The Golden Age of Death (A CALLIOPE REAPER-JONES NOVEL) (17 page)

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starr did not
feel any guilt about what she’d done. After all, she wasn’t responsible for the Vargr attack. That was someone
else’s work. She’d just gotten Edgar Freezay to Sea Verge. That was it—and it was only because Frank had promised to fork over many special things in return for her help. Otherwise she would’ve just as happily said, “no.”

Not that she really cared whose side she was on. It was more about what benefited her needs best. That was the Sirens’ creed: Only do the things that benefit you directly. She knew it sounded harsh, but this golden rule had been working to the Sirens’ benefit for as long as they’d ruled the sea.

Speaking of the sea…
thank God
Sea Verge was right on the water. She wondered if her half sister had made use of the proximity—she doubted it; the woman had always been so touchy about her half-Siren heritage—but Starr would have to ask her about it the next time she saw her. Not that she’d seen much of her half sister since the woman had returned to the sea. Death’s widow had become a real hermit these days, hiding out in some godforsaken cave over by the Mariana Trench, isolating herself from her Siren family, and not even
once
inviting Starr over for a visit.

Well, her half sister could just have her hermit-y little cave. It wasn’t like she’d been in Starr’s life much before she’d come back to the sea anyway. No, she’d chosen to live on land with the humans, to marry Death, and ignore everything
Siren
about herself.

Pushing away thoughts of her ungrateful half sister, Starr decided now was as good a time as any to make her exit. She had zero interest in becoming entangled in the violent free-for-all happening around her. She would be sorry to leave the detective behind because she loved a sexy man-challenge—and Edgar Freezay, that strapping specimen of human manhood, would definitely be a tough nut to crack. Especially now he knew she’d lied to him and had ulterior motives for bringing him to Sea Verge. It made her feel powerful that she’d been able to beguile him, but now she was sad she wasn’t going to get to do naughty things to his muscular body.

As the fighting heated up, Starr took a moment to scan the room, looking for the most direct escape route. If she wanted to avoid the craziness, the best way would be to smash open one of the windows and jump. It was probably a little extreme, but she thought escaping a full-on Vargr-pack attack called for
extreme measures. She looked around for something to smash the window with, but there were only a few large pieces of furniture, nothing she could pick up without a lot of effort.

She decided there was nothing to do, but use her own body as a battering ram.

Clearing her mind, she took a running start and threw herself at the window, the glass shattering on impact. Shards of translucent glass rained down on top of her as she landed in one of the shrubs encircling the side of the house, its branches cushioning her fall. As she tried to extract herself from the shrub, waxy emerald leaves edged in prickles tore at her skin and hair, one of them even stabbing itself into the wound on her cheek, sending a shock of raw pain through her jaw.

She bit her lip to keep from crying out, then began to drag herself from the plant’s grasping branches. It was a fight, the shrub seeming to like the taste of her skin and blood, but she was finally able to free herself, landing in the grass and skinning her bare knee. A trail of blood ran down the front of her calf, but she didn’t dare waste any time inspecting her wounds, just climbed to her feet and, ignoring the pain in her cheek and knee, began the short jog across the lawn toward the water.

She could hear the sound of the surf crashing against the rocky shoals—and the knowledge the sea was so close drove her forward. The glamour she’d used to create human legs began to fade as she neared the water, and she had to push herself to reach the cliff’s edge before she lost control of the spell and transformed back into a mermaid.

She ran faster, the edge of the cliff now only a few feet away. Closing her eyes as she stepped off the edge, she felt the land drop away underneath her feet. Savoring her triumphant return to the water, she squealed with joy as her body began the long drop down to the sea.

He spoke slowly and without emotion, almost as if he were giving a deposition and wanted every last detail nailed down so he wouldn’t be accused of perjury. And, somehow, this emotionless retelling made the story even more horrific:

“It was Anjea who made the ‘Golden Age of Death’ prediction upon the news of your mother’s pregnancy,” Marcel said. “So she knew she would be a target. But there was no reason to suspect we’d been followed.”

“Everyone’s always shooting the messenger,” I said, my thoughts bleak.

