Kate Evangelista - Reaping Me Softly

“What is it?”

“I would have preferred it if you took the bus,” Sickleton said under his breath. “What if you were seen?” This he said louder.

“Sickleton, I’m tired. I don’t have the time or the patience to explain to you the intricacies of instant teleportation. I would prefer that you cut to the chase so I can begin my duties.”

A black envelope with silver calligraphy appeared, floating above his open palm. “From your wide-eyed expression, I take it you had forgotten what day it is.”

Niko constructed a formidable façade on the outside. Inside, however, he mentally chided himself for forgetting. “Have the minions enforce the Certificates while I’m gone.”

“And the souls, sir?”

“Have them gathered in the basement. I’ll escort them for processing when I return.”

“It would be prudent to rest first after the gathering.”

“Where is this worry coming from? It is most unlike you.” Niko stood tall, shoulders squared. “Shall I put in a request for a change of Caretakers?”

Shaking his head like a child about to be whipped, Sickleton said, “No, sir. Please, sir.”

“See to it you keep your worries to yourself then. I can most certainly handle myself.”

“As you wish, Master.”

Niko made a fist and a scythe materialized. Its icy-blue, transparent blade curved menacingly over his head. Its flat had holes varying in diameter from the largest at the base to the smallest at the tip. Gripping the scythe’s smooth Blackwood staff, he tapped the floor once with the metal stud attached to the end of the shaft. A death bell tolled low and deep—solemn and desolate. Black flames burned away his clothing, replacing them with a coal suit, a silk shirt, a pencil tie, and leather dress shoes. Elevator doors rose from the floor in front of him. They dinged open, and he stepped through.

AN ALABASTER CHANDELIER GLEAMED over the longest marble table in existence. It sat twenty-six Reapers on each side, arranged according to the mortality rates of the states they represented. Death sat at the head, his cowl obscuring his beauty from those gathered. If he’d shown his face, nothing would get done. The lesser Reapers—the ones ranked twentieth and up—would end up staring at him the whole time.

Death scanned every punctual, pokerfaced Reaper present. He knew each one like the individual lines on the pad of his thumb. He’d birthed them. Named them. Molded them into the Reapers they grew into.

RUSA, or the Reapers of the United States of America, included a cross-section of his children ranging from ages seven to ten, teens, twenty-somethings, several in their thirties, one in her forties, and the oldest in his sixties. The men sat straight-backed in black suits with crisp shirts and tightly knotted ties. The women posed in resplendent dresses in various designs indicative of their personal taste—lots of lace, taffeta, and silk in a wide black spectrum to create its own rainbow. Not many knew of the different shades of black: onyx, ebony, coal…The list went on and on. When becoming a Reaper, one learned to be creative with the use of this particular hue. Death wouldn’t have it any other way. He thought of it as a challenge for his children. One they passed with—forgive the pun—flying colors.

The assemblage waited for the Reaper of New York—the maverick, the rebel. Death had to heave a muted breath. One joined the bunch every generation. During a previous lifetime, the Reaper of Texas had been the black sheep, if he could be called that among Death’s children. What he wouldn’t give for them to be mindless automatons. He knew all too well what God did to Lucifer when the power hungry angel decided he wanted more than his lot in life. After the incident , God had taken away many privileges his angels held, chief among them: free will. Death could remove his Reapers’ ability to make decisions, but why add another burden like controlling them all to his already heaping trove? He had other matters in need of his attention. Plus, the boredom would drive me insane, he thought. So, he put up with these little slights. The Reaper of New York did her job well, being ranked third among the states. He couldn’t complain.

It didn’t stop his eyebrows from dog-fighting, though.

He stared at the double doors made of the darkest oak. He tapped his finger nails on the armrest of his great chair—a steady rhythm, which he knew made even the Reaper of California—his number one—nervous.

An invisible force slammed the doors open. In unison, the group turned their heads to watch a lanky sixteen-year-old girl stomp in, the click of her stiletto heels a prickly tap , tap , tap on the parquet floors. Her once obsidian locks, now dyed a peroxide blonde, bounced in large curls. Lace fingerless gloves, a black and white polka-dot—silk over tulle—balloon skirt, striped leggings, and a man’s dress shirt opened down the front was her choice of armor. The contours of her breasts, covered by a satin push-up bra, peeked out. A scythe pendant dangled from a silver chain at the valley made by her ample bosom. Black nails, kohl eyeliner, and blood-red lipstick completed the ensemble.

She stretched her arms up as if after a dismount and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the party has arrived.”

“Sit down, Janika,” Death said.

Janika tsked, but didn’t defy the command. She disappeared and reappeared seated on the third chair to Death’s right, propped her boney elbows on the table and her sharp chin on steepled fingers. “I missed you, Master.” She winked.

Death cleared his throat. “Now that we are all present, let us begin. Tomas, please proceed.” He glanced at the Reaper of California whose hair was a salt and pepper mix of layered locks.

The Reaper mentioned made a fist with his right hand and from it grew a scythe with a massive blade. Its face had a series of interlocking circular symbols. Three gnarled ash branches wove into one another to form its shaft. He tapped the onyx stud at the end of the staff on the floor. The death knell sang, echoing into itself before leaving the room via the open doors.

“As the Reaper of California, ranked first among the states,” he said in a reverberating alto, “I hereby call this meeting of the Reapers of the United States of America to order.”

Death’s gaze zoomed in on the Reaper of Georgia. Despite Nikolas’s regal countenance, his shoulders drooped slightly and the dark circles under his eyes were quite troubling. Death considered the young man, leaving a fraction of his attention on the meeting. The Reaper of Georgia troubled him more the most. No matter how rebellious the Reaper of New York could be, she still upheld her duties and the sanctity of her responsibilities. She never allowed herself to be stretched as thinly as what the Reaper of Georgia seemed to be doing. The boy practically had to battle to stay awake.

Worry, an emotion he disliked, yet found necessary to run a smooth business, nagged at him. What could be going on in the Reaper of Georgia’s life that exhausted him so?

Nikolas , Death whispered in the Reaper’s consciousness.

Nikolas sat up, startled by the sudden intrusion. Death rarely used telepathy because of the ferocity of his presence. The Reapers could take it, but it still felt like sticking one’s ear beside a roaring jet engine.

Yes, Master , Nikolas answered, blinking repeatedly.

Once this meeting is adjourned, come and see me, my child.

Nikolas dipped his head to indicate his acquiescence to the request.

“I don’t understand why you don’t have anything to report, Travis,” Janika said.