Scythe Read online

  All her hope for Lance vanished. She whipped back to her brother. “Ax? Please tell me you aren’t mixed up with Ax again.”

  Lance lowered his gaze to the street.

  “And the Emissary job last week? Tell me he didn’t bring you in on it.”

  Again he gave no words, and again her world shrank. A tight ache settled in her chest.

  Lance shifted back and forth. “It’s all good, G. Smoke said.”

  She stepped into his face. “Smoke said? You talked to Smoke? The leader of our Legion gave you audience?”

  He looked away again. These days, avoidance was the answer he gave more often than not.

  Ax slid in front of her and leaned in. A jean jacket, with the arms torn off, framed a smiley face on his bright-yellow shirt, the letters F U beneath the broad grin. “Women. A burden no man should have to bear. Maybe that’s why your daddy left after you were born.” He touched her lips. She drew away and teetered on the sidewalk’s ledge. “You would be good for only one thing.” He licked his lips.

  Lance edged forward. “That’s my sister. Don’t.”

  Ax leaned back, hiked up his T, and scratched his stomach near the branded symbol on his gut of two skeleton hands, their fingers forming a heart at the center.

  G knocked his shirt down and scanned around. “Ax? There are Unclaimed here.”

  “What? Being an Emissary is the shit. We,” he motioned to him and Lance, “get to Claim wrongdoers into the Legion. Stab people at work. I don’t get why all the Emissaries give up their position when they Ascend. I would never give this up. Too much fun.” He opened his jacket. A baggie stuck out of the inside pocket.

  Lance fixated in.

  “Damn it.” G stepped between them, pushing Lance back. “You’re using again.”

  Lance rubbed his arm, like need throbbed in his veins. “No. You know I’m not.”

  Ax raised his brows. Piercings lined the whole of his right eyebrow. “Things are brewing. All three brothers are vying for position. We’ve all known, one day, one of the Rulers was going to make a move and take over the three Legions, rip the power right out of his brothers’ dying hands. I’m just making sure Lance and I are in camp with the bloody-handed brother, not the bleeding ones.”

  She whipped the baggie out of Ax’s pocket. Blue gunk, like play dough, congealed in the bottom. “Functions?” She chucked the baggie at Lance, and it fell to the pavement. “You’re using Function drugs now too?”

  Ax scooped up the baggie. “Not using. Helping them find their way to customers.”

  Nerves skittered inside her. “You’re dealing for Smoke?”

  Lance’s eyes bugged, and he gaped at Ax.

  Ax shrugged. “Sure, we’re dealing for Smoke. He is our Ruler.”

  She crossed her arms. “You hate Smoke.”

  Ax waved the blue baggie at her. “I like the Ascended. They buy Functions. And since Lance here,” Ax swung his arm around Lance’s shoulder, “will soon be one of them, I want to make sure his transition is smooth, pave the way.”

  G yanked Lance away from Ax and grabbed the sides of his face, aiming her brother’s gaze at her. “Don’t buy it, Lance. Ax is the one that got you, us, into this mess.”

  He bobbed his head to her. “You’re right. As soon as I get the last five names on my back. It’s just you and me. He promised.”

  “Damn it, Lance. He’d promise you’d be the next Ruler if it’d get him what he wanted.” Her voice shook, for his sake and her own. A bell chimed. She checked the time, 3PM. “I have to go.” She shook her head at Lance and marched into the consignment store.

  INSIDE THE SHOP, G wiped her hands down her body, attempting to scour Ax from existence, and hustled through the cluttered aisles. At the back counter a young guy, messy hair and freckles, fiddled with a broken music box. He glanced up, straightened, and pushed the box aside. “Can I help you?”

  She leaned in and whispered, “I need to see the Monger.”

  The guy deflated, went back to his box, and called out, “Huckster, it’s for you.”

  A man, who looked maybe fifty, emerged from behind a changing curtain. Gray speckled his temples and zigzagged through his dusky hair. He bent his finger, motioning G to follow. Love handles pouched over his corduroy pants and a long ponytail dangled on his sunburst tunic. At a concealed, cracked, wooden door, he gestured for her to show her stomach.