We were all in the kitchen: Marcel on a barstool next to the kitchen island, Jarvis futzing by the stove top. Runt and I were splayed out on the floor below the sink, my back pressed up against the kitchen cabinets.

“I’ve made it my business to keep tabs on Anjea, to always know what she was thinking,” he said. “But I didn’t know she was aware of how closely I watched her.”

“She knew,” Jarvis said.

“Yes,” Marcel agreed. “I realized this when she came to me and proposed I make an alliance with you—she was many steps ahead of all of us.”

“She was a seer,” Jarvis said to me, as he began the preparations
for a magical poultice he thought might draw out Runt’s voice. “Your father consulted her on many occasions.”

“Then why didn’t she know they were coming for her?” I asked.

No one seemed to have an answer for this.

“Who’s to say
what
Anjea’s intentions were,” Marcel said. “She’s gone now and that’s all the outcome we need to know.”

“So you followed the man who beheaded her?” Jarvis asked. “That’s how you came upon Runt?”

Marcel nodded.

“I believe someone is trying to systematically take out anyone who might be of help to you. I’m surprised your assistant is still living. He’d be the first creature I’d dispatch if I was going to cut your legs out from under you.”

“Great,” I said to Marcel then I turned to Jarvis: “I think he’s trying to say you’re a pretty special dude, Jarvis.”

Jarvis rolled his eyes.

“I was able to piggyback on the killer’s wormhole,” Marcel said, his eyes on the microwave above my head as the timer slowly counted down to zero.

The Ender of Death had expressed his hunger to Jarvis, and Jarvis had obliged him by putting together a plate of leftovers from the refrigerator that he’d then shoved into the microwave, setting the timer for five minutes.

“I had no idea he was going after your hellhound,” Marcel added, one eye still locked on the revolving plate inside the microwave.

I let Marcel’s words wash over me. What kind of bastard went after a defenseless puppy?

Hard at work at the stove preparing the poultice, Jarvis shook his head, and I knew he was thinking the same thing.

The microwave chose that moment to finish its cooking cycle and Marcel leapt to his feet, extracting the plate of steaming food and sitting back down in two seconds flat. He didn’t seem at all bothered by the sizzling sound the food was making, just picked up his cutlery and dug in.

“She was alone, guarding the entrance to the South Gate of Hell, which made the attack easy,” Marcel said, in between bites of food. “There were already two men there when we arrived.
One of them, the one I assumed was the leader because he never got his hands dirty, looked like a weasel. The other was just the muscle. A big mountain of a man.”

“What about the man you were following?” I asked.

“I had the element of surprise,” Marcel said, grinning wickedly. “He didn’t expect me to follow him. He probably thought I’d wormhole after you. Since no one knows of our alliance, they’ll continue to assume that it’s you I’m after.”

“You killed him?” I asked

“I wrung his neck. And then I wrung the neck of the Mountain who slid his knife into your hellhound’s throat.”

His words were grotesque. Made more so by the lack of emotion he showed when talking about the men he’d murdered. I wanted to close my ears, but being oblivious to the harsh realities of the world I inhabited wasn’t possible anymore.

“It’s ready,” Jarvis said, removing a thick cotton dish towel from a kitchen hook and dropping it into the bubbling pot.

It appeared as though the painstaking process of combining herbal elements over a super-heated flame (and intoning words only Jarvis knew the meaning of) had worked. The poultice was ready.

Runt struggled to her feet, thumping her tail against the cabinet as she watched Jarvis draw the dish towel from the pot. Carrying the steaming towel in his bare hands, he brought it over to Runt and laid it over the wound in her neck. The smell coming off the dish towel was intense, and something, one of the herbs probably, made Runt sneeze.

“Bless you,” I said, and it felt odd to have my polite puppy—who always said “thank you” after a sneeze—remain silent.

“I’m so sorry, little one,” I said, petting her side as she looked up at me sadly.

She leaned against me, her body pinning me to the cabinet door I was leaning against—and I was unprepared for how much growing she’d done since the last time I saw her. She was practically dog sized now.

