Page 59 of Reaper's Quest

I could count on one hand the number of children we’d seen since our arrival. And as for any afflicted, statistics suggested they existed in high quantities. Considering the numbers we’d encountered, many were likely kept indoors or hidden from us.

Strangely enough, not all afflicteds appeared on the list of reapings, and not all tasked reapings ended up being afflicteds. Some of our attempted collections looked perfectly normal, and yet they too remained (presently) unreapable. They also yelled or fought back a lot more.

The day had already stretched too long, filled with trial and error, and dinner time remained hours away. I exerted extensive effort to prevent my limbs from dragging in front of Chace as hunger and exhaustion haunted me.

We turned a corner, our seventh of the day, and found ourselves facing an afflicted human…as if my thoughts of them staying hidden had forced her to materialize. The zombified woman stood…or swayed…in the middle of the otherwise empty street.

“Let’s get this over with,” Chace grumbled.

I reached for my compacted scythe clipped across the back of my belt in the form of a short, fat baton. One hard shake, and the baton expanded to full form—a tall, menacing sickle.

The scythe was a tool, not a weapon. One designed to open the door between worlds so that a reaper might usher the departing soul through to the beyond. Other tools existed in our arsenal, but the scythe ranked as the most well-known and popularized.

In a false sort of way, but whatever.

Over the last few days, we had both tried our collection’s eye and reaper’s grip, neither granting us any success.

Based on the flash Chace and I had witnessed at the time of Aldine’s incident, we had come to the conclusion that our elder had likely tried to use the collection’s eye. Therefore, until we knew if the issue rested in the collection or Aldine’s flawed attempt, we proceeded with extra caution as to when and with whom we attempted to use that particular tool. Never with an individual in a zombie-like state.

I sliced the scythe through the air, and the thin, shimmering line of the crossover door for the summoned soul appeared.

“Now.” My voice sounded breathy, overused.

For hours, we’d attempted failed reap after failed reap, and my fuel level now ran low.

A success…just one…would go a long way to reenergize my spirit. And so far, we’d experienced none.

Chace shoved the target forward. The afflicted citizen stumbled over and through the dimensional cut, then she appeared on the other side. Unchanged. Neither dead nor really alive. A handful of seconds later, the door to the underworld sealed shut with a soft sizzle.

Wiping his brow, Chace braced his body against the side of a nearby building and bowed his head, gasping for breath. He didn’t complain—he never did—but exhaustion showed in his movements, and I knew he felt as tired as I did. Possibly more. He’d started his day looking haggard, like he hadn’t gotten much sleep.

After last night, and our rooftop exchange, maybe he hadn’t.

Slumber hadn’t come easily for me with my insides heated and roiling. Had he felt the same? I found the prospect of exploring the reason behind his possible restless night somewhat alluring.

“Did it work?” he asked.

“No.” I expelled a moan, and my stomach growled. “How about we take a break? We could go back to the pub, grab a quick nibble, and return to the task a bit more refreshed.”

A vision of weighted despair, Chace pushed away from the wall, stood straight, and tipped his head back, raking his fingers through his sweat-streaked hair.

And…with thoughts revisiting moments from the previous night…I allowed my gaze to wander, lingering in places… I rather relished the way his damp shirt clung to his muscular body.

At that moment, I couldn't recall why our families clashed or why he irritated me so.

His hooded gaze shifted to me. “Are you sure you’re doing it right?”

And…just like that, I remembered.Prick.

“I know what I’m doing. I’m not some newb.” My response exploded free before I could stop myself.

If my words could bite, they would now chew chunks of his flesh.

His glower only served to reinforce my state of mind. With a tiny huff, I averted my gaze. My action would never equal a concession by any means. I merely couldn’t stand to look at his contemptuous face any longer without wanting to punch him.

Holding my scythe at my side, I peered down the road in the direction of the pub. My stomach continued to rumble,but I did my best to ignore the complaints. I would not go in search of food and give Chace the opportunity or satisfaction of calling me a quitter.

With my shoulders squared and my free hand propped on my hip, I counted to fifty, then I glanced back at him.