  She tucked up her black T-shirt, showing him the symbol on her skin – an antique scale, a teardrop balanced on one side, and a branded black line on the other.

  “A Giver?” His eyes danced. “Of course you are. Look at you, you little tough cookie.”

  Huckster unlocked the door and led her down a flight of stairs. At the bottom, with a different key, he unlocked an iron gate.

  In the basement Claimed supplies filled the walls and floor space. He skated in behind a dusty, glass display-counter. Labeled, sealed boxes secured the Legion’s sacred cloths. On a worktable in the corner several daggers, handles removed, were in different states of repair. Metal shelves behind him held several vats, vials, and jugs.

  She pointed at a jug labeled Bane, the liquid she used in the ritual as the Giver, and set her empty bottle on the counter.

  He stepped up on a stool.

  A ruckus sounded behind her, and the gate swung open.

  A woman in her twenties, hair like the sun, skin bronzed porcelain, and an air of refinement, hurried through the door. She stopped, straightened her emerald-hued dress, and sashayed to the counter.

  The Monger stepped down from the stool. “Hey, no one can just come in here.”

  G scooted aside.

  “I’m sorry to intrude.” The woman curtsied to G and the Monger. “But I’m in quite a hurry. I need to purchase…” She scanned around and settled her gaze on a box in the glass counter before her. “One Cloth of the Hallow, please.” She set a stack of hundreds on the glass.

  The man’s brow tightened. He slid the cash toward the woman. “There’s not enough money in the world for me to sell you anything in here, Miss Liberty Ash.”

  Liberty Ash? G’s heart fluttered. The Ruler’s daughter?

  Behind the counter, a framed, hand-drawn poster hung on the wall. Bold, on top, was the title The Legions of the Claimed. A list of Rulers and their families blanketed the paper. The last name on the list was Liberty – heir of Smoke Ash, Ruler of the Top Legion. Beneath her name were the labels the Curse and the Ceremony with a footnote the burden of daughters.

  The last two years had changed G’s soul more than even the loss of her parents. She couldn’t imagine the power the Claimed had on the souls of the names on the poster. Thousands of years of history lived in their blood.

  G lowered her gaze but drew it back up to Liberty. She was mesmerizing, like a moonlit flower at midnight. A daring flower — out with no protectors, purchasing a Claimed tool not of her position, trying to pay off a Monger. All beautifully frightening actions.

  The Monger crossed his arms. “I’ve been at this game for fifty years. I’m not having your daddy bring me Second Death over a stupid cloth.”

  Liberty’s eyes flared. She inhaled long and deep. Her fists clenched.

  “And after fifty years, I don’t plan on receiving Consequence for being the one who tells him about your request, neither.”

  She relaxed her hands. “Fair enough. Do you know anyone who might be willing?”

  “I’m the only Monger in town, at least for your father’s Legion. The other fellows weren’t as smart. Met their Second Death. And the daggers haven’t yet found new souls to assign the position.” Heavy footfalls sounded above. “And if you’re smart, which I know you are, I’d head out that door over there,” he glimpsed at a metal door behind the counter, “and skedaddle down the alley, back to where you’re supposed to be.”

  Someone banged on the door at the top of the stairs.

  “Thank you, Mr. Monger.” Liberty turned to G. “Sorry for purloining your turn.” She rushe
d to the door and shut it behind her.

  The gate flew open, and the two large men from down the street rushed in. “Where is she?”

  The Monger turned around and grabbed the jug of Bane off the shelf. “Let me finish with this kind lady, and you’ll get your turn.”

  One of the men yanked up his own shirt, revealing the branded emblem of a Shield.

  G tensed. Smoke’s Shields are after Liberty? Of course they are. She ditched them. She smiled, then flattened it. She felt for Liberty. Rumors circulated that Smoke rarely permitted her time out of their home and never permitted her privacy.

  The Monger ignored the Shield, refilled her bottle of Bane, and slid it toward her. “On the house, for your inconvenience.” He bowed to her.

  “Thank you.” She clutched the bottle, nodded back, and hurried toward the exit.

  The Shields got in the Monger’s face. “Liberty Ash. You seen her?”

  “Of course.”

  G’s heart sunk, and she peeked back in through the gate.

