Reaper (17 page)

They all laughed.

“Typical,” the man directly in front of Oz
said.

Ethan raised his cup in a toast. As he drank,
he looked over the rim of his glass at Oz.

Oz thought he saw the raised eyebrow of
recognition, but that was impossible. This body didn’t look close
to his original one.

“You’re cute,” Ethan said to him. “For a
creeper.”

Another collective laugh. Oh, he had these
boys wrapped around his manicured finger. They were all at least
half his age and looked up at him like he was a god.
Good for
you, Ethan.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

That was the question, wasn’t it? The simple
answer was yes, but it required a much more complicated and
potentially problematic explanation. Maybe he could minimize the
backlash of breaking some unwritten rule, if he faked his way
through it. Be someone different. He was a writer—he made people up
all the time. Interesting people. People with a lot more depth than
himself.

“You probably don’t remember me,” Oz
said.

Ethan placed a hand on his jutting hip. He’d
aged well. Though, he obviously dyed his hair. It was impossibly
black and reflected the rainbow of lights sweeping across the
bar.

“Give me a hint.”

“Kathleen High School.”

Ethan laughed. “No shit. What year? Wait.
Don’t answer that.”

“Yours.” Oz smiled.

Ethan considered him. His eyes lingered on
Oz’s pelvis.

“Well, hun, I’m sorry, but you’re right. I
don’t remember you, and it’s a damn shame because you are just too
cute.”

“I’m—”
Name. Name.
“Jack.”

“Jack, be nimble.”

Jesus, Ethan laid it on thick.

“Yeah. I hung out with Oz a lot,” Oz
said.

This time, Ethan looked legitimately
confused. Oz could see him running the film reel of high school
behind his eyes.

“I don’t remember Oz, either.”

“Blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-a-alcohol,” the
blonde one of the crowd sang, to Ethan’s delight.

They toasted and sipped.

Mother fucker. Didn’t remember him? In tenth
grade, he and Mark more or less became body guards for his scrawny
ass after the king of douche-nozzles nearly drowned Ethan in a
locker room stall
before
flushing his business.

“Oh, don’t look so upset, Jack. Past is past.
We know each other now, so that’s what matters. How about I refill
your drink? Make it up to you?”

Oz handed Ethan his empty whiskey glass and
as he walked away, the house lights lit for an instant. In the
momentary brightness Oz saw the wolf stalking across the dance
floor toward Ethan’s group.

* * *

In the beginning, being in a hospital had
made Cora queasy. All of that metal created for the explicit
purpose of cutting, probing, burning, clipping, and sewing human
flesh. It was a nightmare. The overpowering mixture of bleach and
disinfectant still got to her, but after a while, being drawn to
the hospital just became one of those unpleasant things you deal
with, like paying bills or renewing your drivers’ license.

Marjory’s body lay still, propped against the
pillows her daughter had brought from their home. She’d complained
the hospital-issue pillows were scratchy and gave her a headache.
Shortly afterward, Marjory passed in her sleep while Cora watched
from the window seat. Marjory’s Ba was safely transported, coins in
hand.

Cora pulled the crisp white sheet over
Marjory’s shoulders before leaving the room.

She’d never tell anyone, especially Bard,
that even after doing this for a century (had it really been that
long?) the job still got to her. She understood Oz’s reluctance.
His fear. No one had prepared him for the ugliness of it. Maybe
being on his own was what he needed. Bard could be a little
difficult to handle.

A nurse stood at the elevators when Cora
found her way to them. She still got lost in this place. It seemed
like they were always renovating.

The doors opened and a group of six or so
candy stripers filed out. One of them, immersed in her cell phone,
bumped Cora’s shoulder.

“Oh, sorry,” the girl said without looking
up.

“It’s fi—” Cora started, but caught
herself.

The girl entered the elevator and the doors
closed between them.

Cora’s eyes darted over the semi-crowded hall
and the nurse’s station. Had any of them seen her come out of
Marjory’s room? No, they hadn’t even realized she was dead yet. To
her left, a youngish man locked eyes with her.

She ran for the stairwell. This couldn’t be
good. She had to find Bard. Now.

