Preface

I am Death, and have existed for time immemorial. 

Call me Reap. 

I took this idea–the idea to write my stories down–from a soul I took recently. He was a semi-decent typist that managed about sixty words per minute and spent more time backspacing than writing complete sentences, but watching him type was the same as watching Picasso wield a brush (and I would know, I was Goya–it was the best vacation I’ve ever taken). 

These days I don’t often get my hands dirty. The powers-that-be decided to “outsource” my job to the lesser faces of our race and reserve me for those…magical…moments. The ones that annihilate half or more of any given species within the cosmos. Mass extinctions, nuclear holocausts…you get it. These days the powers-that-be hold the court’s favor, so that means I. Am. Bored.

Constantly.

So I picked up a new habit; one I know the powers-that-be would approve of: I’ve become their proverbial rat-catcher.

Which brings us full circle to the current situation. The writer’s creativity in language was superb, nearly Shakespearean (who was also a great lay, by the way), but it was what he was penning that we’d been dispatched for. What he’d done to those girls…and what he did after…

Good writing…terrible content. We took our time with him, and while the dogs worked their way from toes to teeth, I—hang on…

Romulus requests that I specify they dislike the use of the word “dogs”, and only let me by with it grudgingly. Right…moving on.

As the hounds tore into Chaucer (who, point of fact, was not a great lay, by the way), I read through the miscreant’s prosaic reimaginings of his past misdeeds. I knew all of it to be patently false, but vividly rendered into a pretty amazing story of a hero ridding the world of one alien at a time, sinisterly hidden in the bodies of beautiful women. 

Utter dogshit in rose petal icing, but it gave me an idea. I’ve harvested so many souls, each one so unique that snowflakes make more copies than the life of one human, that I could compose them into one long, cohesive story.

And I’ll start with the writer…

James (or: Sweets in Crimson)

Rain smattered the pavement in thick, dime-sized globules. The light of streetlamps glittered electric as those thick droplets collapsed in on themselves, their impact with the city pavement both brilliant and kaleidoscopic. The rain to an entity like myself is nothing more than a cool fog caressing the cheeks. It wrapped me up like a cool blanket as I fished the piece of fabric from the storm drain. 

It was satin, with pretty pink prints of pugs on it…our girl was whimsical, and explained why James Mazure had targeted her. His story was about as sad as you’d expect. Raised by an inattentive and verbally abusive mother. No father figure in sight. Just him and his mother and her words.

But no matter what words are said to a person, even when those words are coupled with acts that the word “no” should stifle, it’s no excuse to exact that pain on another. I had a soft spot for James, it’s true, because he was a victim of his past. 

Simultaneously, his victims were the product of that same past, and their innocence should have kept them free from his pursuit. Yet here I was, running my thumb over soaked satin with finer dots of crimson showing where James had been less than nice to her. Two primordial beasts warred inside me. The side that craved life, that envied those who lived, and the side that craved destruction, to dismantle the things that brought disharmony to Eden.

I closed my eyes and listened. From the satin I hear their voices. James asking Bree (which was short for Brianna, a childhood nickname her father had given her) if she needs a ride, that the rain’s coming on stronger and he’s headed her direction anyway. The reluctance in her tone, the alertness in her instinct screaming to avoid this person. Her trusting nature wins out, a curse of her mother’s, and she relents. He makes small talk, asking about where she’s from, if she’s a local, expertly dodging the suspicion that he’s asking all the right questions for a kidnapping.

I hear her panicked cries, and the locks of the vehicle slam down, when I drop the fabric in the puddle at my feet.

I’ve seen everything in my immortality; the best and the worst. 

Let me tell you, what James did to that girl…to all those girls…is some of the worst I've ever experienced.

I retreated to the safety of a nearby awning, shaking out the rain that coated my body in a wet kimono, and fished my phone from inside my tweed peacoat. I dialed Romulus. He answered on the second ring. 

“Yes, Rabbta?” The Ur-Barra preferred my aramaic honorific over the more modernized mistress. 

“Rom, we’re needed.” I looked down at my watch. “Meet me at Orzo’s in a half hour. Remus and Rome as well.”

“Yes, Rabbta.” 

The receiver clicked on the other end of the line, and I knew Romulus was gone. I hurried off to Orzo’s, knowing that the hounds would be there within the next ten minutes. I made it there in five, ordered the four of us coffees, then waited. Like clockwork, the triplets rounded the corner as a pack, Remus and Rome flanking Romulus. 

The two siblings were half a head shorter than Romulus, and were sizing up the sparse customer base of this little greek hole in the wall, and they smiled as they saw me. I smiled inwardly at their attempts to impress their pack leader. Rome nudged Romulus and cracked a joke, canting his head toward the aging owners. Remus leaned behind Romulus and shoved Rome, who nearly collided with a silver haired crone who I knew to be reading an erotic novel disguised as a mystery thriller. She jumped as Rome entered her personal space, then gave the man a sultry smirk as she took in the full view of him in her bubble. He was cute, in that boyish way boys are cute. Like, the kind you’d keep around for their energy and eagerness to please, but immediately kick them out when they try discussing their Pokemon card collection like it’s a solid Wall Street play.

