A Shadow in the Reaping by Brynne Weaver

Chapter 8

Ashen has been in my life for a week and I've already thought through at least fifty different ways to kill him. My favorite so far is stabbing him in the guts with a dirty toilet brush. The reason? He has engaged in a strategic, effective campaign of warfare against his enemy.

Me.

First, he checked into the Swan. He seemed wary of Bian so waited until the bubbly, petite, pretty blond Anna was working the desk and charmed his way into the room directly across from mine. I didn't know it was possible for a Reaper to be charming, but that's exactly what he was. I watched him do it too. I'm convinced he waited until I was there in the lobby. He even had the audacity to wink at me as he turned away from the desk, flipping the key card between his knuckles. I flipped him my middle finger in reply.

The second day he spent skulking around the hotel. My first encounter was to find him examining the alarm trigger on the emergency door on the second floor. An hour later, I caught him nosing around the stairs to the roof. Every floor I was on, he conveniently seemed to be there. I managed to slip away to the security room in the afternoon and watched him check out cameras and exits for a while until I got bored.

On the third day, he decided to make conversation with whoever he deemed important to the daily operations of the Swan Inn. First, it was Peter Staker, who does maintenance for us when he's not losing swans or mowing the lawn at the church. Next, he spoke to Deb, the chef whose Sunday roast attracts half the town to the hotel restaurant every week. He even got Bian to warm up when he helped her with her crossword, though she still darted her eyes to me as they spoke. She's always looking out for me. At least one person is loyal. I later saw Ashen with Anna at the bar, swirling a scotch in his hand as he spoke in low tones and she laughed gratuitously. I swallowed down an unexpected swell of rage and found Peter for a brooding game of cribbage.

At the end of each day, Ashen felt the need to appear at his door just as I entered my room for the night, relaying a critical piece of information from his day. Does it not concern you, vampire, that a person might successfully request the room across from yours without raising any questions from management? (No. I'm a vampire, I could probably just kill them, as I might do to you.) Are you aware, vampire, that the door alarm to the roof has been cut? (Yes. I'm the one that cut it.) Vampire, did you know there were a series of murders in the village back in 2007 and a mansion was blown up and a deactivated sea mine exploded? (Yes. I was here. It was totally awesome.)

On the fourth day, Ashen disappeared, and for some reason I want to kill him for that too.

I tried to play it cool on the fifth day. If he wants to disappear, that's his problem. Maybe it's for the best. Maybe I can finally get back to my quiet village life.

When he didn't reappear the next day I scoured through every inch of his room, which I had been avoiding up to that point. I even went as far as sniffing down his bedsheets before ripping them off the bed. Yeah, I know that's pretty weird. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing there. It was like he never even existed. I started to wonder if the whole thing was some kind of hallucination, but then my tattoo started getting itchy. Really itchy. And then I had weird dreams about Ashen, and the alley, and about him travelling somewhere by car. Somehow, I inherently knew that if I needed to, I could find him. It might have taken me days, even weeks. Some part of me knew that there's nowhere on Earth he could go that I couldn't find him. But even still... I felt and still feel a sense of unease. As much as I don't want him to be here, he should be here. And yet he is not.

Maybe this is all karma. I have claimed a lot of lives, being a vampire and all. I probably deserve a bit of cosmic payback like a significant break from reality that makes me question whether or not I actually exist in the Matrix.

So, here we are. It's now day seven, and I don't know what to make of myself, or life, or reality anymore. How the fuck did this happen to me? Rather than hunting down the Reaper or filling a bathtub with tequila and sucking it down with a straw, I figure the best thing I can do is just focus on my work.

I spend my shift and then some giving everything a next-level clean. I mean, I scrub tiles with a toothbrush in straight-up bleach with my bare hands. I take screens off windows and vacuum up the dead bugs. When I haul bedding to the laundry room, I take the dials off the machines and polish the plastic beneath until it's sparkling. It's not until I'm cleaning the front desk phone buttons with rubbing alcohol and a Q-tip that someone finally steps in.

"Stop it," Bian orders, snatching the Q-tip from my hand.

I give her a sad face and a pout, reaching for the Q-tip. She bends it in half like a madwoman and I gasp with semi-pretend horror as she throws it in the bin. We stare at one another, both of us narrowing our eyes until we're glaring viciously. I'm the first one to cave. Bian might be barely five feet to my five-foot-eight, human to my vampire, but she still scares the shit out of me. She snatches a notepad and a pen from the desk and thrusts them into my chest.

I roll my eyes. Bian scowls at me.

I scribble a note.

Did the guy across from me check out?I write.

I pass the note back to her and she smirks.

"No," she says. She pulls the pen from my fingers as she pins me with a glare, but her eyes hold a spark of amusement beneath the sharpness on the surface. I do not like that. Bian's gaze flicks to the door and she sits down at the front desk, opening her dog-eared crossword book. "Scrabble," she says, nodding toward the lobby door without looking up.

