a short story in the Reaper Girl Universe
by Erin Zarro
I gazed down at the sleeping child in front of me. She lay in a bed surrounded by colorful pillows and covered by an equally colorful comforter that looked heavy and comfortable.
She, however, looked anything but comfortable.
She had one of those oxygen things poked up into her nostrils, an IV in one arm, and what looked like a catheter from the bag that hung down from the bedside.
This child was sick.
Her pale face and dull blond hair told me that she’d been in the hospital for a while.
“She looks so peaceful, Ariana,” my mother, the infamous Grim Reaper and private investigator, Leliel Ashton, said softly.
“But she’s dying,” I protested. “How can she be peaceful?”
“There’s a kind of peace that comes with death. And with the reaping of the soul,” Mom said, glancing at me and holding my gaze. “This soul will need you when it’s time. You must be ready.”
I frowned. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready, Mom.”
She’d hammered this death stuff on me for fifteen years. It felt like the world’s biggest burden and not my life’s work.
I loved to paint. Maybe giving life to new creation offset the fact that I was basically a death angel. The beauty in creating something from nothing felt more like my life’s work than anything.
Mom’s jaw dropped. “You can’t mean that, Ariana.”
I was saved from having to explain that by my dad, the great empath and PI, Rick Ashton, hurrying into the room, looking like he had been on the wrong side of a tornado.
“Hey, my two favorite girls.” He smiled at us both. “Sorry I’m late. Had to work overtime.”
Mom kissed him, full on the lips, and he kissed her back. I tried not to puke. They were always doing that. “You’re just in time. Ari doesn’t want to reap souls.”
I held up a hand before my dad could get upset. “Wait a sec. I said I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be ready, not that I don’t want to.” I shot my mom a withering look. How could that have been misinterpreted?
“Leliel, remember, Ari hasn’t been doing it for over three hundred years like you. She’s a regular kid, going to school and doing regular kid things. Naturally she won’t be jumping up and down to reap her first soul.” He glanced at the child in the bed and frowned. “Which I understand is imminent.”
“She will die in the next twenty-four hours,” Mom pronounced. She cast a glance my way. “This soul has been marked for you by His Highness himself. You, my dear, will reap her soul, whether you are ready or not.”
#
Mom’s words haunted me at school the next day. I swear I could feel her like a shadow walking behind me wherever I went.
I was getting the zillion books I needed for my next three classes — because who the hell wanted to traipse to her locker three times in three hours? — when my best friend Lacey approached me, all smiles.
“He asked you out?” I said, slamming my locker door. I swear it echoed through the crowded hall, even though there were kids everywhere, yelling and talking and chasing each other. Yeah, some of them were still ten, apparently. A few teachers stood outside their classrooms, watching everything.
Lacey grinned. “Yes! Tonight. For coffee.”
Lacey and Dan have been dancing around dating for the past six months. It was nice to know that it was finally happening.
I smiled and headed for Art, which we had together. My absolute favorite. Lacey hated it. She says she doesn’t have an artsy bone in her body, but it had sounded easy. She was wrong. “Congrats. What’re you going to wear?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” she replied thoughtfully, playing with the zipper on her backpack. She launched into a monologue about her options in vivid detail. I tried to keep up, but Mom’s words returned to me.
You have to be ready.
The bell rang, bringing me back to the present.
I took my seat in the back and pulled my easel in front of me, studying it for the hundredth time.
My painting was of the Underworld, with dull colors, barren trees tipped with human fingers. Blood rivers. A fine mist that covered everything. I’d been there as a baby, as I was the first born, not immortal, Reaper baby. My parents had had me blessed and dedicated into service, but I didn’t remember any of it. But the image was so vivid that I wondered if, somehow, I did.
I’d read on the internet that a child’s memories didn’t develop until after the age of two. But then again, I wasn’t a human child.
Apparently, Reapers bred true, which meant that even with a human empath father, I was still fully a Reaper. Thanks, Mom. Being chained to dead people and the Underworld sounded like a great career.
The din of kids talking and laughing settled down as our teacher, Miss Thompson, walked in. She was young, with wild hair and makeup and a take-no-prisoners attitude that I really adored. I so wanted to be her when I grew up.
Lacey leaned in close to me, eying my painting. This was the first time I’d let her see it. “What is that? It looks like someone’s nightmare.”
I smiled. It sort of did. “I’m not sure. Just an image I have in my head. Maybe I dreamed it.”
“I like the understated colors,” she said.
“So do I,” I said.