  “Lots of times. I’ve been in the Legion for fifty years. There isn’t much I haven’t seen. You fellows customers or loiters? ‘Cause I got business to attend to.”

  She smiled and tiptoed up the stairs. She had gotten her Bane for free, witnessed a Monger have integrity, and met the Ruler’s daughter.

  If Liberty could hold her head high, break small rules for the greater good, demand respect when her society labeled her a Curse, maybe she could too.

  At the exit of the store, she stared at the Bane. “I don’t want to have to fill this again.”

  From behind, someone snatched the bottle out of her hand. She spun. Ax tilted the gray liquid back and forth in the glass. “I’ll never forget the time you used Bane on me. Your hand on my skin. That look on your face.”

  She gritted her teeth and grabbed for the bottle.

  He held it up out of her reach. “Yeah, that’s the look. That hate in your eyes. So hot.”

  “Give it back.”

  “Of course.” Ax set the bottle in her hand. “You’ll be needing this tomorrow night. I got a special Give ordered for you.”

  “I’m not doing it.”

  He laughed. “You’ll get the Summons, and you’ll do what you’re told. Like always.” He handed her a note with a name written on it.

  Lead filled her insides. “No.”

  “Yes. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.” Ax smiled. “God, I love the Legion.”

  Three

  SLY DREW IN A BREATH. Burnt flesh and metal. The scent so strong it made his eyes sting.

  I must be in hell. He shivered. Why am I so cold?

  He opened his eyes. Hell looked a whole lot like his bedroom. Same cracked drywall, same bare light-fixture, and same annoying street light visible through his curtains in the late morning sun.

  Hell of a bad dream.

  He rubbed his eyes. His hand brushed a sticky material covering his mouth. He flinched and ripped duct-tape off his face. Dry blood encrusted the strip.

  He pulled in a breath. His chest rose, his lungs expanded, and the smell of charred flesh increased.

  “I’m alive?” He stared at the blood on the tape. “No fucking way.”

  He pushed up the long sleeve of his T-shirt. Boot-sole impressions marred the black flame tattoo on his wrist. “This...this can’t be.”

  He rushed to the bathroom mirror. The room spun. He staggered and careened into the sink. He steadied himself and gaped at his reflection. Blood stained his face and soaked the torn motorcycle image on his shirt. He laced his fingers into the gashes and ripped the holes open. Three inch-long stab-wounds formed the top of a crescent, three more lacerations shaped the bottom, the wounds forming an eyelid. In the center, the seventh puncture created the pupil. A scorched flare surrounded the middle incision like an iris.

  He touched the eye on his chest. Pain bloomed from it.

  “Why aren’t I dead?”

  Underneath the eye, dark symbols were burned into his flesh. He rose to see them in the mirror. A skeleton with wings, on bended knees, offered up a dagger. And branded below, the name Scythe.

  REV CRACKED SLY’S door open. A beam of light cut across the room. Dust particles danced in the brightness. He braced himself for the stench of used whiskey, but the scent was dark and spicy, like carbonized iron. A chill ran through him, and he stepped back.

  “Sly?” He eased into the room.

  The place was the same, mattress and box spring, walls blank, the room bare except for a few shelves of clothes and several half-full boxes. The blanket was crumpled on the bed. Rev slid it off. The sheet was soaked through with blood.

  “Holy shit.” Rev rushed to the bedroom door, but stopped. Water ran in the shower. He looked from the blood-soaked bed to the closed washroom door. “Sly?” he whispered. He nudged the door open. A wet chill rushed out, the hiss of water on plastic louder in his ears. Behind the curtain, a set of feet stuck out on the shower floor. He stepped in further. Legs in wet sweatpants were propped against the shower wall, the cloth plastered to bent knees.

  Ice-cold mist prickled Rev’s skin. He edged back the curtain.

  Sly was slumped on the floor of the stall, lifeless, eyes closed, under the cold spray, a torn blood-stained shirt draped over his chest, his face pale, his head limp against the shower wall. His hands lay palms up in a puddle in the basin.

  “Sly?”

  There was no response.

  He stepped closer and extended his hand. “Sly?” The tips of his fingers quivered within an inch of his roommate’s wet, motionless shoulder. “Fuck, man. What happened?”

