Chapter 10

The other servants of Death I've encountered are those beings capable of traveling between the worlds, who have for one reason or another sworn themselves in service to the great god. They are called reapers. They are many, they are meddlesome, and they are not to be trifled with.

-Hecate's Guide to Arcane Philosophy

Rorick

W hen I was certain Dominion was gone, I examined the mirror more closely. The words remained there in tar-black smears: save the children .

"I wish he'd told us something useful," Quiet said, looking exhausted. Her shoulders drooped.

"He's no specter. That's for sure. I sense it's best that he doesn't try to speak to us." I rubbed at the glass, tracing the letters. "His voice could be dangerous for us to hear."

Quiet brightened a bit at that, realization dawning. "Like a god?"

"Are gods the only beings with a powerful voice?" I wasn't as informed on every aspect of arcane mythos as she was. In Purgatory, mythos was as often as not less myth and more history.

Quiet immediately began digging in her pockets. She produced a thick leatherbound book and flung it open, turning the pages with enthusiasm. "I think I know what Dominion is . . ." She licked her finger and swiped through several more pages. "Aha! A psychopomp. A servant of the god Death. The psychopomp carries the god's blessing . . . Their voice calls a soul into and out of its body, and their lantern leads the way through dimensional barriers. It's their job to guide children to their final rest."

She snapped the book shut. Hiking up her skirts, revealing a tear in her stockings, she shuffled out of the room, newly energized.

"Where are you going now?" I asked, following at her heels.

"I need more books." Quiet left her room and took the backstairs up to her laboratory. She had to throw her whole body weight against the door on the second floor to open it, the room was so cluttered with shelves and boxes and equipment. Her makeshift library covered three of the four walls, flanked by blackboards dusted in chalk. I imagined the inside of her mind looked similar, stuffed full of dusty facts.

Quiet grabbed a volume off one of the shelves and made herself comfortable at her desk beside her microscope and a collection of dirty beakers. I read the title along the spine: Hecate's Guide to Arcane Philosophy. The book in her hand was so large she had to prop it open on the desk.

"Do you need to learn everything about psychopomps right this instant? Can't this wait until you've slept?" I suggested. "The sun will rise soon, and you've been up since yesterday morning."

"I will, I will," she said, waving me away. "I'd like to read a few more passages first, and then I'll go straight to bed. Don't wait up if you're bushed. I'll be right down."

She radiated stubbornness, so I didn't bother to fight with her. I could see how tired she was. Her body would succumb soon anyway. We fell silent until only the rustle of pages could be heard.

She used her finger to guide her eyes across the print. It wasn't long before her head began to bob and her blinks grew heavy. Leaning against the doorframe, I waited patiently.

Quiet's eyes slid shut while she was still upright in her desk chair. Then she slumped over her book, snoring gently into the spine. I gathered her up in my arms and carried her downstairs. In her room, I helped her strip down to her shift. After tucking her into bed, I turned the standing mirror around so that it faced the wall—I didn't want ghostly visitors while we slept. Then I readied for bed and climbed in next to her.

I stared up at the dark ceiling, waiting on the sun slumber to take me, trying to decide if the image in my brain was a dream or a memory. Nonsense, or fact.

"What are you thinking about?" Quiet murmured beside me.

"Go to sleep," I told her.

She curled up against my side, turning my arm into a pillow for her cheek until she was close enough her sweet breath warmed my chin. "I can't," she insisted. "You're thinking too loudly."

"That's not a thing."

"It's a thing."

Clearly, there was no arguing with her. I could feel her stormy eyes boring holes into the side of my face. "Something the ichor said to me, it sparked this image in my head of the Nothing, of talking with Death. I'm trying to decide if it's a memory or a nonsense dream."

"Tell me about it. Sounds fascinating," she said, with a yawn wide enough I doubted she'd be awake much longer.

I humored her anyway. "In the dream—or memory—Death is so large I'm standing on him. The ground under my feet is made of the fibers of his cloak. I can't see all of him, he's so massive, but when he speaks to me, his breath is the wind, strong enough he nearly knocks me over. Death is the Nothing. His body makes it."