“Today, you’re going to work with a partner,” Miss Thompson said with a smile. “You’ll discuss each other’s work, critique, and try to help each other identify what exactly what the other is trying to say. I’ll choose your partners.”
Crap. No one knew about my origins. And according to Mom, I had to keep it that way. Even the police, who my parents worked with to solve cases, didn’t know. To them, she was just a psychic and a Tarot card reader.
Lacey would accept anything I said, but I wasn’t sure about anyone else. What if someone figured out that I wasn’t painting an imaginary place?
“Becky, you can be Jonathan’s partner. Tim, you can be Ariana’s partner,” Miss Thompson said.
Double crap. Tim was nice, but he was also the brooding, depressed-poet type. Of anyone, he’d guess there was another meaning because he felt so deeply and looked beyond the surface.
I watched helplessly as Lacey moved to join Amelie, a happy-go-lucky, very shallow girl who’d probably taken this class for the same reason as Lacey was.
Tim sat down in Lacey’s vacated chair and set his easel down, giving me a small smile. There were circles under his eyes today.
A glance at his easel revealed…nothing. It was blank.
“Tim?” I said quietly, not wanting to alert Miss Thompson. “What’s up with that?”
Tim smiled wider this time. “It’s a statement. An empty page…an empty life.” He folded his arms across his chest, daring me to protest.
This might be easier than I thought. If I focused on him completely, maybe he wouldn’t see my painting or question it.
“You have an empty life?” I asked, meeting his eyes. They were like endless pools of blue flecked with gold. Pretty, I realized. I’d never paid much attention to his eyes.
He shook his head, averting his gaze from mine. “Not really. I mean…I’m happy…” He swallowed and looked at me again. “Okay, fine. I’m not exactly jumping for joy. My parents are divorcing. I’m flunking out of school. This is a stupid waste of time.”
I sympathized. So many people I knew were having similar issues. But… “This is the perfect time to paint. It’s really cathartic. Is there something you wish you could say but can’t?”
His eyes widened a fraction. “I’m, uh, angry. At them, at school, at myself…everything.” He shrugged and glanced at his easel. “How do I do this?” Then he glanced at mine, and my heart gave a flip of distress. “Yours looks cool. What are you trying to say, Ari?”
And then it happened.
The Call. Mom had spoken of it. You felt the call; you didn’t hear it.
I had to go. Now.
If I waited too long, the dissonance pain would hit. Mom said it was like the worst migraine ever and steadily got worse until a soul was reaped.
But…
I met Tim’s gaze and swallowed. Surely a few minutes wouldn’t hurt. Just enough to finish our conversation. “I have this image in my head. I think it might be a manifestation of my fears.” That sounded right; I feared the entire reaping process. I feared it taking over my life. I feared that I’d stop being a normal teenager the moment I reaped my first soul.
“Oh?” Tim rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah, I can see that. The mist is your fear covering everything, even the good.”
“There is no good,” I said. “That’s the thing. Everything I see is dark.”
Tim grinned. “Maybe you’re a dark soul. And it’s coming out through your art.” His fingers brushed across the bottom of the page, as if he wanted to touch it but couldn’t bring himself to. “It’s beautiful.”
“I’m not so sure,” I said.
No pain yet. If I could wait just a bit longer…oh, who was I kidding? I wasn’t going anywhere. I was terrified, and I was enjoying this conversation. It’d be all sorts of awkward to leave because of a vague “migraine.”
“There is beauty in the dark,” Tim said, his eyes still on my painting.
I glanced at his empty easel. “And is there beauty in emptiness?”
He frowned. “I guess not. What do you suggest I paint?”
“Anything that moves you,” I said. I kept waiting for the pain, but it didn’t come. Could the dissonance pain be a myth to keep us in line?
His eyes narrowed. “Lots of things move me. But, if I were to choose one, it’d be a sunset. With all sorts of colors, and the clouds edged in golden light, and…” He picked up a brush, then chuckled. “Wow, it’d help if I had the paints mixed.” He went in search of his colors.
“Totally.”
Man, I loved this. Talking art to a fellow artist. A guy even. Letting my worries go for just a bit. Being normal.
He came back, an impish smile on his face. “Want to help me mix these?”
“I’d love to.”
We dug into that, and soon we had all his colors figured out and mixed. His painting was going to be gorgeous.
“Maybe start with the colors in the sky?” he asked, biting his lip. “I’m terrified to screw this up.”
“You can always paint over it. Start with pink,” I suggested.
