Page 49 of Paris and the Reaper

“It’s dangerous, thin veil, we know the drill, brother.”

“This is different,” Mac insisted. “The giants are going to try and open it this year. All the way.”

“They try every year.”

“This isdifferent.” His family took their role as stewards of the land and souls seriously, but he needed them to understand that it was beyond serious this time. That Chaos was pressing harder and was closer than ever.

“He’s not exaggerating,” Liam said. “What we’ve seen this past month...” He shook his head. “We haven’t had a fight like this on our hands since the Rift.”

“Which we lost ground in,” Mac said. “We’re more powerful this time, but so is Chaos.”

His mother came around the island and pushed between them, her arms around their waists, hugging them both. “We’ll keep it small, then. Only family and folks who work with us here.”

“Mom.”

“It’s tradition.” Mostly from his father’s Gaelic roots, but his mother’s people also celebrated, giving thanks for the harvest and honoring the souls they’d delivered. “But we will also stand guard, over our harvest, our plane, and our family.”

Mac could live with that compromise. He dropped a kiss on the crown of her head. “Thank you,” he said. “I can’t go into this worrying about you and also having to protect him.”

She tipped her head back, her dark brows waggling. He’d opened the door with a slip of his words, and she wasn’t going to let it go this time.

“You might as well tell them,” Rena said. “They know.”

“Know what?” Declan said.

“That you’ve bonded again,” his father replied as he tucked the garlic bread into the other oven. “We know.”

“How?” Mac gasped.

“One, you’re in the kitchen cooking,” Rena said.

“I missed?—”

“Cooking with him?” Liam said with a knowing smile.

His mother grinned up at him. “Just because we no longer deliver the souls doesn’t mean we can’t hear them. Especially when they sing.”

“I didn’t want to tell you, in case?—”

“In case what happens with Hank happens again.” She let go of Liam so she could turn fully to him, hugging him tight. “I’m happy for you, son.”

“But I don’t think I’ll survive it when my other half is torn away again.” Paris was still on his list; there was no erasing or taking that back. And he’d gone and made himself seen, a blinking target for the giants and for anyone who wanted a piece of his father’s empire. He was the center of the storm—and of Mac’s world.

His mother patted his chest, over the spot where his bond with Paris lived. “When the time comes, your soul will get what it deserves.”

“What does that mean?”

“We didn’t just retire, son,” his father said. “My name appeared on your mother’s list.”

Mac jolted, having to use his mother to catch his wavering weight. “What?” He’d been told his parents chose to retire, that they’d handed him the reaper title because they’d decided to create life rather than ferry it elsewhere.

Not this.

How had they even survived?

His mother shuffled him to the stool beside his father, the two of them making sure he was steady. Good thing as she continued to deliver blow after blow. “Nature came to us and gave us a choice. We’d done enough. She’ll give you the same choice.”

“Why didn’t I get a choice last time?” he asked, voice cracking with pain and regret, all of it washing back up, a tsunami of memories. Hank’s name appearing, the bond between them fraying, then later that same night, a phone call asking him to come identify a body. Hank’s lifeless frame in the morgue, in his arms, the bond between them severed for good as he’d taken Hank’s soul across the veil, delivering it to the peace it deserved.He’d never known pain like that day before or since. Had cast love aside, never wanting to feel that sort of agony again, until Paris Cirillo had grabbed hold and made him his.

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