Another big yawn. "What'd the ichor say that made you think of all that?"

"He wanted to know why Death picked me, of all the souls in the Nothing. Why'd he give me his blood and bless me to be like him?"

"Gave you his blood? Death is a giant vampire, is that what you're saying?" she asked, awe in her voice. "I need to write all of this down."

The blankets shuffled. I caught her and yanked her back against me. "You don't need to write a thing down. Go to sleep. You've the best memory of anyone I've ever known."

"Because I write everything down!" she protested, but I didn't let her go. Eventually, she settled back against me. "Then what happened?"

"I can't remember what Death said to me, but . . . I sense he was pleased that we were alike. Pleased that I was so lonely."

"In mythos he's often referred to as the Lonely God. So perhaps there's the answer. The reason he chose you. He just saw a bit of you in him."

"Perhaps."

"I just need to rest my eyes a moment," she murmured. "Then I'll get right back to studying."

"Of course," I told her, pulling her in so close my chin rested in her hair. Her steady breaths puffed pleasantly against my throat. I wondered if I should loosen my hold on her so she could escape when she wanted to, but moments later, the sun slumber took me.

* * *

My dreams returned me to the tiny pub on the deserted street of the historic district. I took my seat across from Hecate, who poured me another strange cup of auburn tea. Her dark cloak billowed around her like the wings of a great crow.

"Am I dreaming?" I asked her, but she seemed not to hear me.

A journal appeared in my hands. A journal with a gilded reaping hook symbol in the spine and pages covered in magic that felt like smoke against my skin. I opened it up to a fresh page and readied my fountain pen. I was different in this dream, and I stole a look around trying to pinpoint exactly what had changed. Sunlight poured in through the window at my back. I felt the heat of it.

I wasn't a vampire in this vision. Not yet.

"I can't tell you anything about the worlds beyond unless I know your mind is ready," Hecate explained with the patience of an attentive teacher.

And though some part of me understood I was dreaming, another part took over here, remembering my role as pupil.

"But I am ready," I insisted. "You've seen my work. You said so yourself that it was impressive. If you help me, I have an idea that could help you—could help all of us. I think I understand what sacrifice Death wants. I could stop the cycle."

She cocked a brow at me. "If you're so ready, tell me what magic is."

I scoffed. "That's such a simple question. I'm almost offended."

Her cloak ruffled around her as though it had a mind of its own and I'd just insulted it. "Then answer me if it's so simple," she challenged.

"Magic is an arcane energy that emanates from—"

"Wrong," Hecate said briskly. She clinked the small spoon against the side of the teacup she was preparing, drying it.

I gaped at her. "That was a textbook definition. Your own words, in fact. I pulled that line straight from the book you authored."

"I'm familiar with my own work, thank you. My book on arcane philosophy was meant to help prepare those newer to magic. You're quoting basic concepts at me like you aren't an advanced alchemist. Becoming a god requires a mind capable of arising, Rorick. A mind willing and able to bend itself around matters not easily quantifiable. Your answer for those purposes is wrong."

I licked my dry lips. "Then magic is . . ."

Hecate sighed, waiting on me to pull my thoughts together. "I'm afraid I haven't got all day. Moving between worlds is a delicate thing. One can't travel backward down the path, only forward as new worlds grow and develop along the same branch. If I want to be in the right place at the correct time, I'll have to leave you soon."

"Leave me to do what?" I demanded.

Hecate's lips twisted drolly. "To meddle." She checked her pocket watch, that strange timepiece. This one had five different hands that spun in opposing directions.

It came to me then. She was giving me a hint as she was so fond of doing. "Time," I said, beaming at her. "Magic is time."

Her lips, usually firm, quirked upward at the corner. "Go on."

"Magic is time and effort," I expounded, "working congruently."

