Reaper's Novice (Soul Collector #1) Read online

  Already miss u. Everything ok?

  Miss u 2. Everything’s ok. U? I reply.

  Ok, I guess. Dad’s being his usual pompous self. What r u wearing?

  I cringe. Rolf’s dad is a party-pooper. Lacy black top, hip hugging jeans, and stilettos. I hit send and smile. This is the boy I remember falling for a year ago. Flirty, passionate, attentive. Over the last couple of months, things seemed to change. One minute he’s desperately pleading with me to never leave him, and the next he’s confident. It’s like two people exist in the same body. Is love supposed to be this… confusing? Is it why Mom and Dad are the way they are?

  I sigh and focus on the daisy henna tattoos covering each of my fingers. Tiny strands and leaves weave along my hand to join the daisy chain tattoo around my wrist.

  The phone beeps, and I glance down.

  God, Ana. 1 word: torture. Can’t wait 2 c u on Sunday. Love u.

  I type ‘Keeps the fire burning ;) C u Sunday. Love u too’,and hit send.

  I tuck my phone back with a smile and rake my surroundings for our car. They should be here. What’s taking them so long?

  The medieval tune floating across the street switches abruptly to a mournful melody. I swallow hard, wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans, and look across the street at Accordion Guy. His face reflects the mood of the song.

  Way to go soothing my already strayed nerves.

  Blowing out a breath, I drop my head in my hands. All this waiting. It’s like…

  Tires squeal horribly on the tarmac, cutting off my inner rant. I swing my whole body in that direction, every muscle alert. The crashing sound of metal against metal follows, puncturing the air. Heart pounding in my ears, my legs thrust me to my feet, before freezing in place. Inside of me, I feel as if invisible threads have been severed. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting.

  Silence follows. No birds chirping, no cheerful music from Accordion Guy. Even the air seems to be holding its breath. Raising my head, I peel my eyes open and take mouthfuls of air. The stench of burnt rubber strangles me. I breathe through my mouth, at the same time scanning the area.

  At the intersection, a hundred metres to my right, smoke snakes from what looks like navy blue metal rubble. An overturned white truck flanks it.

  I try to swallow, but my throat is too dry. I swing my rucksack over my back and grab my violin, trying to steady my swaying legs. My hand rubs my midsection where a dull needle-like pain is blooming with every passing second. Forcing my legs into action, I shuffle, pick up to a jog, and then a full sprint. Skidding to a stop in front of a group huddled together, I inhale and choke. The burnt rubber odour is stronger here. Hushed voices and occasional anguished weeping fill the air. To my right, a man dressed in a black suit yells instructions into a phone, his voice urgent and panicked. I catch the words “accident” and “death.”

  I turn away from him, the ache in my heart no longer pins and needles, but a knife slashing it to thin, invisible ribbons. Taking deep breaths, I shoulder my way to the front and halt, blinking at the upturned white truck. Eyes wide, I stagger forwards, detaching myself from the crowd. Broken glass covered in blood twinkles like rubies in the midday sun. Black oily skid marks similar to doodles on an even blacker sketchpad lead to the overturned white truck, indicating the crazed dance the truck had performed before its downfall.

  How could anyone survive this crash? Was the driver drunk?

  I hitch on my toes, trying to peek inside the open door of the truck. No sign of the driver. From under the truck, I catch a glimpse of metal. I inch forwards, rounding the humongous thing. My heart plunges to the bottom of my stomach.

  I half-walk, half-stumble towards the car. Out of nowhere, a hand grabs my upper arm, pulling me back, speaking words my mind cannot process. I don’t bother to look, just yank my arm back, my feet thrusting me forwards. Something crunches under my ballet flats, and I glance down. My lungs shut down, and I drop to my knees. I barely register my rucksack slipping off my shoulders.

  As if disconnected from my body, my trembling fingers stretch out to pick up the white rectangular metal plate with familiar numbers on it. Oh dear God! Oh dear God! OH DEAR GOD! No, not this. Not my family.

  The plate slips from my fingers. I crawl forwards, heat from the tarmac seeping through my jeans. Tiny pebbles poke and embed themselves in my skin. Ignoring the pain, I pull whatever pieces my hands can pluck from the mess and toss them aside. If I manage to clear the debris, I’ll prove my family isn’t buried in here. The numbers on the plate are just my imagination.

