Page 92 of Reaper's Quest

Despite the pit of darkness that hung within the Killian’s hood, I thought I detected a smirk. Of course, I could have been imagining things. In my state, I was not beyond the realm of hallucinations.

“I am not some low-level reaper like those who report to the Hall of Reaping Requirements and Acquisitions.” He flicked his hand as if dismissing my existence. “I have the power to adjust the plan, should I see fit to do so. And right now, I see an opportunity.”

“What kind of oppor—” I choked on the word with a harsh cough.

I hated the idea that his choice would give him power over me. Already he dangled the control of hisfavor, tugging at my strings like a puppet master, when I could do little to fight or follow. I remained trapped in bed, possibly dying or worse.

I found it unimaginable that any reaper or Killian could possess the ability to adjust the lifeline plan. Such an ability could give him the power of a god. A death deity. And the Killian was no such thing.

Was he?

The death deities resided levels and levels above that of any reaper, even the Killian. And Thanatos, the God of Death gods, wasn’t standing beside my bed. Nor were any of the other gods.

At least, I didn’t think so. Reapers believed that if a death deity ever walked among us, we would know. Somehow feel the power. Not that I knew of anyone who could verify that theory.

“I’m in no shape?—”

“Indeed. You are a mess. But that is not the true concern here.” He clasped his hands behind his back, leaned over the bed, and peered down at me, a black hole within a hooded cloak. “To be of any real use to me, you’ll have to become something more than what you presently are. You will need to rise above a lowly reaper minion, recognize the blood thrumming in your veins, and embrace your truth.”

I strained to improve my view of the Killian through myblotchy, tired vision. If I could see him better, maybe I could gain a clearer sense of what he asked of me. Because his words… They sounded like nonsense.

Surely he wasn’t suggesting I was something other than myself—Raven the reaper. My family might have developed a history of being excellent at what we did, but that didn’t make me anything more than my fellow reapers. Not really.

Unless…

A difference often made me and my mother stand out from all the others of our kind. The blend of red in our hair and the blue and gold of our eyes.Andour secret misting talent.

As I pushed up onto my elbows, my weak and wobbly muscles shook. “Who or what do you think I am?”

I wished for answers that would immediately satisfy. Only the Killian no longer stood in the room. He was gone. Vanished like the hallucination I hoped he was.

My arms gave out, and I collapsed back onto the surface of the bed.

A woman’s face appeared before me, arching over where I lay.

“Raven?” she asked.

I didn’t know this woman. Nor did I know where I was. And presently, I didn’t care.

I closed my eyes and drifted away, back into the blessed darkness.

A crestfallen refrain filledmy ears and the dark, stone-encased chamber in which I dwelled. Aged gray stone covered everything that shadow didn’t envelope. My surroundings had to be a dream…or a nightmare. Nothing around me sparked a memory or an inkling of understanding.

And yet, the tune continued, the words heavy and mournful.

A soft brush across the top of my hand drew my gaze, but nothing touched my skin. No gentle hand, no bandage, no fabric or material of any sort. My imagination?

I followed the sad melody from the chamber and through even darker catacombs, wandering a labyrinth of uninviting tunnels and halls, with only the dim flickering of occasional candlelight to illuminate my way. I kept clear of the openings on either side of the passage and held my travel true to the calling melancholy.

The ballad grew louder and louder, and the path I followed eventually opened into a new, gloomier chamber. If gloomier was possible in an already depressing setting.

Within the cavernous chamber, I located the source of the singing. A woman, blending into the shadows with her dark hair and black attire, kneeled in the center of the space.

In front of her, in an oversized, chain-wrapped chair, sat a too-still child. A child who looked oddly familiar?warm features, softly pointed ears. The woman’s hands pressed to the sides of the child’s temples, their faces inches apart.

I moved closer, approaching in a wide arc.

Whether the woman had noticed my presence or not, she continued to sing without a hitch or a pause.