"What you say—though less elegant than I prefer—makes some sense." Hecate's gray gaze shimmered with praise. She pushed my tea toward me. "Have you not seen with your own eyes as time changes the things around you much like magic? A flower touched by time blooms and then decays. A child develops into an adolescent, an adolescent into an adult. A mind learns new things and is strengthened. Everyone in your world is touched by time and effort, are they not?"

I accepted my tea, lifting it toward my lips. It was so sweet and warm my eyes closed, savoring it.

And then the pub disappeared around me. I was no longer mortal. I was the Duke of the Dead, back in my grave, trapped in a pine box. My dead heart squeezed in my chest.

"But I'm not dead," I said to the cold and the darkness. "Please . . ."

Quiet came for me as she always did. She ripped the lid off my coffin, exposing me to the light. She saved me.

* * *

I awoke at dusk feeling energized. Quiet remained trapped in my arms, sleeping soundly. She'd had such a hard time of it the day before, I wasn't surprised. It thrilled me to have us on the same schedule again.

At least, we would be on the same schedule if I could get her to wake up.

I nuzzled her cheek with my jaw, trying to rouse her. She groaned, eyes stubbornly squeezed shut.

"We have work to do," I told her.

"Five more minutes," she begged against my throat. Then she rolled away from me onto her opposite side. I wouldn't let her escape me that easily. I'd awoken with a clarity of mind and purpose I hadn't had in ages.

"We have a case to solve and a conductor to track down," I told her.

"Hm," she grunted dismissively, squeezing her pillow between her hands.

Pushing aside her braid, I planted a kiss on the back of her neck. Her grunt turned into an appreciative hum.

"You have books to read," I said coaxingly. "Problems to solve. There could be math involved. How could you risk missing that?"

Her next breath was wistful as she moved onto her back, granting me more access to her. I kissed the column of her throat, trailing my lips down to where the hollow of her collarbone met her neck. I felt her settling in against me, trying to return to sleep. To discourage her slumber, I licked her pulse, and she moaned.

"As tempting as you are, I can't remember the last time I was this tired," she groused, digging her cheek into her pillow, hunting for a comfortable spot.

"Then allow me to share some of my newfound energy with you." I spoke along the shell of her ear. Then I sucked lightly at that throbbing vein that beckoned me, allowing my teeth to scrape against her soft skin.

She reached for me, resting her hand along my thigh encouragingly. I rolled her onto her belly, covering her body with mine, and her breaths quickened. Her spine bowed, pressing her backside teasingly against the growing bulge in my drawers.

Sitting up, I scooted down her body. With it freed of my weight, I raked up the hem of her shift, exposing long legs worthy of study. I lifted her hips and encouraged her face to remain on the pillow, presenting her heart-shaped ass to me. She sighed anew, a sound full of longing that I felt in my balls.

Hooking my thumbs in the hem of her drawers, I dragged them down to her knees and reacquainted myself with the sweetest parts of her sex. I feasted on her with my tongue and lips, made hungrier with every blissful little sound that escaped her.

Quiet wasn't demonstrative, and I liked that about her. Nothing she did ever felt like too much. She never put on a show, expressing only her truest feelings, and so every gentle encouragement felt like the most licentious thing.

I used my fingers to play with her next, filling her fully with two digits. I scissored them carefully inside her, watching the way her lips fell open, the eager flex of her hands as she fisted the bedding. Her ass clenched and her toes curled.

"Are you ready to wake up now, love?" I asked, my voice gone to gravel.

My thumb circled the bud of nerves at the top of her sex, and her next response was incoherent. A flush darkened her cheeks. She licked her lips, and I knew immediately that she wanted to ask me for something—I even thought I knew exactly what it was. It pleased me that no matter how often I brought her to her release, she was still capable of getting bashful around me.

"Tell me what you need," I encouraged her.

She bit her lip, moaning into her pillow. "I need . . . I'm not sure . . ."

"Yes, you do, love. Be a good witch and tell me exactly what this pretty pussy of yours craves."

The color in her face rose. She licked her lips again. "Your cock," she said softly, surprising me. I had thought she'd beg me to bite her. "That's what I need. Please."

