Page 6 of The Souls Harvest
As I lay my work on Popplewish's desk, she looks at me from behind her narrow glasses. “Playing with words won’t save you forever… July.”
The amount of knowledge required to be excellent, like Popplewish, would take its toll on anyone’s body and mind. Her face is a portrait of ancient wisdom and infinite patience. I can see it streaming like a river in the lines on her forehead when she tries to remember that she was once young and hungry for life, like I am.
But her eyes have never changed. No rims, small black irises, and soft nuances of indigo, turquoise and blue twirling in the space where the white sclera is supposed to be. Miniature galaxies behind fair lashes.
Our Harvester’s eyes and our breath - light purple, unless we’re in distress or excited - are the physical attributes that distinguish us from the Horigeans. The purer the Harvester line running within our families, the more peculiar the eyes. Mine are not thatmesmerising like hers or Galen’s. My right isjustgreen, like leaves in spring and wet frogs; my left is pomegranate-red with tiny yellow freckles and a slit pupil. Something that Horigean people recoil from, and which I prefer to keep concealed when I’m on a mission.
She sighs, ironing my papers with her hands; her eyes linger on me as I shrink, torturing the skin around my nails with my hands behind my back.
Despite my long black hair and cherry-black smirk, to her, I am still that unaware little girl that she brought to Libera when my talent manifested and freaked out my parents.
I can sense souls close to their end—or so I thought until I learned that all I experience is their final, atrocious plea for mercy as they approach the deadline Roden gave them once they’ve shaken hands, when they turned from Horigeans into Nistarei. Doomed half-souls, destined to become Roden’s precious possessions because the deals they strike are never fair.
Thisfeelingworks the same for all Reapers, but they must be told where to go and whom to look for;Ionly need to know where the Nistares lives. Not a skill a mother would be happy to share at her weekly gatherings of theI Found the Best Freaking Yeast for Cakesgroup.
I, too, once believed it abnormal and mostly unfair, as it only worked with strangers and when it wanted to. But despite my parents’ worries and long nights spent on their knees praying for my soul, I thought it was also fabulous because it made me—me.
I never feared the feeling of my mouth going dry, of my heartbeating so fast it felt like catching fire, or the shade of my breath turning dark purple, almost black in the presence of a Nistares. All I knew was the uncontrollable need to be with them in their final hours.
Until Popplewish suggested that I could collect those souls like cherries, and that I had the gift to offer some of them another chance at life.
The familiar scent of paper brings me back from my memories when Miss P. waves the report under my nose. “July? Are you even listening? You need to work on your tidiness. Remember what I said when you returned from your first mission?” Her face softens.
“Truth tastes sweeter if spoken well,” I recite.
“Your reports are always excellent. Straight to the point, no fancy descriptions of your crop, their desperate pleas, or attempts to escape. As if they willingly deliver their last kernel to you, without asking for more time to pay Roden back…”
More time.Something itches at the base of my skull.
Miss P. doesn’t seem to notice as she continues, “Neat and clean like the marks you leave on their chests when you harvest their souls.” She releases a big breath, lowering the paper onto her desk.
I chew on my lip, lost for words, as the silence grows thick between us, disturbed only by the sound of my right foot tapping uncomfortably on the shiny marble floor.
The more I hesitate, the more her glasses slide down her nose like sand in an hourglass.
“It looks like you don’t want to process the outcome of youractions and can’t wait to throw them behind you. You could be—”
“The greatest Donatore in centuries,” I interrupt her, throwing my hands up before spinning on my heel, rushing to one of the chairs behind me to hide my blushing face. I sit down, finding the floor pattern incredibly interesting as I study the dark veins of its tiles.
“What else is there to learn?” I shrug, still not making eye contact. “I’ve been doing this job for years, I know its routine by heart. Roden finds out someone cannot hold up their end of the deal. And,” - the image of the woman in green flashes behind my eyes - “that they opted for easier ways out, like using their newfound wealth to become a name in the dark market, or to work as Rogues’ hunters. I literallyburnmy way into their heart and wake up the day after like nothing happened…”
I take a breath. “I honestly still don’t understand why we’re not going after whoever is helping the Nistarei steal Rogues’ souls instead of punishing them—I mean, how did they even find out about the existence of Rogues?”
I brace my forearms on my knees, balancing the bottle on my left palm, hoping to find answers in the sloshing water.
“Punishing? July,theycome looking for us. We don’t force them.” Her voice rises, and I sink deeper in my chair. “They decided, long ago, that bargaining their souls for instant riches was better than working hard.”
My face quickly turns hot and red. If I can feel it, Popplewish can surely see it and understand the reason behind it.
I slap a hand on my thigh. “Working hard? When was the last time you visited Horigos? Not the Fields for a routine check on empty vessels, not for an official meeting with Horigean leaders—I’m talking about its suburbs, where people cannot work harder because they’ve already broken their spines over…” I swallow tears and gulp air, feeling my eyes sting. “There’s nothing left to work hard for…And the Rogues—”
I jump at the sudden noise of my report slamming on Popplewish's desk. I went too far.
I close my eyes, breathe, and slowly reopen them to assess her stance, expecting whatever sanction I called upon myself.
But all she offers is a loud sigh as if to reassure me she won’t write my name on the insubordination list. “That business is just a theory. We don’t have proof of any Rogues being captured—or worse, harvested by Horigeans. You, better than anyone else, should know.”
I hold her stare, not because I’ve stopped feeling small in her presence, but because my opinion will never sound strong if I can’t hold my head up.
