A Shadow in the Reaping

How wild of you, burning bras, I write.

"I am a progressive Reaper," he replies, and his deadpan tone makes my smile grow even wider.

Yes, I really gathered that when you asked if Andy Cartwright wanted to mate with me. 

My smile fades as his expression grows dark and menacing. I see the flash of bright flame in his eyes as Ashen looks away, first to the fountain, then the floor, then the cauldron. Basically anywhere but me.

"We should go," he says. The black smoke swirls from our feet and climbs our legs. He reaches out his hand before it's enveloped by the rising fog, but he doesn't meet my eyes. I lay my palm against his and follow him to the cauldron.

I still feel the rising tide of panic. I still hear the voices of the village. My heart thrums and my breath quickens. I cover my ears and Ashen pulls me into an embrace. It seems tighter than before, and when we arrive at the other side and I recover my breath, it feels like he doesn't want to let go. But he does, and he keeps his eyes away from mine on the long walk to his room.

When we get there, Ashen leaves for a short while to get some food, bringing back a bottle of wine and two glasses. We sit for a long time in silence as we read through the texts from the library. He has wisely given me the werewolf book while he keeps the vampire one to himself.

I read a bit about Semyon's ancestry in Russia, but it's nothing entirely surprising. He's old. He killed his way to power. He's had family come and go, children living and dying. The werewolves may technically be immortals, but they often fight such vicious battles amongst themselves that they don't stick around too long. I guess he's a little unusual in that way; he's more ancient than most. The earliest references date to about my time, before the Romans, before the Greeks, when the Sumerians still held power in the fertile valley of the Tigris and Euphrates.

I reach over for my glass of wine from the side table next to my chair. I'm feeling a little worn out by this day, even though Ashen's blood still hums in my veins. When I look up he's watching me from his chair, his book splayed across his lap in the same pose as the night before.

What? I write, and spin the note on the table between us so he can see it.

"The angel said the wolves need one like you. What do you think he meant?"

I don't know. Someone badass and cool?

"No. That's not it."

Someone that has angel rabies?

"Not that either."

I have a feeling joking around isn't going to get me very far. He's been in a dark and humourless mood since I mentioned Andy Cartwright, so I guess I need to take a different approach.

You seem to know, so why don't YOU tell ME.

Ashen sighs and closes his book, setting it down on the side table before he takes a long sip of his wine and then sets that down too.

"You are obviously an ancient soul. You don't know who your maker is."

So what? And thanks for telling me I'm old. Yeesh.

"All vampires know who their maker is."

I'm not all vampires. I spin my note to face him and give him a death stare when he meets my eyes. He leans forward in a challenge.

"Precisely my point.”

I burst from my chair like it's on fire, even though I have no place to go. Fuck it, I'll hang out in the bathroom if I have to. I'll hide there until I can figure out a way to flush myself down the toilet to freedom all Shawshank style. He’s in hard pursuit of my history now and I knew it, I just knew he'd start digging at me sooner or later. I've been fooling myself into believing otherwise. I've convinced myself that he cares enough for me to let it go.

I was wrong.

I sweep my pen and journal off the table and start marching toward the bathroom when Ashen grabs my arm.

"Why do you not want to tell me? What is it that frightens you so much about telling me who you are and where you came from?" he asks, letting go when I rip my arm away.

I scratch my pen with fury across a fresh page. The tip nearly pierces the paper by the end. Are you fucking serious? 

I have such an urge to use my voice. It would explain so much, just a word or two. It would put everything into perspective for Ashen. He would finally understand. And then he would rush right out of his room and find his sister, or the new guy Cole that needs some kills under his belt, or pretty much anyone to do the reaping for him. So I clamp my mouth shut and give him the death stare to end all death stares. But as is sometimes the way with frustration and anger and hurt that you bury deep, I feel the swell of enraged tears burning in my eyes.

Christ, I fucking HATE IT when this happens.

I swallow down the knot in my throat and focus on the wavering sheet of paper in my hands.

The less you know about me, the less chance I'll have of one day being chained to your doors, or pulling your carriages, or wandering alone as nothing more than a fucking ghost in the library. The fucking LIBRARY, where you would celebrate my name beneath yours as another great kill for the glory of House Urbigu on your polished marble slab. Then you would just forget whatever it is I did to wind up reaped in the first place. Before long you'd forget who I was or what I could have meant to you. I'd be just another specter that either does your bidding or wails in the fog or stands like a pitiful shell of a soul in the corner somewhere. Well, fuck that shit, Reaper. Fuck. That. SHIT. 

I tear the page from the journal and slap it to Ashen's chest, not waiting to watch his reaction when he starts to read. I push past him and skirt around the bed, sitting on the edge and whacking my journal down on those fucking luxurious sheets that I wish I could hate but I can't. They're just so fucking great.

I press my palms to my eyes and try to swallow the lump that just keeps getting bigger with every breath I take. I decide I can't sit on these ridiculous sheets a second longer and I erupt from the bed like lava, smacking my face right into the Reaper's chest. He catches my arms and spins me away from the bed, pressing my back to the wall. I can tell by his grip I could pull away and he would let me, but I don't want to, and I don't want to think about why.

"You are not only a particularly acerbic vampire, but a dramatic one as well," Ashen says as his eyes brighten with flame. The scent of unsmoked tobacco and mint and ink fills my senses. Part of me wants to hiss right in his fucking Reaper face but I see something more than just frustration in his eyes as they land on my lips. "You are hiding in that strange little town. You don't want me to know where you belong among your clan. Do you think I didn't already figure out long ago that you must have done something for which you could be punished? Has it not then occurred to you I have never harmed you? That I've sought to protect you?"

Well dang. So much for hiding in plain sight. He probably thinks I told a human I was a vampire, and hence I'm on the run. But there is a big difference between telling some bloodbags that immortals exist and, you know, killing a fucking Reaper.