"I do love it when you boss me about and soften it with a ‘please'." I rewarded her gentleness with another stroke of my thumb and fingers. "And you're so wet and warm. Absolutely irresistible."

We moaned together as I positioned myself at her opening and eased the head of my cock inside her.

I gave her ass a gentle pat. "How's that, love?"

"That's what I want," she panted. Glancing back at me over her shoulder, she wriggled her hips. "That's what I need."

"Take me deep now . . . just like that," I breathed, pressing inside her. "Yes, just like that. Hell's bite, that's perfect."

Her body clenched around me, and the blissful whimper she made into her pillow spurred me on. I told her how beautiful she was, how incredible her skin felt under my fingers. I pumped into her until we were both lost. My lungs were full to bursting, and I couldn't speak another filthy word. My fingers dug into her hips, pulling her to me as I plundered her.

Quiet's bashfulness vanished. She urged me on. Reaching between her legs, she stroked herself toward her release. Her head went back, and she cried out as her body quivered around my cock. I spilled into her, pressing her flat to the mattress under me, soaking up the shivers of her pleasure against my chest and thighs.

We lay there for a long while, even after I'd gone soft inside her. I didn't move because I knew my partner well. She'd boss me if she needed my weight off her. I blanketed her, content, enjoying her heat.

Quiet blew her hair out of her eyes and giggled. "Have you lost your purpose? Are we going to stay in bed all night like this? I'm not opposed . . ."

"Hm," I said, dropping a long kiss on her shoulder as I reluctantly pulled out of her. "As much as I would love to lie here longer, basking in how wonderful that was, we still have work to do."

Quiet chuckled. "You think very highly of yourself, don't you?"

"It was one of my better performances," I said sweetly.

"It was," she agreed. "I'm feeling inspired now, but where is it you're trying to take me exactly? I was hoping to get some research done today on the psychopomp. Perhaps I'll find a connection to the circus."

"Come to the Night Train with me," I told her. "According to Hecate, we need to speak with the conductor—"

A knock at the door to her laboratory interrupted me.

It echoed from the sitting room, which put me at ease. Whoever was knocking had safely passed over Quiet's wards and through her magical insects, which in great numbers were far more formidable than they looked.

I dressed quicker than Quiet and went to answer the summons while she finished up in her bedroom.

After I opened the heavy sitting room door, three witches pushed their way inside: Prim, Astor, and Goose. Goose was in her old crone form. She hobbled over to the armchair and got comfortable amongst the cushions.

Astor curled her lip up at me and crossed to the sofa in a hurry, putting distance between us. Whatever truce had been struck before when I helped them out of the aqueducts seemed to have died off now. The auburn-haired witch didn't trust me or my kind, and I couldn't really blame her.

Prim carried her witch hat in her hands, a sheepish expression on her face. She'd taken out her braids. Her springy jet curls were tied back with a silk scarf.

Quiet joined us then, still working her hair into a loose braid. "Sisters," she greeted. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

I glanced between them. Quiet had warned me not to be deceived into thinking that Prim's sweet and gentle nature made her soft. She was convinced that as soon as the coven was done mourning, Prim would be unanimously named as the new leader during the vote at the next solstice.

Prim wasn't the oldest or the most powerful, Quiet said, but she was their leader through and through. She guided with empathy and a maternal strength that had her sisters constantly coming to her for aid before anyone else.

Prim spoke up first, and I could see then what Quiet meant. Astor and Goose fell in line, giving her the space to take charge as she fished a familiar parchment-lizard out of her hat, plopping him down on the coffee table. The lizard flicked his forked tongue at me and left inky prints on the wood.

"We've been feeding him several old maps," she explained.

"And my favorite filthy novel," Goose groused.

Astor rolled her eyes. "I said I was sorry. It was all battered and torn. I assumed it was the perfect sort of thing to throw to him."

"It was battered and torn because it was worth reading over and over and over again!" Goose folded her wrinkled arms over her chest. "You're buying me a new one."

"If it'll shut you up about it, I'll buy you ten new ones," Astor barked.