He dipped his paintbrush into the pink paint and held it up. “Here goes.”
And then the pain hit.
It was like a lightning bolt straight to my gray matter. An electrical charge that I swear went through my entire body. And then searing, ripping pain.
I bit back a scream.
Apparently, it wasn’t a myth.
And there was no way I could ignore this. I had to get to the hospital, and quickly.
I thought I heard Tim’s voice, but nothing made sense.
“Ari? Are you okay?”
That finally got through.
Shaking myself back to the present, I said, “You know what? I need to go. I’m not feeling well.”
“What’s wrong?” Tim asked, looking at me closely.
“Migraine,” I said. I gathered my stuff and approached Miss Thompson. “I’m sorry, but I need to go home.”
Miss Thompson looked up from the papers she was studying, her eyes narrowing. “Something wrong? You look pale.”
The pain made it almost impossible to think straight, but I tried. “I-I have a migraine. I, um, g-get them on occasion,” I said. I hated lying. Then again, soon it wouldn’t be a lie. The pain filled every bit of my being and struck my nerves like a hammer. Vertigo assaulted me, and I grabbed hold of her desk so I wouldn’t fall.
“Oh, dear. Okay, well, go to the nurse’s office. Do you need someone to walk with you?”
I shook my head, and that only made it worse. I didn’t want to go, but I’d probably be stopped in the hallway and it’d be best to just do it properly…if I didn’t pass out first. “No, I’ll be fine. If I get too dizzy, I’ll sit down till it passes. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Feel better, Ariana,” Miss Thompson said, but I was already halfway out the door.
I went to the nurse’s office, where the nurse made me lie down with a warm compress on my head, and the pain got worse. I was able to convince her to let me sign out without calling my parents, who worked during the day anyway. She made me promise to go straight home.
I hated lying.
At last, I was free.
Once I got to the parking lot, I called a taxi.
In ten minutes, I was at the hospital.
I took the elevator and practically ran to the child’s room. The parents weren’t there, thankfully.
But the machines were blaring.
Flatline.
Where were the nurses? Didn’t they have machines at their stations to alert them of this stuff when it happened?
I’ve halted time to give you a moment to decide, a voice said in my head. I knew it was His Highness, our superior and ruler of the Underworld. What you decide will ripple throughout eternity.
The child’s soul called to me. It was preparing to leave her body. And if I didn’t reap it — do my freaking duty — her soul would be stuck in a horrific limbo forever.
Because of me.
Because I was afraid.
The dissonance pain lit a fire in my head and eyes. I was blind; all I could see was bright white light.
I had to do it.
And I found that I couldn’t. Even with the pain riding me, I was still afraid.
I wanted to be in Art class with Tim, talking about how to say things through paint on an easel. I wanted to look into his eyes and maybe understand him.
I wanted him to understand me, not as a Reaper, but as a fellow being of this earth. I wanted to walk home with Lacey and hang out and eat ice cream sandwiches.
I wanted to feel the sunlight on my face and not feel The Call.
Or the threat of dissonance pain.
The whine of the flatline cut into my thoughts, and I glanced at the child again. No rise and fall of her chest; her eyes looked up at nothing.
She was too, too pale.
I could walk away now.
I’d be in massive pain, maybe even have a stroke, but I didn’t have to reap a soul. I could go down to the Underworld and undedicate myself. Shame my mother.
But I wouldn’t ever have to do this.
I wouldn’t have to hold a soul and deliver it to the Underworld. I wouldn’t have to live this crazy life.
I could be free. I could live the life I wanted…be a normal teenager…create art.
I was just about to step forward, toward the door, when I saw my mother through the light. Her eyes narrowed, and she frowned.
She knew.
I shrugged.
She turned around and put her face in her hands.
You’ll shame me, she was saying. You’ll ruin your life, too. Is this what you want?
Time ticked down.
His Highness would start time up again.
My chance would be lost.
Her soul called to me, and it was beautiful. I couldn’t let it go to a horrible limbo. I couldn’t let that beauty be lost.
Every day I painted, I created something of beauty. This mattered.
This child’s soul mattered, too, and I had to reap it. Simple as that.
My life would change, but maybe not completely. Maybe I could still be mostly human while doing my duty.
Taking a deep breath, I did as my mother had taught me from a young age.
I leaned forward and kissed the little girl.
Her soul, so pure and warm, edged in gold, flowed into my mouth. It was exhilarating, amazing, the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen —and felt — in my entire life.
It was a perfect soul.
And she needed me to take her home.