* * *

Bard waited for the foursome to be served
their meal before walking up behind them. The group looked to one
another with panicked expressions and toppled chairs in their
effort to hurry from the restaurant. Bard’s choices were: three
salads that looked like they’d been gathered from the tangle of
weeds behind the building and a yellow-sauced chicken concoction.
He sat down and began scraping the sauce from the chicken breast
with a fork.

He blamed Oz for this. He hadn’t been a slave
to bodily cravings in a century. The stress the kid was putting him
under made it difficult to think of anything else.

Smalls sat across from Bard, still holding a
paper towel from the bathroom.

“You
would
leave me the rabbit food,”
he said.

Bard put a piece of chicken in his mouth and
made a face. “You’re not missing out on much.”

“Thanks for your help back there, by the
way.”

Bard grunted, still chewing.

“Seriously. Either I’m getting older or the
wolves are getting faster.”

Or there is some serious bullshit going
on.

Smalls stuffed a purple leaf in his mouth. “I
figured you’d have your little protégé in tow, though. Where is
he?”

Bard shrugged. “Fuck if I know.”

“He’s missing?” Smalls’ eyes widened.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Because you know the last time one of us
went MIA—”

“I know, Smalls, I was there.”

Smalls’s face reddened. “I know. I’m just
saying.”

“Well don’t. I got it handled.”

Bard fixed his eyes on the congealing chicken
and pushed it around the plate with his fork. Truth was, he didn’t
have a damn clue what was happening, but he knew something wasn’t
right. Bard could feel it, like an itch at the center of his back.
He wasn’t about to tell Smalls, that, though. Not before he’d had a
chance to figure out exactly what Oz was up to and stop it.

* * *

Oz thought the wolf had come for him—karma
finally came to bite a chunk out of his ass.

“You all right, there, friend?” Ethan
asked.

Oz glanced at the glass of whiskey being
pushed into his hand. When he turned back, the wolf was gone. Not
gone, he still felt its presence, but somewhere else.

“I thought I saw... something,” Oz said.

“Uh oh,” Ethan said with a knowing smile.
“Someone’s had a little much. Might do something reckless.”

Oz ignored him and drained his whiskey. The
presence of a wolf wouldn’t have disturbed him if he hadn’t been
positive that he chose to be at the bar, not because the job forced
him there. No joystick this time. No one was meant to die.

The house lights went out and a spotlight
washed over the stage.

“Finally,” Ethan said, “I thought they’d
never get the show started.”

The emcee, a shirtless man in cut-off shorts,
sashayed out onto the stage, but Oz couldn’t focus on what he said.
He’d spotted the wolf again, hovering close to the stage, but still
looking in the direction of Ethan and his crowd. It was bigger than
the others he’d seen, the size of a small horse, with patches of
fur missing from its scorched skin, like it had been burnt off. In
place of eyes, it had black holes that emitted yellow smoke.

The blonde pushed his way into the center of
Ethan’s orbit.

“I’m getting us all shots in honor of Ethan’s
new-old friend. Who wants a shot?”

“Of what?” a guy asked.

“Tequila, bitch.”

A few hoots.

He curtseyed and began a wobbly cat-walk
toward the bar.

The wolf’s non-eyes followed him, tongue
dangling.

Steps away from the bar, the wolf rocketed
upward and landed with a heap on Blonde’s chest. Its massive teeth
locked on his neck and tore from it his Ba which pulsed red like a
light before it goes out for good. Blonde’s body convulsed and foam
erupted from his mouth.

The emcee screamed into the mic. The feedback
from the speakers was deafening.

Ethan ran toward his friend, punching buttons
on his cell phone.

The wolf swallowed the Ba with an audible
slurp. Blonde’s bulge passed through the wolf’s throat in its
original shape, like a goat through a python.

Oz’s stomach lurched.

He didn’t wait to see who else the wolf
decided to take. He ran from the bar, and as he reached the street,
he collapsed to his knees and gagged and coughed until everything
inside him flowed out in a river of chunky bile. When there was
nothing left, he spit, and then spit again.