Shit. Scrabble.

Andy walks into the lobby of the Swan with a hopeful grin and the Scrabble board tucked under his arm. I do my best to give a sincere smile in response, but I know it doesn't reach my eyes. I feel the weight of this week pressing on the bones in my face, laying its burden in my chest.

We play three games, and I make some morose words, like loneliness, and darkness, and wallow. Don't judge me. I'm a vampire. We like to be dramatic and melancholy at times. But it's ridiculous, I know that. I shouldn't feel sad at all. I should be rejoicing if the Reaper has disappeared from my life. And that's probably what's happened. My tattoo doesn't itch today. I've had no more disconcerting dreams. I'm shit at spellcasting, so the enchantment has probably worn off, thank fuck. Life will go back to normal now. So when Andy is leaving and finally plucks up the courage to ask me on a proper date to the movies, I nod yes.

I'm now staring at a crack in the paint on the ceiling of my room, wondering how in the fuck my five thousand years have culminated in this exact moment in time.

Three quiet knocks tap at my door.

"Vampire," a whisper sounds from the other side.

I press the heels of my palms to my eyes. I don't know whether I'm relieved, or disappointed, or both.

Rap. Rap. Rap.

"Vampire."

I sigh and roll off the edge of the bed, landing with barely a sound on my fingertips and toes in a plank position. I've been pretending to be human for so long that it's kind of fun to remember I can do these things too.

I stand and fidget with the sleeves on my shirt, rolling them up to hide the worn cuffs. When I open the door, Ashen's hand is raised as though he's about to knock again, his other one positioned behind his back. As always seems to be the case, he looks immaculate. A freshly pressed black shirt, black jeans. I suddenly feel underdressed at the threshold of my own room.

"You don't look well," Ashen says, and I move to slam the door shut but his foot is in the way, "What's wrong with you?"

I draw a big circle with my index finger in the air in front of his face. You, I mouth.

Ashen catches my hand out of the space between us and brings my fingertips closer to his nose. "Why does your hand smell like that?" he asks as I pull it from his grasp. "It smells vile."

The bleach. Note to self: the demon does not like bleach. I give a sarcastic smile and mimic the motion of spraying and wiping the doorframe. It's called 'work', I mouth.

"It's called derp?"

I roll my eyes and shake my head, mouthing the word work again.

"Here," he says, pulling something from the hand behind his back. I smell new leather and unblemished paper. He passes me a notebook with a black leather cover and a long, thin box. I look at him for a moment before I take them in my hands.

The leather of the journal is embossed with a gold border of flowers and vines. I flip the sheafs beneath my thumb. The ivory paper is creamy and thick, the outside edges coated in gold. I glance up at Ashen, but his eyes are fixed to the box. I open it, and inside rests a fountain pen with a sparkling abalone body. It is all the colors of the sea. A gold ring with a design of tiny fish encircles the cap.

I swallow a sudden tightness in my throat.

"I thought it would be easier than trying to lip read," he says. His words are practical, his voice even and deep. I nod, but I don't look up and meet his eyes. "I also brought you this."

He holds a sheathed katana above the box and the book in my hands. I gasp. I set the other objects on the floor and he lays the sword across both my palms. My fingers start to shake.

"I noticed your dagger the other night. It's a silver-infused kaiken. I recognized the craftsmanship. You spent time in Japan many years ago, didn't you."

I nod. I hold my breath. I grasp the handle of the sword and pull the saya far enough down the blade that I can see the initials of its maker.

It's true. I can't believe it's true. I can't believe what I hold in my hands still exists.

I close my eyes. They burn with unshed tears.

"You fought with Tomoe Gozen?" Ashen asks, and I nod, not opening my eyes. I press my lips closed. "I reaped the werewolf that killed her, and then I took back her sword. It's yours now. It should be with someone that knew her."

It was many lifetimes ago, and yet the memories still overwhelm my soul. My throat burns as though I'm choking in the grip of a python. This is the hardest part of being a vampire. Trying to forget when you remember everything.

We stand in silence for a long moment until I'm sure I won't let a tear fall. When I open my eyes, I can feel their glow. I reach down and open the notebook. I uncap my new pen.

Thank you.

I hold the note up so he can read it. His gaze meets mine. My eyes are still glassy. My heart feels like it's been put in a blender. The Reaper watches me for a long moment before he gives a nod and turns back toward his room.

"Vampire," he says at the threshold of his door, looking over his shoulder at me. There is flame in his pupils, a dark look of warning in his face. "If someone asks, none of this came from me."

I tilt my head in question, clutching the sword and the book and the pen to my chest.

"I wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong impression."

The Reaper's eyes hold onto mine for a moment that feels too long. Long enough for the hole in my heart to grow heavier. Long enough for me to understand. Long enough for me to be sure that when he says anyone, what he really means is me.