Page 7 of The Reluctant Reaper
“Amara, it pains me...”
“Does it, though?”
“Your father is dying.”
Amara yawned. Bette, who had been watching their exchange like a tennis spectator, let out an odd sound: part gasp, part groan. “Aw, jeez. That’s too bad.”
Amara sighed. “It’s just another lie. My father isn’t dying. He doesn’t even get sick. He’s never caught a cold, never mind been at death’s door.”
“Oh, now how would that work?” La Croix cried, and she almost giggled at his exasperation. “Amara. I am quite serious, and you know how ill-suited I am to that.”
“I do know,” she admitted.
“Your family needs you.”
She was already shaking her head. “It’s just another trick.”
“Amara—”
“It’s not true. And you either know it’s not true, or you’re being duped. Whichever it is, it’s not a good look for one of the Gede.”
“Amara.”
“See? This is me being unmoved.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Literally and figuratively.”
“Amara Morrigan.”
“Stop that!” she snapped. “You’re not my father, though you’re old enough. My family business is exactly that:my family. I can’t believe you’re letting my father turn you into an errand boy. Where’s all that vaunted pride?”
“It’s not about him,” he replied sharply. “I am no one’s lackey. It’s about you. Turn around.”
Amara didn’t move. Bette did, and her gasp was telling.
Don’t do it. Don’t look. If you see them, it’ll be real. If you see them, everything changes.
She looked. Where there had been a dozen deer and a baker’s dozen of vultures, now there were ravens and crows and sparrows. They weren’t flying. They were simply standing. Looking at her. Thousands of them; an inky, rustling lake covering a quarter mile.
Amara let out a slow breath. “Well, shit.”
“Indeed.”
“Fine.Fine.” She rubbed her forehead and prayed this was some sort of fever dream instead of an oncoming migraine.Best case, I’m trapped in my studio apartment with a raging temp of 106°, too weak to move, too weak to eat, losing brain cells for every degree my temp climbs... heaven!“You can buy me a meal. Later. I want to finish my shift. Actually, I want to start my shift.”
“At last!” La Croix threw his arms in the air like an impossibly tall referee proclaiming the play was good. “She sees reason.”
Amara turned away from the silent leagues of birds. “Why don’t you go buy something purple and get someone to smoke a cigarette? I’ll meet you later.”
“I do like buying purple things,” he admitted. “And watching people smoke.”
“So there you go. Okay?” She could hear the hope in her voice, but there was nothing for it. “You’re leaving? Now? Right now?”
“Now I’ve got my way? Yes indeed. But you shouldn’t be surprised. ItisMonday,” he added with a sly smile. Then he bowed to Bette again and spun on his heel, which was needlessly dramatic. If La Croix could die, that’s what she’d expect to see on his tomb:Baron La Croix, lwa of the Dead, Needlessly Dramatic.
She and Bette watched La Croix leave and, with him, the psychopomps. Their numbers blotted out the winter sun as they took wing. In seconds they were gone, a lake-sized spread of bird shit the only indicator they’d lingered for a visit.
“Jeez,” Bette breathed. “It’s like magic.”
“Exactly like magic. Gross, inconvenient magic. Also, I think I might need some time off.”
