Reaped: A Book Bite

through my mind, and I swallow past the apprehension gathering in my throat.
I nod toward the vial. “What do you want in exchange for that?”
Her head tilts, feathers and silver hair shifting as she examines me with sharp eyes. “An eye for an eye, as they say… Or in this case, a life for a life. Everything is about balance. You, of all people, surely know that.”
I stiffen. The price for saving Rose’s life is taking that of another?
No, I remind myself. That is simply the downpayment. Paying the Abbah will be nothing compared to reconciling with Father.
A little late to the party, I know, but for the first time since seeing the hourglass appear above my niece’s head, I am starting to question whether I should be here.
“Who?” I ask. I have to know.
“A bad man. The world will be better off without him, I can assure you of that.”
“Says the solicitor to the hitman.”
“Says the witch to the reaper.”
I swallow. “Who?”
The Abbah produces a small white card from her skirts. Upon it is written a name.
Names lead me to their owners, reveal to me their souls. Names fill the lists, populate the quotas I’ve been meeting for the past seven years until they became nothing more to me than numbers.
I look at the Abbah. Perhaps that is exactly the point.
I’d accepted my duty as a reaper years ago, in general did not have a problem fulfilling my orders… But this was different. This was not in the name of the Balance of the Universe, in the name of the Father. This was in the name of mortal love, of selfishness on my part.
But here was not the place to ponder whether one was more righteous than the other.
“What about beating Fate?” I ask. “If I use that to save her, will something else just come along and take her?”
She tilts her head, chin jerking, listening to the whispers.
“You saved her once successfully before, did you not?” the Abbah asks, and I wonder if my suspicion about the whispers is not so far off base.
“You bought her an extra seven years.”
And myself an eternity of servitude, I think.
As I look at the Abbah, I get the feeling she is thinking the same thing.
“But it is not just one life you would be saving this time, is it?” she asks.
I don’t want to know how the Abbah knows things, how she knows about the unborn child in my niece’s belly.
But she makes a good point, drawing me closer to the sale.
“Two for one,” she says, and cackles. “Can’t beat that deal.”
“Why is he a bad man?” I ask, knowing I do so pointlessly, that my mind is made up. “This person you want me to reap. And why can’t you just do it yourself?”
“He does bad things,” the Abbah snaps, impatience showing through the grandmotherly facade for the first time. “And I can’t do it myself because he is locked away so tight that no one can reach him, in a prison so secure only the guards and Death can enter.”
She holds out the card, slipping the vial of glowing green potion back into her skirts and out of sight.
My fingers close around the card as I take it and look down at the name. As I look, a tug pulls me. It is from somewhere far away, but it is insistent.
The name calls. They always do.
“Better hop to it, dear,” she says. “Time is wasting.”

8 4:15 p.m.
Am I really going to do this?
As I stare up at the imposing stone structure, the very apparent answer is yes.
Dangeon.
The most notorious prison on this side of the plane. I have never been here, have only heard stories about it whispered among other supernaturals. As a reaper, there is little to do in one’s free time other than listen, to observe but never partake.
I stand at the mouth of a bridge suspended hundreds of feet in the air, high enough that an ever-shifting fog obscures the path around my feet. From very far below, I can hear the crashing of angry waves, can smell the salt on the air. Gulls circle the platform, the stones decorated with their droppings.
I spot sentries in every crevice, creatures more gargoyle-like in appearance than anything close to human. They patrol the cliffs in droves, with talons and fangs and horns and red, gleaming eyes.
Demons to keep in demons.
Glancing around, I half expect Vladimir to drop from the sky and warn me against my actions. But he is not here. I have not seen the bird since his last warning outside the Market. I feel a pang of regret but push past it.
I need that life-saving potion. I have to make a trade. Rose is depending on me.
And this guy was a bad man, like the rest of the people here… Right?
Prisons are not reserved for just bad men. Sometimes the bad men are the ones holding the keys.
I shove these thoughts away. I am a reaper; what did it matter if he were good or bad? It had never matter before.
It did not matter now.
I brandish my scythe and adjust my grip around it. Then I start the climb. I do not even stir the fog as I move through it. I do not feel the droplets of moisture against my skin. The prowling guards take no notice of my presence.
Brushing my fingers over the card in my pocket, the name written there pulls me forward. I am like a missile locked on target.
I have witnessed some disturbing things over the last several years, but nothing prepares me for what I encounter inside the prison.
When Death comes to this place, it is a kindness. I’m not sure if this makes me feel better about my task or not.
Nonetheless, I move onward.
The entrance is a yawning maw, a gaping wound in the side of a mountain. The hideous guards pour out of it like ants from a mound. They skitter past me as does most