  My eyes blur with tears, and I furiously swipe at them. Blood from the cuts on my hands, splutters on my T-shirt and darken the henna tattoos on my hands, mingling with blood of the… no. No! My family is safe, probably waiting for me outside the Institute of Psychosomatic. What am I doing here? I’m keeping them, wasting time. Yes, that’s it. The Main Man up there can’t be so cruel to take my family away.

  The mournful sound of sirens slashes through my thoughts. I block it and concentrate on what my mind is insistently trying to whisper to me.

  They are waiting for me. I left my spot too soon. This accident must have halted their progress of reaching me. My heart stutters back to life, picking up the beat where it left off moments before. It accelerates so fast I’m afraid it will rupture my chest.

  I take a step to retrieve my rucksack and come face to face with a brown limb poking through the mess I inspected earlier. Something gnaws at my stomach, chewing its way up my throat, desperate to be let out. I swallow the sour taste on my tongue, moving cautiously forwards to touch it. With trembling hands, I grasp the tiny fingers I had polished red just last night in preparation for the trip.

  I shake my head. Not her. Not my Lucy. God, please not my family. I toss the metal aside, scouring the rubble, searching for the body that limb belongs to, a face… something. Finally what has been digging its way up my stomach erupts from my throat and mouth. I jerk forwards and vomit. The hazy fog at the edges of my mind slithers closer, eager to embrace me. I have to fight it. I have to search for the rest of them. My family. Gone. No one should touch them. Me, just me. If it wasn’t for me, Mom would be in her flower shop, Dad probably delivering some stuff to a customer, and Anton and Lucy on the way home from school. I pushed for this. I handed them over to death.

  Something inside my chest shatters like glass. The fog greedily swoops in. My muscles give way. I’m floating, falling into a place so deliciously warm and dark.

  MY EYES FLUTTER OPEN. I blink. Why do they feel so heavy? My head hurts worse than anything I’ve ever experienced in my life. Ugh, my chest. I glance down to see if someone might have ripped it open while I slept. I look around. What am I doing under this tree? Why are there so many people around? Who the hell is this guy—who’d be attractive if he wasn’t middle aged—staring down at me as if I’m a prize he won in an auction?

  I take deep breaths, averting my eyes from the disturbing ones staring at me unblinkingly. I frown as I zoom in on the fire brigade truck, then at the men working diligently on a mess of metal, their expressions solemn, as if on an important mission to save the world. Images flash in my head. I gasp, everything coming into focus.

  Mom, Dad, Anton, and Lucy. I spring to my feet, struggling to stay on them as my body sways like sea grass during a storm. My hands shoot out in search of anything that will hold me up. Instead, a hand grips my arm, a firm but gentle hand.

  “Ana.” I blink and focus on the dazzling face in front of me.

  “Let go of me. I need to get to them. I won’t leave them. I’m going—”

  “Ana.” His voice is low and commanding, gentle, calm, and kind. Everything I’m not feeling inside.

  I pause, taking deep breaths. “They are not dead! They can’t be dead. Not them.” I jab my finger at his chest.

  He doesn’t look fazed. “Who else, if not them? Fate doesn’t care about family. When the time is up, she nicks at the thread,” the man says in the same gentle yet firm voice.r />
  Part of me wants to pound him until he lets go of my arm. I shake my head, my body trembling. “No. It wasn’t. I won’t believe it. We were supposed to travel to Italy. We were supposed to be together. Who are you to tell me what was or wasn’t?” I jerk my arm again, but even holding me loosely, his hand is like a manacle of sorts.

  “I’m glad you asked.” He finally drops my arm. For the first time, he beams, his dark eyes lighting up like I just asked one of his favourite questions. “My name is Ernest. Most humans prefer to call me…” he pauses as if weighing what he should say, “Grim or Death. I do not care for either of those names. Why call a spoon a spoon? So mundane. Better upgrade it to a spade. Even the spoon will thank you for it.”

  “Death?” Is this guy for real? I shake my head. “I don’t believe you.”

