The Reaper and the Cop

Copyright 2014
Mina Carter

Cover Art by Mina Carter

Edited by Rachel Firasek

Proofread by Georgina DeBurca

Published by Blue Hedgehog Press: Feb 2014.

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Death is inevitable. For most, that means worrying about the how, and more importantly, the when. It’s an obsession the marketing industry has latched onto like a leech, and from one person to the next, ranges from the absent worry about leaving loved ones behind to narcissistic panic at leaving this mortal coil.

For some of us though, death is a job. I would say it’s a nine to five, daily grind, but it’s more of a 24/7/365 deal.

Let me introduce myself.

I’m Laney Larson, and I’m a Reaper. Yeah, you heard me right. I said Reaper. As in the big, bad dude with the robes and scythe—looks like he needed a few extra squares in his life? That guy.

Kinda.

Well, not quite.

It’s more accurate to say that I’m his great—god-knows-how–many—great grand-daughter. Hard to tell since no one has seen his Grimness since the middle ages, but every single Reaper carries a piece of him, their Grimm, within. It’s what gives us our abilities and lets us see things that others can’t. Without a Grimm, a Reaper is a standard human with an interesting family tree. Nothing more, nothing less. With a Grimm? Yeah, even I don’t know everything we’re capable of. I don’t want to
think
about what we can do. Not with how many of us there are.

It’s a bit like the Santa deal, but instead of presents, there are lots of souls to be reaped daily all over the world. I have no clue how the big dude in red manages it—yeah, he’s real too. And the Easter Bunny? Don’t get me started on that asshole. Reapers spread the load.

It’s like a franchise. You don’t buy into it, you're born into it. There are Reaper families everywhere, but not all of us get the call and receive a Grimm. When my grandfather died, it skipped over my mom and two older brothers to pick me.

My eldest bro had been so convinced that he’d be the one, he’d gone out and bought himself a costume. Head to toe armored bike leathers in Reaper black, with a death’s head helmet. Idiot can’t even ride a bike. He thought it looked cool though, so he was well pissed when the Grimm passed him over and picked me. You can imagine how awkward Thanksgiving was in our house that year. He’s still not talking to me ten years later.
Twat
.

So yeah, back to the point. I got the family Grimm—which, by the way, is a cantankerous bastard at the best of times—and I’ve been reaping souls ever since. It’s an interesting job, especially since my promotion less than a week into it.

You see, there are different types of Reaper. My grand-pop dealt with the “Naturals.” Those are the nice and easy reaps, those who die all peaceful of old age in their sleep, or in their garages, or gardens while cutting the grass. The ones who are expecting a visit from the big old GR himself so they’re not surprised to find they’re dead.

In fact, I remember Pop saying that the most exciting reap most months tended to be the old boys who snuffed it while on the job. According to Pop, trying to convince a soul that it’s not still having sex can be difficult. And icky. I don’t want to see no soul’s junk. Ever. Thank God, I’ve never had to deal with one of those.

Nope, after a couple of days on naturals, there was an opening, and I moved on to violent deaths. Gunshots, car accidents, beatings. You name it, I get to wade in and take the souls out. Some fight, but I prefer those to the victims. The pain in their auras, and the relief to see me because they know that their ordeals are over, tears at my heart. Especially the kids.

I’ve put more than a few email requests into head office to be the Reaper who takes their abusers down. Reaping is painless for the reapee. Is that even a word? Huh, I made one up. Go me.

Where was I, oh yeah, we train long and hard to make sure the souls don’t suffer. But since Reapers don’t go to heaven or hell, we’re out of that loop. There’s nothing to stop me from holding up somewhere quiet and taking a couple of days to strip a soul from its body. And believe me, given the right situation, I can be
real
inventive.

The mere thought of taking out black souls like that put me into a bad mood.

I shoved the door in front of me open to walk through. It was a cop bar; I smelled that as soon as I took a breath. I’d like to say the air held the faint tang of bacon, but that was the all-day breakfast being consumed on table number three. Full English at 9 pm, I’d have to remember this place. Under the enticing aroma of food was the unmistakable scent of too many hours on the clock, of missed dates and family meals mixed with the determination that marked those who dedicated their lives to the law.