  Sly’s eyes popped open. “Somebody fucking stabbed me.”

  Rev startled, stumbled into the toilet, and fell to the floor.

  The deep blue in Sly’s eyes had drained to the color of ice.

  “Holy crap.” Rev crawled over to him. “Oh, God. I thought you were dead.”

  Sly lowered his head and clutched his face. “I think I am.”

  REV ROCKED AGAINST the bedroom wall and rubbed his arms. Listening to his friend recount the events from two nights ago required movement. “Damn, I’m cold. And I’m not the one who got offed.” He kneaded his hands together. “The unbelievable sure does give me the shivers.”

  Sly paced, and continued his story. “I woke up like this. Sat in the shower.” He wrapped a towel around his shoulders and eased onto the floor at the foot of the blood-soaked bed. “And then you came in.”

  Rev churned the story over in his mind. The dots didn’t connect. “So...can you tell me again? ‘Cause honest, it just don’t sound right. Are you sure they actually stabbed you? Because besides a good case of the pales, I gotta say, you don’t look dead. I’ve actually seen you look worse after a good, hard night of Black Label.”

  Sly opened the towel, revealing the remains of the daggers’ time in his flesh and the black burn of the kneeling, winged skeleton below.

  “You sure that wasn’t there before?” Rev said.

  Sly half laughed. “I’m pretty sure I would have noticed.” He covered himself with the towel and rested his elbows on his jeans, his black hair shrouding his face.

  “You don’t say much about much...but I know you were running from something. Was this it?”

  Sly shook his head ‘no.’ “I thought, at first, it was. But, I have no idea what this is.”

  “Cult? You not a Kool-Aid fan are you?”

  Sly shook ‘no’ at him.

  Rev looked Sly over. “Well, you don’t seem any different. Except the cuts, burns, and giant-ass pool of your blood on the sheets. But....” Rev dropped off and pulled back, his eyes wide. “Dude, you’re not breathing.”

  Sly sucked in a breath. “I know. I went a whole five minutes without a breath. The breathing only happens when I think about it.” He pulled on the skin below his lashes. “And my eyes. They’re not right. They’re so dry. I couldn’t cry if I wanted to.” He forced another breath. “What’s wrong w
ith me?”

  Someone banged on the outside of Sly’s door, and Vegan’s voice blasted through the wood. “Pig alert. Crawler pulled up outside. Damn bastard didn’t call first. I disappeared the stash and goodies, but you need to get drunk-ass up, presentable, and looking very out-of-town guest, pronto.”

  Rev bolted up. “Shit.” He scanned the room. “You get the boxes out the window. I’ll kill the bed.” He eyed the dark, sticky sheets. “Scratch that. I’ll throw your shit out the window. You get your own deathbed.”

  A knock sounded on the front door.

  Rev poured Sly’s crappy life out the back window.

  Sly didn’t move.

  “Sly? Jail, man.” Rev pointed at the bed. “Crawler sees that and all three of us are sitting bad-side-of-the-bars before he even asks for a payoff. Buying him off with stink-weed only draws me and Vegan so much slack.”

  Sly didn’t respond.

  “Dude, you can’t shut down now.”

  Sly slumped against the wall.

  “Crap. Move.” Rev yanked the bloody sheet off the mattress, shoved it in a garbage bag, and tossed it out the window. The mattress was soaked through with probable cause. He hustled to the washroom, grabbed shampoo, and poured it on the bed. He spread a spare blanket on top and tucked in the sides. “Lay here.” Rev pointed at the bed.

  The towel dropped off Sly’s shoulders. The daggered eye and charred symbol shone bold on his chest.

  “That’s not gonna fly.” He shivered. “Damn, that’s something creepy.” He grabbed a T-shirt off the shelf and threw it at Sly. “Put this on.”

  The front door creaked, and the grinding voice of Rev and Vegan’s probation officer drifted down the hall. “I see you’ve been sticking with your decorating theme of losers with whack priorities on parole.” Rev peeked out. Crawler pointed at the room’s décor – the old, Chevy bucket-seat couch, glass-covered engine-block table, and gorilla-rack wall-unit supporting a 42” flat screen, video game units, and Bose music equipment.