A Shadow in the Reaping

House Urbigu looms ahead in the fog, and we dart up the pathway framed by gas lamps. I catch movement on my right but it disappears into shadow before I can get a sense of how close it is. Ashen pulls my hand ahead to send me up the stairs and I turn on the landing, watching as he stops behind me.

Hellfire ripples on the silver sword as Ashen sweeps it behind him. It slices through the air above his head. “Maqlu kalusa isbura,” he says, and drives the blade down until it cuts the stone beneath his feet.

Fire spills down the stairs. It burns the fog and shadow. It pours down the path and lights the road, illuminating the crawlers that scuttle toward us from all directions. And then it coats them all in flame.

The souls twist in pain and screech their dying calls into the night of the Shadow Realm.

Memory rips through my drunken haze. My heart roars. Bile climbs my throat. I cover my ears and close my eyes. Their suffering is too much like mine. Before I can open my eyes again and force myself to witness their plight, Ashen grabs my wrist and pulls us into House Urbigu, shutting the door behind us as the souls die their final deaths outside.

“I’m sorry, Lu. I’m sorry,” Ashen says, his voice despondent as he pulls one of my hands away from my head. He threads his fingers through mine and guides us away from the door and the keening wails on the other side.

Ashen doesn't seem to relax at all as we enter the vestibule of House Urbigu. It feels like being tethered to a ticking bomb as we walk quickly past the cauldrons and through the grand hall. The sounds of the shrieking fade behind us, and by the time we reach the stairs I can’t hear them at all. When we finally enter his room, Ashen leans against the door, heaving a heavy sigh as he lets go of my hand and drops his sword. He bends his head and folds his hands across the back of the neck, his gaze locked to the floor.

For a long moment, there's only the silence of the room. There are only the things I can hear that no one else can. Heartbeats. The air in our lungs. The slow blink as Ashen presses his eyes closed. I sense the worry and fear battle the resolve within him. It’s the swell of the ocean battering a lighthouse in a storm. The weight of water behind a dam. I move closer and touch his arm. A question lingers in my expression, but he doesn't look at me. He only lowers his hand from his neck, grazing my fingers on the way down to his side.

"I need to rest," Ashen says, his voice quiet and low. He doesn't raise his head or look in my direction. I feel like something has been bruised within me. "Get some sleep, vampire."

Ashen pushes away from the door and walks past me to the bathroom. The light turns on but I hear no sounds. I watch from where I stand for a long time, waiting for a shadow beneath the door. But nothing changes. After a while, I go to the sidebar and take a long sip of whiskey from a bottle, climbing onto the bed and pulling my hair free of my bun. A few more sips and I set the bottle down on the nightstand, then lay my head on the cool caress of the pillow. I close my eyes and I dream of nothing at all.

It seems like I've only blinked when I feel something peeling from my cheek. I crack open an eye. A finger hovers in front of my face with a fake lash stuck to the tip.

"Good morning, sunshine," Ashen says.

The room is swirling around me. Someone is scraping pins across the inside of my skull and I'm ninety-nine percent sure it's Ashen. If I vomit, I'm past the point of caring.

Holy fuck I feel like death.

I push my face into the pillow as I open and close my hand in a request for my pen. I feel the cool, polished abalone slide across my palm, the journal landing open near my hand.

I uncap the pen and scrawl a note without lifting my head from the pillow. Fuck you, it says.

"Flick you? Whatever you say, vampire."

A sharp ping snaps at the exposed skin on my back. All praise to Cardi B that I still have hours left on my mutism spell because I swear I would have yelled a string of obscenities. I flail my hand around and manage to whack some part of Ashen and he lets out an oof. I try another note.

F.U.C.K. Y.O.U. 

"Oh. I see. That makes more sense."

Go. Away. 

"I'm afraid that's not possible. We need to go to Cairo and find the apothecary. Night is already falling there."

I feel like crying. I love that city, I really do. I love it so much and it's been years since I've been there. But it's loud. And my brain hurts. It physically pains me to even make thoughts. I don't know how I'm going to survive music and talking and car horns and lights. No. Hard fucking pass.

I am dead. Leave a message. BEEP, I write, and then I pull all the sheets I can grab and smoosh them to my face. He's right, they're fucking luxurious and cold and I regret I ever talked smack about his silky sex sheets.

"Come on, vampire," Ashen says, and I feel the sheets slipping through my weak grasp. I try to roll myself in them like a burrito but it's no use, so I just curl myself into a pathetic ball instead. "There's bloffee."

Sleep only. 

"There's a shower."

No hairdryer. Stinky soap. Only sleep. 

"What about a Bloody Mary."

What do you think I am, a peasant? Only Bloody Caesars are acceptable.

"Lucky for you that I went and got some Clamato in that case."

I open an eye and shoot Ashen a suspicious glare through my tangled strands of hair. He points to the nightstand and I follow his smug finger. Sure enough, there's a steaming cup of bloffee, a tall Bloody Caesar with extra blood (obvs) and a random plate of bacon. I point to the bacon and look at him with a question in the crease of my brow.

"Everyone loves bacon."

Not vegans.

"Everyone but vegans love bacon."

Fair point. 

I push myself up to a sitting position as slowly as possible. The room tilts at a disturbing angle and I reach out for whatever my fingers hit first on the nightstand. Booze it is, then.

"You look like I dragged you through the streets by your face."

What a charmer you are today. This is not one of those romantic comedies where the protagonist wakes up with perfect hair and fresh makeup, if that's what you were expecting. Although you don't have Netflix, so how would you know anything about romcom tropes, I write, taking a slice of bacon and dipping it into the Caesar.

"I have Amazon Prime Video, and Apple TV. And Disney+. On my laptop. In my bag," Ashen says, his nose crinkling as he watches me take a bite of the wet bacon.

What... the... fuck?..

"What?"

You're a Reaper. Why the hell do you have Disney+?

"I like the Mandalorian. He's... relatable. And baby Yoda is all right."

Who even are you? Did I die? I did, didn't I. I'm dead. 

"Probably not far off, all things considered," Ashen says.

I finally realize that I'm only wearing one false lash and pull it from my eye. Ashen, on the other hand, looks rested and ready to take on the world. I watch as he pushes a cufflink through the sleeve of his midnight blue shirt and I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. I'm still in last night's dress, which feels decidedly less cute now that I'm barely able to sit upright.

Did you sleep? I write, whacking Ashen's elbow with my journal to show him my note.

"Yes."

I look around the room, but I see no pillows on the floor. I smirk as I think of him sleeping while standing in the shower. I could totally see that happening.

...Where?