  Without warning, he steps forwards and places his palms on my temples. Images bombard my head. Navy blue Opel pulling to a stop at the intersection. The traffic light turns green. Mom accelerates. Out of nowhere, a huge white truck appears and rams into the car. Unable to shut off the images, I watch, horrified as our car overturns, and as if on a revenge mission, the truck follows, drives over and on top of the Opel, flattening it. It topples over with a crash.

  The hands drop from my head. I stumble away from him, sobbing. My legs give out and I collapse on the ground, dropping my face in hands.

  My family is gone. Gone. Grief takes over.

  When I finally lift my head, the man—Grim—is standing where I left him. Even the distance I managed to keep between us doesn’t stop the tangible presence that surrounds this man. A shiver scuttles along my arms and chest as I focus on those dark, dark eyes: mysterious, bottomless, ageless. Like they hold the universe’s secrets in them. I feel no fear as I stare at him, just endless pain, as if my heart has been squeezed and yanked out of my chest.

  Grim resembles a thirty-something-year-old man in his two-button suit and white shirt. My mind scrambles to reconcile this image of supernatural royalty with ones I’ve seen in books and on the Internet at times when my curiosity got morbid. Times when I craved a good dose of shuddering. His slicked hair is tied in a ponytail at the nape of his neck and a tiny gold hoop earring winks from his left ear. Shouldn’t his head be a skull, his skeleton body covered by that infamous billowing cloak of his, instead of a cross between a pirate and a tycoon from one of those high-rise offices?

  He could be my saviour in this madness. The floor-length black trench coat flaps gently, although there isn’t even a whisper of a breeze. What if he’s one of those people who likes playing dress up? What are the chances of Death talking to me? Isn’t he supposed to reap souls, not bother with the living?

  Still dazed, I watch as he pulls tiny, transparent vials from inside his trench. He moves to hover over the mangled car. Immediately, coloured tendrils of mist weave from the rubble and into the vials.

  What are those things?

  Maybe this is my chance to join my family. Excitement replaces the hopelessness and fear. If anyone can help me, it’s him. He can reap my soul as well.

  I take a deep breath to calm my nerves and sidle closer to Grim. If he opted to snatch my soul, he would seize it before I could exhale. He’d be doing me a favour. But I doubt he will. I doubt this “Fate” he was talking about is hanging around to nick at my “thread,” whatever that means.

  Once he closes and stows the bottles inside the trench, he glides back to stand in front of me.

  “Take me as well.”

  Grim doesn’t even bat his lashes at my request. Oddly enough, that pleased smile still lingers on his lips. “It does not work that way. I reap souls that are ready for collection. Yours…” he squints, scrutinizing me for I don’t know what, then shakes his head, “is far from being collected. It’s not ripe.”

  Oh God, there has to be a way. I can’t live without them. If I did… I shove that train of thought away, but it comes bouncing back, forcing me to think about the kind of life I’d have without Mom, Dad, Anton, and Lucy. No one to fight with, to hug, to touch, to cry and laugh with, no one to hold and cuddle, no more Sunday family brunches I’d taken for granted. No one to keep me sane when life’s insanity threatens to bring me down, and above all, no one to love. My future stretches ahead of me, lonely, loveless, and bleak. The fog in my head floats closer, eager to swath me once again in its embrace.

  Everything I’ve ever taken for granted flashes before my eyes. For the second time on this cursed street, I drop to my knees. Only this time at Grim’s feet. I bow my head, hands splayed at my sides.

  “I will do anything, anything. Just tell me what I have to do,” I say. “Or take my soul as well.”

  “My help—my offer, comes with a price,” Grim says.

  My desperation chokes me. I nod for him to continue.

  “If you trade your soul for theirs, you will work for me. Your soul will be marked for eternity.” He pauses, staring at me intensely. “Would you bear to watch your family and friends die while you live? Forever is a long time.”

  Forever? I lift my head. “I don’t understand.”

  “I can give you back your family—on one condition. When you trade your soul for theirs, it will be for eternity, or until I release you.” He tilts his head. “Are you ready for that? Immortality? Think very carefully before you answer.”

  I close my eyes, remembering my life with my family. Then I imagine my future without them. It’s so dark and useless, like how my heart feels right this moment. My family was my heart. I’m not sure how to start living without them.

