Reap the dead, p.1
Reap the Dead, page 1
REAP THE DEAD
By
J.E. Taylor
Reap the Dead © 2024 J.E. Taylor
2nd Edition
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
REAP THE DEAD
Reap the Dead Chapter 1
Reap the Dead Chapter 2
Reap the Dead Chapter 3
Reap the Dead Chapter 4
Reap the Dead Chapter 5
Reap the Dead Chapter 6
Reap the Dead Chapter 7
ABOUT J.E. TAYLOR
REAP THE DEAD
I was supposed to be Fate’s bitch, but Heaven has decided I’m theirs.
My name’s Zane Bradley, and I’m in love with a girl who is a true badass. Missy Ramsay is Fate and Death rolled up into one sexy teenage dream. And I would gladly lay my life down for her.
But Heaven wants her dead.
When the angels come for her, I make a choice. One that plunges me into a darkness I can’t escape. Just like she warned me it would.
Reap the Dead Chapter 1
WHAT THE HELL HAVE I done?
I stare at the staff of the scythe securely clasped in my hand and then move my gaze to hers. Melissa Ramsay’s wide violet eyes stare back at me with the same horror filling my soul. My heart hurts, and it’s not an emotional reaction. The pain shooting down my right arm scares me just as much as the fear in Missy’s eyes.
She warned me. She said I would die. Damn it all, I thought she’d be able to keep me alive like she did her parents and everyone she brought back from the dead.
At least the angels behind her have stopped their advance and seem more uncertain now. Missy didn’t see them arrive, but I did. They came to annihilate Missy because she harbored both Fate and Death in her beautiful body, and Heaven just couldn’t abide with one person holding all that power. That’s what made me grab Death’s scythe. There were simply too many of them armed with vicious-looking swords for one girl to take on, even if she is a true badass.
Unfortunately, if the angels have their way, there will be no future for anyone. Slaughtering Missy while she holds both roles of Death and Fate ends the world. Although I’d like everyone to believe I am sacrificing myself for the world, it’s a lot more selfish than that.
I’m in love with Missy, and have been since I first saw her when we were seven or eight years old. I want her alive. I want a future with her. As odd as it seems, taking on Death is the only way I can guarantee that. That is, if Heaven isn’t gunning for her just because she is unique.
Even with my motives driving me, dying sucks. My muscles clench against the pummeling discomfort. But no matter how bad this gets, I cannot let go of this damn stick. If I do, my forever with Missy is doomed.
A wind vortex circles around us, and it’s like being in the center of a tornado. The mixture of salt air and the smell of rain fills the space, along with the distinct sickly smell of Death that clings to every cell of mine.
“Why did you do that?” she screams over the roar of the cyclone overtaking us.
“The world is better with you in it.” I want to kick myself for how fucking corny that sounds, but it is all that comes to mind. Because declaring that I’m in love with her at this precise moment would be in poor form. My existence is better with her in it, but I don’t know what the Hell my world is going to look like when this is over.
Tears fill her eyes and the book in Missy’s other hand shrinks into a charm on her bracelet. Right now, I kind of wish I had the power to put this scythe on a necklace chain like she could do with a thought because it’s damn heavy. I don’t know how a petite girl could wield this mother effectively, but she didn’t seem to have any issues with it at all. As far as the ability to shrink her Book of Fates, that’s one of her new magical enhancements. She can conjure and change the physical properties of things. It’s pretty boss if you ask me, but she’d give that power up just to be able to hug again. You see, when Missy took over for her parents, she inherited a nasty curse. She cannot touch anyone. If she does, she siphons their soul.
The wind whips around us, and she falls to her knees. Her face morphs from sad to a wince, like she is in exquisite pain. Her mouth opens and a scream barrels out, but I can hardly hear it above the wind and the rush of my pulse clinging to my body. Her agony ripples across her features as black smoke peels from her skin.
I want to wrap my arms around her and hold her tight, but I can’t, not if I want my soul intact. And I have a feeling if I try to console her, the angels will see the soul transfer and kill us both on the spot. And I will never see her again.
My chest constricts. The force almost makes me let go of the scythe so I can try to keep my heart from flying through my rib cage in a bloody mess.
Dying doesn’t compare to the anguish of seeing Missy suffering. I didn’t think my taking the scythe would cause her any pain. I was as wrong about that as living through this ordeal.
The last of the black smoke exits her, and she sags on her hands and knees. Five orbs, three made of pure white light and two made of murky darkness, dislodge from her and float around us before beelining it out of the center of the wind tunnel we are in.
The smoke gathers, curling around me like a deadly caress. Each time it touches me, it feels like the stab of a knife, but it doesn’t leave a mark. As it gathers in front of me, swirling at a frenetic pace, my labored heart pumps harder, as if it knows that blackness is the end of everything.