“Do you think it will work?” I asked Jarvis, who was now busying himself over the sink, cleaning up the mess he’d made in order to craft the poultice. Behind him, Marcel ate the last bite of leftover turkey and mashed potatoes Jarvis and I’d had for dinner the night before.

“The poultice
may
work,” Jarvis said.

“May?” I asked, as I watched him rinse out the aluminum pot before sliding it into the dishwasher.

This was a habit I’d never understood. It was called a “dishwasher” for a reason. Why clean the dish beforehand?

“I hope it will work. It’s strong magic and it should be able to reverse the damage, but…” He trailed off, not meeting my gaze as he picked up another dish towel from the counter and dried his hands with it.

“So, why the
but
at the end of that sentence?” I asked.

“If everything Marcel told us is true, then the poultice will work,” he said, deflecting my question on to Marcel.

The Ender of Death didn’t seem fazed to have his story called into question.

“I have no reason to lie,” he offered, wiping a dab of mashed potato from his chin. “It was exactly as I said.”

I caught Jarvis’s eye. Neither of us trusted the Ender of Death, but the fact he’d saved Runt’s life made it harder to outright despise him—and he
had
saved her life.

There was no doubt about it.

If he’d been lying, she’d have done something to let us know. Instead, she’d lain on the floor beside me, panting slightly, but never once stirring as he’d relayed the story.

“How long do we have to wait before we know?” I asked.

Jarvis checked his watch, lips pursed.

“Five minutes, more or less.”

Runt thumped her tail.

“It’ll work,” I said, giving her a squeeze. “I have faith in anything Jarvis does.”

I meant what I said. I really did think Jarvis could fix anything. And if he couldn’t help Runt, well…then I didn’t want to think about it.

As if she’d read my mind and was telling me everything would be all right regardless of the outcome, she rested her chin on my shoulder and nuzzled my neck. I reached up and patted her head.

Blissed out, she closed her eyes and snuffled happily into my shoulder, letting me know I should continue the petting, which, of course, I did.

The poultice was closer to me now, though, and my nose
wrinkled at the smell. Runt didn’t seem put off by the stink, but that wasn’t saying much. She liked all kinds of weird, pungent scents I found disgusting.

“How much longer?” I asked, looking over at Jarvis.

“Three minutes.”

It was a very long three minutes.

Inside, I was bargaining with myself: If Runt got her voice back, I’d quit buying sunglasses…I’d never act like a bitch ever again…I’d be a better Death.

Frankly, I would’ve done anything to guarantee Runt came out of everything okay. But God wasn’t into bargains—and it didn’t matter what I promised to do, Runt was either going to be healed, or she wasn’t.

“One minute,” Jarvis said.

“Once this has been decided, Death, we need to go,” Marcel said, picking up his dish and taking it to the sink. “It’s not safe here anymore.”

“No, we’ll go when I say we go,” I said, not liking the idea of Marcel thinking he could just tell me what to do.

“I only say it because it’s true,” Marcel said, pulling “a Jarvis” and washing his dish before placing it in the dishwasher. “They will hunt you down if you stay here. Already they may be on their way.”

“I just need you to back off for a minute,” I said.

Right then, all I cared about was whether Runt was going to be okay or not. I didn’t need Marcel’s matter-of-fact voice hammering in my ear.

“I’m just saying—”

“It’s time,” Jarvis said.

He squatted down next to Runt.

“Let’s see now,” he said, removing the dish towel from Runt’s neck.

I was hoping for a miracle, but when she tried to speak, nothing came out. Not even a sigh. She hung her head before I could see the resignation in her eyes—and I had to admit to myself the magical poultice hadn’t worked.

I started to cry. I couldn’t help myself. The tears just came of their own accord and I was unable to stop them.

“It’s okay, baby,” I said, brushing the tears away with the back of my hands. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Runt continued to look at the ground, mute. I reached out and pulled her to me, hugging her tightly to my chest.

At least she’s alive,
I thought.
You should be grateful for that.

Alive for now,
another voice whispered, ripping the last shred of my self-control away from me.

“They’re going to come after every one of them, aren’t they?” I cried, addressing my question to Marcel. “All the people I love. They’ll kill every one of them, won’t they?”