  I straighten and push my shoulders back, before opening my eyes to meet his. “Yes, I’m ready.”

  He breathes out, seeming overly pleased with my answer. Grim’s hands wrap around my upper arms, tugging me to my feet. “You are absolutely certain this is what you want?”

  I nod quickly, holding his gaze. He has to know I’ll do anything. That I can be trusted and I’m serious.

  His face lights up. His hands slide away from my arms. Rubbing them together and with a grin on his face, he mutters, “Good.” Why do I have a feeling I’ve made his day? “I have a few ideas in mind. But first…” he places both hands on either side of my head. My body tenses as my heart doubles its efforts to keep up with my pulse.

  What is he doing? From the way my heart is galloping in my chest, it won’t be long before it ceases to function.

  “Relax, Ana. Why do you think I would harm you?” He sounds hurt. Shame prickles at my conscience.

  I relax and close my eyes. A tickling sensation travels from my temple down my body. The scent of fir trees, then lavender, slams into my senses. Lavender and books and scented candles. I’d know the smell of my room anywhere. Freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies join the scents. My eyes pop open, and I blink. My room is how I left it this morning before school—clothes tossed on the bed, a pair of jeans on the floor at the foot of the bed. Heat rushes up my face as I stare at the lacy under thingsof all colours. I’d emptied the drawer on the bed earlier, searching for a bra that wouldn’t show through my white T-shirt.

  Grim’s hands are still perched on my head. I peek through my lashes and exhale deeply. At least his eyes seem more focused on me than my room. I tilt my head to one side as other sounds fill the quiet air. Birds chirping out my window, someone’s car alarm wailing down the street, voices drifting up from downstairs… Voices. Mom, Anton, and Lucy. Is this a joke?

  I look up to find Grim’s intense eyes latched on me. He shakes his head, answering my unspoken question, proving the theory I had begun suspecting. He can read my mind.

  “Are they really here?”

  He nods.

  I brush my hair back with trembling fingers. My legs are ready to bolt downstairs, eager to witness what I can only say is a miracle.

  “Ana, welcome to the world of Novicehood.”

  That sentence halts any other thoughts. “Novicehood?”

  “That is the price. My Novice.”

 
I frown, my arms itching to wrap around my loved ones downstairs. So near, yet so far. “You mean… you don’t want an arm or leg or, uh, my soul?” The latter I add in a whisper. Can someone survive without a soul? Soulless? I shudder at the thought.

  Grim saunters to the window and props a shoulder on it, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes twinkle with amusement. “I already own your soul. You are of no use to me without your arms and legs, so you can keep those. As I said, welcome, Novice.” He is all teeth and wide smiles, as if we have just handed each other perfect worlds wrapped neatly in pink ribbons.

  I change directions and fling myself at Grim, hugging him tightly. I must have caught him unawares, or he’s not used to people hugging him because his arms drop from his chest and hang at his sides.

  I sniff and give him one final squeeze before pulling away and inching towards the door. “Thank you, Grim.” His smile disappears so fast, replaced by a furious scowl. Did I say something wrong? Or maybe I was supposed to offer something. Our conversation rewinds and fast-forwards through my mind’s eye, eager to bring back that smile. He gave me back my life. It’s the least I can do. Oh, oh! “Thank you, Ernest.” His face splits into a wide, toothy smile. Ah, the magic word. He nods regally.

  I bounce on my toes, inching towards the bedroom door. I’ll deal with soul and Novice details later. Right now, nothing else matters. “Are we okay now?” Please, say yes. He nods once more.

  I dash out my bedroom door and fly down the stairs, as the last words Grim says float and wrap around me: “I’ll be seeing you soon, Novice.” Did I do the right thing, though? Maybe I disturbed some sort of balance of nature? I wonder what’s involved in being a Reaper’s Novice. How many of those does he have?

  I leap to the bottom of the stairs, my eyes searching the room, and what I see brings me to my knees. Mom hums under her breath, pulling the cookie tray from the oven. Anton is sprawled on the sofa playing his Nintendo DS, muttering under his breath, while Lucy’s head is bowed, face creased in concentration on the book in front of her, pencil in one hand.