Then it slams into me, and I do scream the way Missy had. Every inch of my body feels like some invisible being is flaying me over and over and over until all that is left is a bloody pulp. My arms fly wide and I’m weightless and yet bound in agony. It reminds me of some creepy cross-like symbol.
But through it all, I still grip that damn scythe, even as my life bleeds out of my damaged heart.
And then darkness yanks me under, suffocating me, and I cannot draw a single breath.
Reap the Dead Chapter 2
SOMETHING NUDGES MY SHOULDER, and the contact jars me awake. For a moment, I think I’m in the same panic room that Missy and I slept in last night. Her Papa had insisted she get sleep and the safest place in their house was that room. But it had no windows, so the blackness was just as complete as what is surrounding us now. I can’t even see my hand in front of me. But then my fingers scrape on the cold, rough stone underneath me.
“Where the Hell am I?” I ask, not expecting an answer.
“The Other,” a scratchy voice says from somewhere in this dark stone cavern.
I run both my palms over the rocks and the jolt in my chest has panic flushing me. The scythe is no longer in my hand. I need to find it. I roll onto my hands and knees, and start searching with my hands in frantic circles that widen with each pass. My breath wheezes as my throat closes. If I don’t have it, that means I am not Death, and I died for nothing.
“It’s not here,” a raspy voice tears through the black, closer than it was before.
I think I recognize the voice and that shakes me even harder. “Mr. Ramsay?” He was alive at the house. I punched him to get to Missy. What the Hell? Did they kill us all, anyway? “How are you here?”
“It’s part of the deal. When the torch is passed, the former Death dies,” he says, but he sounds like he has marbles in his mouth. “But the angels interceded and here we both are.”
Sadness envelops me. If I had known Missy’s father would die, I would have thought twice about taking the staff from her. She must be doubly pissed at me for all this. “Where is here?”
“The Other. It’s not Purgatory. It’s not the reaper realm, certainly not Heaven, but I have entertained that it may very well be Hell, except the fuckers can’t get in there, either.”
“Why is it so dark?”
His sigh nearly fills the void we are in. “It’s not dark. It’s just... Other.”
His explanation makes zero sense. “Did I just irreversibly screw things up?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and then I catch a grunt and the sound of flesh pounding flesh. A sound I am intimately familiar with. And it layers a chill through me to the point my teeth chatter.
A chuckle emits from the blackness, and I’m no longer sure Missy’s father is here with me. Or if he is, we aren’t alone. My stomach drops.
I blink to adjust my vision, but it’s useless.
Something solid connects with my chin and my head snaps to the side with the force of the impact. I roll onto my side, covering my head with my arms. This is my immediate instinct whenever the beatings begin: roll up in a ball and protect my head. I never fight back. Not with
But the moment she died, his temperament went south, and my broken bones became routine.
“Little bastard,” another familiar voice growls. When a steel-toed boot connects with my stomach, knocking what little air I have left in my lungs out, I know why the voice sounded familiar. This must be Hell because I’m trapped with my father.
Another kick connects, this time on the back of my head, and my vision blooms into white lights. I’m living Thanksgiving morning all over again, and this time, there’s no Dr. Ryan to magically heal me after.
“Leave him alone,” Mr. Ramsay says in a weak, sluggish voice, as if he’s just coming to.
“I’ll stop when he’s finally dead!”
Another kick lands and the crack of ribs echoes, followed by the same debilitating pain on my right side that almost killed me on Thanksgiving.
I need to escape.
I concentrate on the shuffle of feet and lower my arms, preparing myself for another blow. I’m not disappointed. The heavy boot smashes into my arm. I move faster than I think possible and grab my old man’s leg, yanking him off-balance. When he teeters over, I climb on shaking legs and turn, moving away from his muttering curses as fast as my injuries allow.
Except I can’t see. I don’t know where I am, or what else is in this dark cavern with me. My flight reflex is screaming, along with every bone in my upper body.
Damn it, I need light.
Brightness flares all around me, and I freeze in my tracks, squinting at the sudden bloom of light that is just as blinding as the darkness.
Missy’s father sits in chains, squinting against the light just like I am. The chains anchor both his wrists and ankles into the stone so he can’t lift his arms to block the light. He also has very little room to defend himself either. His face is what I imagine mine looks like. Bloody and battered.
My head snaps back. My scalp screams in protest as a fistful of my hair is yanked. My growing rage bursts into a furious rush in my veins, sending a jolt of adrenaline through me, and I spin, throwing my first punch at my father. He looks just as deranged as he did when he attacked me at the house. His hair stuck up in random tufts, and his dark eyes carried the same hatred I’ve always seen. I roar as my fist lands in the center of his chest with a satisfying crunch.
My father stumbles back and looks down at his chest. The point where my fist connected blackens, as if my touch killed his skin cells, and he charges at me with fury blazing in his eyes.
