Reaped: A Book Bite

the raven and I share a plane. It stings, but I nearly sigh against it. When you’ve gone seven years without feeling so much as the wind upon your face, even pain can be pleasurable.
“Father damn it, Cici, it’s not too late to stop this madness!” Vlad says. He pecks at me again.
I brush him off my shoulder with a flick of my hand. His wings slap me as they flare and he takes flight. He circles around my head a while before drifting away. I allow myself a ghost of a smile as I know he was considering whether or not to drop a little present upon my head. He’s certainly threatened the action before.
I know Vlad is trying to look out for me. A small, distant voice inside me whispers that he is not the only one. I dismiss that thought without further examination.
Philadelphia’s City Hall is two blocks away, and 12th Street is busy at this time of day. In front of me stands a squat brown building near the center of the city. On the wall of the building the words Reading Terminal Market glow in red.
I skirt around the corner to the secret entrance to the other Market—the one only supernaturals know about. A werewolf in his human form stands guard. Under normal circumstances, he would not even be aware of my presence, just like most other supernaturals, save for those with unique abilities, like necromancers.
But these are not normal circumstances, and this is no normal market.
A magical barrier controlled by the local witch Coven surrounds the place, and magic also grants the bouncer the rare ability of Full Sight.
“Hmm,” he says as I approach. He strokes his chin. “A reaper.” He shifts uncomfortably. He is such a large person that it is almost amusing to see him squirm. “I hope you ain’t here for me,” he adds with a nervous chuckle.
“Not this time, Jerald,” I say, speaking his name only to be a little bit of a dick. I don’t know him, but being a reaper comes with certain abilities.
The thick hair on his thicker arms bristles. “I guess you want to go in, then?”
I nod. “I do.”
Jerald tilts his head, chuckles again. “I suppose it’d be a mistake to deny a reaper.” He steps to the side as the stones of the building shift and slide, creating an entrance that was not there a moment before.
As I step through, Jerald says, “Like my great grandfather used to say, only fools fuck with Fate.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, but for all other appearances, I am cool as a cucumber. “Sounds like he was a smart man,” I reply.
Another nervous chuckle from Jerald. “Well, he wasn’t stupid,” he says as he lets the hidden entrance close behind me.

6 3:00 p.m.
You know what I miss even more than sex?
Food.
I miss eating food the way a lover misses her beau, the way a child misses a mother’s bosom, the way billionaires would miss tax cuts if America could ever get her shit together.
But I digress.
As I step into the magical Market, I feel my stomach seize with pangs of hunger that is wholly imagined.
The sights are as enticing as the smells. The market is vast, spreading as far as the eye can see, the ancient magic ensuring the peace between patrons.
Colorful tents and booths hung with all manner of item spread before me in every direction. Shadows hug the edges and corners, the only light provided by the flickering of flames from various sources. Cats dart here and there, climbing and slinking about. I can’t be sure, but I think the little beasts can see my kind. In true cat fashion, however, they don’t seem to care about my existence one way or the other.
The place is packed, as per usual, but the unwitting crowd moves around me the way a river bends around a rock. Though they are mostly supernaturals, many of them do not possess the True Sight, as had Jerald. But even those who cannot see me avoid the space I occupy, anyway.
I pass a genie swallowing flames and luring young people with false promises of happiness. I tell myself not to linger at a cart pushing mammoth meat and fried dough sprinkled with fairy sugar. A band of trolls pluck out a peppy tune as passers drop coins in their upturned hats. There is so much to look at, so much to distract the senses, but there is no item here that can offer what I need.
I must find the Abbah. And hope to the Gods that she can help me.
Her tent moves, and there is no guarantee that she will be here, but I will know it if I see it. At least, that’s what they say.
Someone bumps into my shoulder, and the contact shocks me out of focus.
“Oh, sorry,” says a female with big brown eyes and dark skin.
I blink as I look at her, captivated. She cannot be older than thirty, but there is a depth to her gaze that makes me think her soul has known more than a few cycles. She stares back at me, eyes unblinking, seemingly captivated in the same manner as am I.
“Reaper,” she says.
Yes, a reaper. That is all and exactly what I am.
My head tilts. She is human, but her Sight is clearer than any magic could grant. It runs through her blood.
“Necromancer,” I reply.
We are still staring at each other like weirdos.
“This is a dangerous place for a human,” I tell her, keeping my voice low. “Especially a young female.”
Why I should care to tell her this, I do not know. Why I should care to stop at all is further confounding.
“Where in the world is not a dangerous place for a young female?” she asks.
I decide I like her.
“Why are you here?” Again, not sure why I care.
“I would ask you the same.”
“To save someone I love,” I answer truthfully.
Her throat bobs