Reaped: A Book Bite

it?
Still, my eyes are drawn to the dead man’s non-corporeal form. His name was Henry, and he lived a long life, full of his share of happiness and heartache—all that any mortal could ask for.
“Hi, Henry,” I say.
Henry blinks at me, his eyes going to Samael and widening a fraction in alarm. I don’t blame him. His gaze returns to me. Though cut from the same cloth, I appear the less threatening one.
“What’s going on?” Henry asks.
“It’s time to go home,” I tell him, my voice taking on a timbre that I suspect might never feel truly my own, no matter how many years I serve. “I’m here to guide you.”
Beside me, Samael lets out a little snort. I resist the foolish urge to slap him upside the head. We may be reapers, but we don’t have to be assholes. We can ease the journey for the recently departed…or make it terrifying, or anything in between. I choose to ease.
I both hope and don’t hope this is conveyed in the look I flash him. But the senior reaper’s smile only grows. With the way his hood shadows his features, it looks for a moment like the gruesome grin of a faceless skull—like the Father himself.
I turn back to Henry.
Samael’s scythe flashes, cutting through the man before he can even register alarm, dispersing and then gathering his soul in a single swoop.
Anger surges through me as I watch him collect my bounty. His scythe shines and gleams—a wolf with a full belly.
The bastard flashes me a final smirk before blinking out of sight.
I check my watch and mutter a curse. It reads 12:15 a.m.
Great. I’m only a quarter of the way through the first hour of my shift, and already in a collection deficit.
Something tells me this is going to be one hell of a day.

2 12:20 a.m.
I exit the nursing home through the front doors.
Yes, I could just poof out of there as had Samael, but that kind of magic takes energy, and I have a long shift ahead of me. I need to cool my jets a minute before I continue on.
Of all the emotions this job has dulled down to nearly nothing since I began, rage is not one of them.
Even though I technically am one now, I swear, I hate supernatural creatures. The whole lot of them. Of course the bastard stole my soul. Had I expected better of him?
The night, however, is calm, the sky clear. This stretch of road is quiet, and the low lights of the parking lot provide dim illumination. Sprinklers come to life and flick moisture over the tulips and manicured lawn. This little pocket of the world sleeps.
Of all the things I miss about being mortal, you might not think sleep is one of them, but it is. I miss it the same way I miss my mortal body. The same way I miss food and drinks and sex.
A dark shape swoops down from a nearby tree, the sound of flapping wings reaching me moments before a familiar weight lands and settles on my right shoulder.
Vladimir, the enormous black crow, who is pretty much my only companion, snaps his beak and ruffles his feathers before speaking.
“Where’s the bounty?” he asks, dark head cocking. His voice is a croak but also a whisper.
I make a noise in my throat.
Vlad’s head swivels and flicks and snaps as he checks our surroundings. “Who was here?” he asks with a nervousness only the avian seem able to adopt. “Who claimed it?”
I begin striding toward my bike, which gleams black and chrome in the low lights of the building. The bike comes to life with my approach, engine growling, though no mortal can hear it as sure as only the dying can see me.
Swinging my leg over the beast, I rev the engine again before answering. This ruffles Vlad’s feathers once more.
“Samael,” I say.
For once, the bird is silent. I give him a crooked grin that I see reflected in his beady black eyes.
“But the bounty was mortal,” he croaks at last.
“Half,” I correct with a sigh.
The bird takes off into the air, stirring my hair as he goes. “Better get on with it, then,” he squawks down at me from the skies, where he circles over my head. “Shift just started and you’re already behind.”
I flip him the bird, grinning at my own cleverness, and head off into the night, looking for the next soul.
I don’t bother with a helmet.
No need when you’re already dead.
I stand at the intersection of Broad and Walnut in Center City, Philadelphia. The tall corporate buildings with their glass faces, and the storefronts of various chain businesses line either side of the four-lane street.
The streetlight flips from red to green. The one waiting car, a red Volkswagen Beetle, starts forward, driver wholly unaware of what’s coming next.
I lean on my scythe. Vlad perches silently on my right shoulder. I hold my breath as a delivery truck barrels toward the Beetle from the opposite direction.
Tires screech and skid, but too late. The truck slams into the driver’s side of the bug at somewhere around sixty miles an hour. The sound of collision is magnificent—breaking glass and crumpling metal. Shrapnel explodes in a fountain of glass, like raindrops in reverse. The vehicles slide and skid and then stop.
A haunting silence falls. Overhead, the light switches from green to red.
“What…?”
I turn to the soul standing beside me—the driver of the red Beetle.
“He’s drunk,” I say. “Blew the light. Not your fault.”
“Not my…” She trails off. Looking at the accident and then back to me. Taking in my all black attire, the scythe in my hand, and the crow on my shoulder.
“Are you… Death?” she asks.
Since the Big Reveal, the mortal world has become aware of the presence of supernaturals, and this question is a lot more frequent than it used to be just a couple months ago. Of all the crazy shit I’d witnessed as a reaper over the