Rome blushed, catching the pheromones pouring from the old woman’s body, and immediately looked the other way to avoid breathing them in. Knowing Rome, he wouldn’t have passed up the opportunity to bed silver-fox had I not been the one to call them here. 

Good Boy.

“Gentlemen!” I called to them warmly, raising both arms in a wide greeting, “fancy seeing you here! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Could we speed this along, Rabbta?” Remus asked in his usual politely-impolite way, “I’m in the middle of something.”

Rome rolled his eyes. “He just started a documentary about surviving in Siberia and one of the guys in it is showing him how to build slalom skis.” Remus looked up sharply at his brother. Rome shrugged as he sat down, wide-eyed and innocent.

I raised a mocking eyebrow. “Planning to get in some winter hunting, comrade?” Remus blushed and said nothing more. 

“Rabbta,” Romulus said sharply, drawing the eyes of his brothers back onto the task at hand, “we were summoned.” It wasn’t a question, but I was used to Romulus’...peculiarities.

I sighed heavily; sometimes they were no fun. “Okay then, to business…I caught a scent.”

The three brothers perked up. “Your quarry?” Remus asked. I nodded, and he continued. “Where?”

“Six blocks south of here,” I said between blowing on my coffee. Two breaths was enough; anymore and it would turn into a solid block of ice. “A small piece of her shift…she had good taste in undergarments.”

“Mother…” Rome said grimly, his face going sour, “do you have to–”

“I know,” I said, raising both hands in supplication, “I know…the drawback of a job performed too long.” It wasn’t cynicism, per se…but it was damn sure close. 

“We understand,” Remus cut in, but said no more. He didn’t need to.

I stuck to the details. “I pulled it from the storm drain, listened to the whispers, and caught a whiff of salt…and wind.”

“The pier?” Romulus asked, eyes narrowed.

“That’s what I’m thinking. It’s been abandoned since the Northern Wars, so it would be the perfect place to set up for the kind of sport our friend enjoys.” Rome’s face soured again, and I winced inside. He was the runt of the pack, and had the least taste for what they did. He only did it for his love of me, and for the love of his brothers and their love of me. I reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “And the perfect place for my boys to give these girls back some of their dignity.”

Rome took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. His pained look vanished as the young waitress came to take our order. She was the reason I preferred this location to meet the triplets; Rome was infatuated with her. 

“Hi Callista!” Rome said brightly, folding his hands in his lap and smiling. 

She smiled back. “Hello Rome! The usual?”

The triplets nodded, each of them growing excited in their own unique way. Romulus’ eyebrows arched slightly, Remus pounded the table lightly, and Rome rubbed his Hands together and licked his lips. 

My boys…

Callista bounced away to put in their rare steak orders, seasoned with Orzo’s special spice blend, and one medium-rare for myself. It really was the best steak in the city. The best in the world, actually, and was made by a small Greek man who couldn’t read and had an extra thumb on his left hand. I contributed this small mistake on Eden’s part as the strength behind the weakness, that the extra digit somehow made his hands magical. It was why I preferred to bring peace to the people of Eden over all other worlds, too: how could the powers that be, who showed favoritism to those they cursed, be wrong in giving such special and unique gifts to this one world alone? I knew I had to help keep it safe, and because of that need, I went on.

“We have another twenty-four hours before he goes to ground again, based on the whispers,” I could hear them even now, the halting, breathless excitement as James splashed a little more paint across his gristly canvas. “Then we’ll lose him for another year.”

James killed in threes: a maiden, a mother, a crone. Always in that order. He needed a crone to complete this year’s set.

Romulus poured water from his glass into his coffee cup to cool down its contents, then drained the mug in one long gulp. He sat the cup down, taking a little extra effort to get the handle of it exactly parallel with the table’s edge, then spoke. “The pier has a lot of dark corners, Rabbta.”

I knew what he meant. I wiped my hands on my napkin, making sure to get as much of the scent from them as possible, then casually slid it across the table. Romulus picked it up and closed his eyes. He held the fabric under his nostrils and stilled. “Mechanical grease,” he began, eyebrows flicking at each new fragrance. “Lead paint. Formica…” his face twisted suddenly in disgust, “Is that…cotton candy?”

I could hear James’ smacking in my head. “It’s his favorite post-coital treat.” I said grimly.

Rome’s color shifted to an unnatural green, while Remus’ turned a dark crimson. “When do we leave, mother?” Remus asked stonily.

“As soon as we’ve finished our steaks,” I said brightly as Callista walked up with our plates. I pointed deliberately at each of them. “Eat! This is the only meat you’ll be dining on tonight.”

Romulus tried to hide his excitement. “So the quarry isn’t to be a meal?”

“No.” I assured him, and I could even hear the edge in my own tone. “No, tonight our quarry is to be an example.”