So what’s a Reaper doing in a cop bar? I’m not a cop, right? Since some of my jobs were alive before I stripped their souls, technically that makes me a murderer. Judge me all you like. If someone’s pinned under a vehicle and my schedule says their card’s about to be punched, you can be sure I’m going to punch it early and save them some pain. I’m not a freaking sadist.

Murderer or not, I reap souls involved in violence, and although I have my own methods of tracking them—even now, lifelines glowed in my peripheral vision courtesy of my Grimm—sometimes it’s quicker to tail the police and get to the bodies before they go cold. I prefer to reap them that way, as soon after the heart stops beating as possible. They’re as confused as all hell and less inclined to put up a fight. At least, human souls aren’t. I’ve heard horror stories about paranormals that make my toes curl. But that’s Special Operations, something I never intend to get into.

Shuddering at the thought, I moseyed up to the bar and caught the eye of the bartender. This was a new town for me, but I wouldn’t have worried about him recognizing me even if it wasn’t. The perfect predator, I could change my appearance at will or even stop humans seeing me altogether if I wanted. All it took was a half-step into the space between the living and death—the shade where souls waited to be reaped. It was a little hit and miss with paranormals, but since most were shit-scared I was there for them and took off at a dead run—I’d always figured it didn’t matter.

Tonight I was following my usual MO. The Grimm had pinged me that some serious reaping was about to happen in this town. My “heads-up display” had all but blinded me until I’d ordered it to show me the lines in chronological order. Since none of the active lifelines were quite ready to be reaped, I cruised the local police hangouts to case the detectives. In the same way that following the cops got me to warm bodies, I’d also learned to pick
which
ones to follow.

I didn’t need Detective Comfortable Heading for Retirement, he was more likely to check out local robberies and Do-Nut heists. Nothing that would yield the level of violence I needed. No, I was looking for Detective Young and Driven, with Something to Prove. He or she was more likely to dig deep and find killers, gang-members, rapists, and abusers. And those were the bastards I wanted.

A tumbler with a couple of inches of what promised to be a decent whiskey in my hand, I turned my head and checked out the offerings in the bar. I felt a little like a single girl checking out the talent, but I wasn’t looking for a night of hot sex. Don’t get me wrong, since my last between the sheets action had been at least a year ago, I wouldn’t pass one up, but it wasn’t my primary focus. I was looking for that one special person that could help with the murderous urges within me.

Oh, yeah. Perhaps I should mention that Reapers aren’t always the most mentally stable. Sometimes a new Reaper can’t adjust to having a Grimm on board, and they go nutso. Like bats in the belfry, one sandwich short of a picnic crazy. When that happens to a creature with no known natural predators…yeah, the rest of us have to go hunt that sucker and revoke his Reaper card. Permanently.

I took my time checking out the occupants of the bar. Out of habit, I was far enough into the shade that the details about my appearance would be obscured. Not so much that someone who knew how to concentrate, to focus, wouldn’t be able to make me out, but enough that the eye of the casual observer would skitter on by. All they’d see would be another thirty-something having a quiet drink, trying to shed the stress of work before heading on home.

The place was filled with “Comfortables.” Shit. That was the problem with small towns like this. Cozy, comfortable, middle-America where no one saw anything until the quiet guy at the end of the street turned out to have bodies in his freezer or a couple of girls chained up in his basement as sex slaves. I hoped it was the freezer. I hadn’t reaped an honest-to-goodness serial killer in way too long.

But finding one was going to be difficult with this lot. A sigh of disappointment deflating my lungs, I started to turn back to the bar. At the very least, I’d enjoy my drink, then do a quick recon round the town, scout for any active lines. Better than nothing, and if I didn’t, my Grimm would keep me awake all night complaining about my laziness. Told you the thing was a slave-driver, didn’t I?