He knew the wolf wouldn’t follow him. It’d
get its fill in the bar, but that didn’t make Oz feel anything
other than afraid. Afraid to go anywhere. Afraid to be around
anyone.

Going back to the apartment was out of the
question, so he walked in the general direction of
away
until he couldn’t keep his eyes open. When he couldn’t walk
anymore, he stretched out on a bench inside a dilapidated bus
shelter and fell asleep.

Chapter
Eighteen

A sharp pain in his ribs jolted Oz out of a
restless sleep. It took him a few tries to take a successful
breath.

“My spot.”

An old black woman covered in several layers
of mixed, unwashed clothes stood over Oz with a large stick in her
hand, poised to strike.

“The fuck is your problem, lady?”

She whacked him in the thigh. It stung down
to his ankle.

“You’re in my spot.” She raised the stick a
third time.

“Okay, okay.” Oz stood on shaky legs. “Fine.
Take it.”

The woman slid onto the bench and pulled a
frightened looking kitten from between her massive breasts and
stroked its matted head while she hummed.

He was technically an instrument of death. A
deliverer of judgment. And now a crazy cat lady ordered him around.
The world had officially gone to pot.

The sun had moved high enough in the sky to
be annoying. He wanted sleep. He wanted to curl up into a ball and
disappear.

“Boy, you done fucked up,” crazy cat lady
said.

“Pardon?”

“You don’t end up sleepin’ on a bus
bench—someone else’s bus bench—‘cause you done everything right in
your life.”

Crazy cat lady
and
a magus.

“So what do I do?”

“Simple. Stop fuckin’ up.”

“That’s not simple.”

Crazy Cat Lady glared. “Sure it is. Stay away
from my bench.”

“Okay.”

It was that simple, and it wasn’t. He could
go back to doing what he was supposed to, but then what? He didn’t
have that unnoticeability anymore so there was slim chance he’d be
able to go within five feet of the people whose Bas needed
collecting. And even if he did, there was still the matter of those
who he let the wolves steal. Ethan’s friend was dead because of
him—his cowardly inability to do what was required. Oz doubted the
reapers were a forgiving crowd. He’d be judged swiftly and with
prejudice.

What exactly had he been trying to accomplish
anyway? Maybe, in the back of his mind, he wanted to force the hand
of judgment.

He wasn’t so sure he wanted that anymore.

His inaction had given some kind of power to
the wolves. They didn’t hesitate like they used to. They attacked
without reason. In his effort to avoid killing, he’d made it easier
for them to do so. Bard had been right. The balance that both he
and Cora mentioned was thrown, Oz could feel it, and he didn’t know
if it was something he could correct on his own. But he had to try,
and he hoped that they didn’t come looking for him before he
succeeded.

* * *

They had a distinct smell—the wolves. Rotten
meat, worse than any back-alley dumpster or sewer. The other
reapers were oblivious to it, but Bard’s nose was sensitive, or
maybe he’d only grown to detest it more.

He smelled it the moment Smalls had gone on
to his next pick.

Across the street from the restaurant a young
couple and their two small children licked ice cream cones. The
smaller child was having trouble keeping the ice cream from
dripping down his hand. His father struggled to get it under
control with the tiny napkin afforded to him by the shop. After
handing off his cone to his wife, he walked back inside. An
otherwise innocuous shadow along the wall crept in behind him.

Bard raced across the street and when he
reached the door, he pulled the handle but the door was stuck fast.
He peered inside through cupped hands. The shadow peeled from the
wall and took the shape of a wolf. It stalked closer to the father
who was ripping napkins from a silver dispenser.

Bard banged his fist on the glass door. “Hey!
Get out of there!”

The wolf looked back over its shoulder and
sneered.

“Why don’t you come out here and face me you
smelly fuck!”

Bard rammed his shoulder into the door.

The wolf snorted a great puff of steam before
leaping onto the father, jaws gaping wide. Blood splashed across
the glass.

Bard covered his ears against the mother’s
screams.

They’d been scavengers, picking on the
remains of what the reapers didn’t get to in time or left behind
out of some foresight or mistake. Now the air was different. The
wolves had become hunters.