I sidestep enough so he misses a direct hit, but the force of his shoulder into my side knocks me off-balance and I slam into the wall, wincing. The pain knocks my energy down a couple of notches. The light seems to fade as well.
My father comes at me again, and I have no room to maneuver. My chest takes the crushing blow as he slams into me, intending to break every bone in my torso.
He steps back and throws his favorite right hook. The one that makes me see stars. And this time is no different.
Time slows as I fall. I catch Missy’s father’s horrified gaze, and then my head bounces on the floor and everything drops into the black again.
Reap the Dead Chapter 3
FLESH POUNDS AGAINST FLESH in violent succession, and grunts of pain fill the dark. I have no idea how long I’ve been out, but it sounds like it was long enough for my father to get sick of kicking my unconscious body.
“Stop,” I whisper through cracked lips. The motion sends threads of agony from my jaw and cheek through to the crown of my head. White spots fill my vision and I think a few of my teeth are missing.
Ethereal light fills the cavern, and I squint against the brightness. A winged being crouches next to me. “Will you reap the dead?”
I blink at him like he’s on drugs. “Isn’t that my job?”
The angel pinches his nose and shakes his head. “Those stolen from our grip and those who are not supposed to still be alive.”
I glance toward Missy’s father to see another punch connect and blood spurt from between his already swollen lips. Yet he still shakes his head at me. I know he doesn’t want me to abide by Heaven’s command. Frankly, neither do I, but I am on the edge of passing out and I need a reprieve from my father’s punches.
I look the angel directly in the eye. “Who?” Just the whisper of the word stings my swollen lips.
“You need to start with that little harlot Fate and then bring the rest of the ones she stole from our grip back home.”
Wrong answer. It’s so wrong that I laugh at him, even with my shattered chest. The Heavenly host must be daft if they think I’m going to harm that woman. “Reap Missy? Over my dead body.”
He reaches out and touches my forehead.
SOMETHING NUDGES MY SHOULDER, and the contact jars me awake. I roll onto my hands and knees, confused as to where I am. A sense of déjà vu grips me, and I feel the stone under my palms. The blackness is so complete that I can’t even see anything. It’s as if I’ve been struck blind.
“Where the hell am I?” I ask, not expecting an answer.
“The Other,” a voice full of pain answers from somewhere to my right.
I splay my hands on the stone and it dawns on me what I’m missing. Heat envelops me as panic flushes my skin. I’m not holding the scythe. Shit. Does that mean it all went to hell? I lean back on my knees and rub my face. I had it when the smoke hit me. I had it as my last mortal breath was ripped from my chest.
“What the Hell happened?”
“The fucking angels happened.”
Those four words chill the heat right out of me, leaving me shaking in this black cave. He warned me that if I did anything stupid, the angels could gain the upper hand. He said Tom had been right. They were dicks. But I didn’t think the upper hand would mean him locked God knows where with me. Besides, he was alive when I died. “Mr. Ramsay? How are you here?”
A heavy sigh sounds. “We’ve been through this a dozen times.”
What the Hell is he talking about?
Before I can voice my question, I’m knocked onto my back by a mean punch. “I guess I deserved that.” I rub my cheek.
“That wasn’t—”
The sound of a fist hitting bone and then the distinct sound of a body falling echoed in the space. Along with the rattle of chains. The echoes in this space make it confusing as to where the sounds are coming from.
“Mr. Ramsay?”
“He’s a little tied up right now.”
Now that was a voice I’d never forget. My muscles seize as I climb to my feet. My limbs are shaking, and I turn slowly, trying to get a bead on where my father is in the dark. There is no sound, but I know in my heart where this ends. It ends with me no longer breathing.
My father wants to beat me to death. Just like he tried to do on Thanksgiving.
“Little bastard,” he growls from behind me.
I spin around, right into his fist. I stumble, but I’ll be damned if I go down. Because that is the end of me. His steel-toed boots are made to break bones.
Maybe this isn’t the Other. Maybe it truly is Hell, because I can’t think of anything more horrific than to be stuck in a room with my father for eternity.
I’m tackled full-on and knocked into a wall. My head bangs hard enough for my vision to bloom into white lights. Before I can shake it, my father punches me as if I’m a human punching bag and he’s a prizefighter in training.
Each punch knocks the air from my lungs and one out of every three hits cracks something, whether it’s my arm from trying to block, or my ribs. The mother fucker is stronger here than he’s ever been at home.
He sends an upper cut into my chin. Between that and his mean right hook, I’m falling. The rocks jolt my broken torso as I land. This is it. Now his boot connects with my stomach and I groan. I’m not quick enough to cover my head and his steel tip smashes my cheek.
I’m living Thanksgiving morning all over again, and this time, there’s no Dr. Ryan to magically heal me.
“Leave him alone,” Mr. Ramsay says in a weak, sluggish voice, as if he’s just coming to.