The lizard belched then, and Prim patted his back the way a mother would pat a burping baby. "Either way, he's well-fed now." Prim sent her sisters a look that silenced them both. "Show Miss Quiet the map, please."

The lizard obeyed, flattening his body across the wooden surface and unfurling to reveal an aged map.

Quiet leaned in. "That's the historic district."

Prim tapped on an old road near the space marked as Castleway. "It's about sixty years old. This is the former throughway where the circus now sits, but look what was there then."

I moved in closer to see the symbols better. "It's a graveyard."

"That's right." Prim ran a finger down the map, and the fae creature returned to his lizard form. Prim removed her witch hat and guided him back inside it. Then she pulled out a roll of paper and handed it to Quiet. "Goose made a quick sketch for your records."

"There isn't a graveyard there now," Quiet said, accepting the sketched map and tucking it inside her pocket void. "I wonder what happened to it."

"We were wondering the same thing," Astor added. "Seems like a good place to start, at the very least. It's something to go on."

"Thank you for looking into this," Quiet told them.

"That's not all we've brought," Prim said, fetching three more items out of her hat.

They were small enough to balance in her palms. After a moment, I realized they weren't items at all—they were alive and moving. The little fae creatures had spotted mushrooms for heads, beady eyes, tiny slits for mouths, and their hands and legs looked like gnarled tree roots.

"This is Hob," Prim said, pointing to the first. "And this is Hob, and the littlest one there is . . . also Hob."

"Why Hob?" I asked.

Quiet cooed at them. She seemed to catch on to something I did not, replying, "Well, obviously Hob is a most beautiful name."

"Hob, Hob, Hob," the little creatures murmured softly up at her.

"I'd like you to keep them here," Prim said, and despite her gentle tone, I recognized the order for what it was.

Quiet scooped them into her arms, their gnarled limbs winding between her fingers. The smile on her face was broad. She didn't have much patience for people, but tiny little things—like insects—always seemed to bring out her brighter side. "All three of them?"

Prim's grin went lopsided. "I tried to just bring you one, but then the others looked so sad to be left behind."

"You made the right call, then." Quiet tried to corral them back into her hand, as they stubbornly explored farther and farther up her arm, grabbing at her long hair.

"Ahem," Goose said. "I think you should tell her why you're giving them to her."

"I will, of course." Prim sniffed at her. "I'm entrusting them to you for now, Quiet, because these little ones have a special talent for keeping away . . . ghosts."

"Prim agrees with your tick," Astor added bluntly, shooting me an icy glare.

"Sorry, Quiet," Prim said politely, "but I do agree with Rorick. I don't think you should be allowing the clown specters so much access to you. Especially not in your house when you're vulnerable. I'd tell you not to visit the circus entirely, but I know better than to try to call you off a case."

"I've always liked you, Prim," I said, my chest puffing out.

"Shut it," the witches said in perfect unison. I was unbothered by their collective reprimand. It was nice to have someone on my side who saw the situation the same way I did, regardless.

Quiet glowered at me hotly, but then the little slits for mouths opened in the mushroom faces of the "Hob" creatures and they began to sing. Their song sounded like a mixture of melodious frogs crossed with cricket music.

"They must like you to show off for you in this way. Their magical music is how they chase the ghosts away," Prim said, beaming down at the little ones. She helped Quiet untangle them from her fingers, setting them one at a time onto the coffee table. They scuttled their root-like limbs across the wood, examining the ink the other fae had left behind.

"They're lovely," Quiet purred. "And I think you're right to keep them here for now. I don't need ghosts visiting me while I'm trying to sleep. But what do they eat? I'll make sure the garlic moths fetch it for them when I'm not around."

Prim listed the flowers, grasses, and pollens they preferred in their diet before the witches left us to our errands to head for their beds.

"I'll keep you up to date on our progress," Quiet promised them.

"I'll definitely be keeping Prim up to date," I teased.

"Shut it," they said in perfect synchronization, like they practiced telling me off in unison on the regular.

They probably did just that during their coven meetings I wasn't allowed to go to.