

“Everyone in our family can sense the souls.”

Paris glanced over his shoulder. “About five minutes into the trek, I started hearing the voices and a split second later, youKraa’ed.” His attempt to mimic their call drew a welcome chuckle out of Liam.

“I heard them too,” he said, but then sobered, gaze straying again to where Mac was curled on his side in bed. “We can all sense them because both our parents were reapers. Our mother was the reaper for her tribe, our father from his Celtic ancestors’ clan, but when they mated, the lines were joined, and there can only be one reaper from a line who crosses between the planes. I watch and learn and do what I can to help on this one whenever he’ll let me.”

“It’ll be you next?” Paris asked as he turned back to the wall.

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