The door to the toilets opened, disgorging two men into the main room and all my spidey-senses went haywire. Two new lifelines popped up in the corner of my eye. One the silvery-grey of a human one decision away from being reaped, and a bright-red one that made me pause.

Fuck. A Lycan.
Just
what I wanted on my first night in the place. Notice the sarcasm there? Yeah, I’m good with that too. Not a lot of folks appreciate that particular talent. No idea why, good snark is hard to come by.

The two separated a few steps into the room, the hoody-clad Lycan heading for the door and the night outside beyond it. That was fine. The quicker the damn creature got out of here, the better. Glass raised to my lips, I swiveled on the stool, taking a sip and watching the creature every step of the way. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like paranormals, but that doesn’t mean I’m scared of them. I’m a Reaper, and when you’ve got a piece of death living with you, inside you, and talking into your head on a second-by-second basis… Yeah, there ain’t much that scares you. Maybe a Were-dragon or something, but that’s only because on the whole, I’m not that fond of fire. But Lycans don’t scare me.

The creature in question registered my gaze on him, and lifted his head to take a look as he passed. I felt more than heard the start and surprised gasp. No, not a surprised gasp, a
guilty
one. Oh yeah, his lifeline was glowing like a damn cherry now. So much so, I opened all my senses to try to pick up another Reaper. There had to be one close to reap him. Like I said, I’m not Special Operations, I’m Violent Deaths…so it wasn’t me here for him.

But nothing. Zip. Nada. Not a sniff of another of my kind on the old Grimm radar. Putting the curiosity aside, I took another sip of my drink and watched him beat a retreat out of the bar like all the hounds of hell were after him. Huh, hope that Reaper turned up to claim him soon. If a soul goes over-due while still in the body—rare but happens on occasion—it would send the thing mad. Not what you wanted when the body had a tendency to chow down on the human population when a little peckish.

I turned my attention back to the room, and the other new occupant. My mood picked up. Another cop, but not a Comfortable. Oh no, the owner of the nice shiny silver, almost-ready-to-reap lifeline, was a Young and Driven type. Booyah. Lucked out on the first night. I resisted the urge to fist pump, and took a closer look.

The typical, tall, dark, and handsome, he wasn’t as young as some—around mid-thirties—but boy was he driven. Energy surrounded him like a force-field, his movements animated as he slid into place opposite a Comfortable and started talking. God, I hoped the other guy wasn’t his partner. They’d drive each other nuts within a month.

He turned a little, still talking, and scanned the bar. It was automatic behavior, and with the seat he’d chosen, facing the rest of the bar with his back to a wall, told me that he had to have seen action somewhere with a higher crime-rate. The sort of place where you checked out the entrance and exits and kept a hand on your weapon just in case.

His gaze skittered over me as I expected, but allowed me to get a good look at his face.
Heeeelllo, handsome.
Yeah, he was the type I went for. Clear blue eyes, dark hair, and a lean, hard-muscled body no amount of clothing disguised all the way. The shirt clung to a set of broad shoulders, hinted at a wide chest, and tapered into slim hips. Couldn’t see the legs from where I was, but if they matched the rest of the package, I was sold.

He looked at me, gaze direct and unconfused, and I tried to breathe whiskey—I don’t recommend that by the way. The bastard stuff burns the inside of your nose better than paint-stripper. Shit. I was half in the shade, so he shouldn’t be able to see me. Not see me
and
keep his gaze on me that long. Blue eyes swept me from head to toe, taking in the form fitting bike leathers and heavy boots.

Unlike my brother, I can ride, but I never bothered with the death’s head helmet. Or any. Not like I’m worried about getting knocked off and killed. Reapers are hard to kill, like
really
hard to kill. Until the big man decides your ticket is ready, you ain’t leaving this mortal coil.

There are legends of Reapers who had tried to kill themselves. They all failed. Even standing in front of a speeding train doesn’t do it, although the guy in question was out of action for a couple of months as all his limbs grew back. I shivered at the thought. I’m not into that level of pain

I managed to stop coughing and shot him another look. He winked at me. Honest to goodness winked.