Scythe Does Matter (11 page)

Chapter 12

Death’s Not So Bad When You Consider the Alternative

CHAR DROPPED BY
to help me get ready. I’d borrowed one of Claire Voyant’s diaphanous toga-style gowns for the party, since the pale gossamer silk complemented my new white hair. Char braided in a light orange ribbon, in memory of the peach streaks I’d had back on the Coil. Maybe I would get my nose repierced. A ruby stud would look awesome with my Reaper robe. So might a new tattoo.

I preened before my mirror. I couldn’t wait for Dante to see the new me. I hadn’t seen him since we’d left class. Maybe if he liked what he saw, he’d stop being mad at me.

Dante wasn’t speaking to me after the trick I’d pulled. Apparently he didn’t think it was fair for me to use my feminine wiles to get my hands on his scythe, and in front of everybody, too.

To me, the whole saving the world thing balanced out a little deception, but I think he was more upset that I’d put myself at risk. I was sure he’d get over it—eventually. But at seven hundred years old, he’d probably had lots of practice holding a grudge.

He hadn’t actually asked me to get out of his apartment. He just hadn’t come home yet. I tried not to dwell on it. By this time tomorrow, I would have saved my aunt and that was what was important. And if in doing so, Conrad got his, so much the better.

Once Dante found out I’d gone AWOL and scythed Conrad, well, then he’d have something to be mad about. I gulped. Saving my aunt’s life would probably cost me every chance of getting my life back on the Coil, my relationship with Dante and my dream job as a Reaper, but that was the price I had to pay. No choice, really. And so far, everything about my simple yet elegant plan had fallen into place.

Nothing could go wrong now.

In honor of the time reset, the gala was to be held in the great hall at the Reincarnation Station. At first it seemed like a strange place for a party; that’s where I’d filled out the paperwork when I first arrived, so I didn’t think of it as a function space. It wasn’t until I walked inside that I remembered all the hourglasses, clocks and miscellaneous timepieces ringing the room. Yup, still there: New York, Paris, Greenwich, Hong Kong, Bangkok, Addis Ababa and more. The sands, hands and digits still ran in all directions and at all speeds.

I sighed, thinking about the first time I’d seen this room. Dante had been beside me then. He should have been with me now, but if I hadn’t already ruined my chances with him, I was about to. I was sure it was worth it but that didn’t help me feel less lonely as I stood in the middle of the cavernous room, alone with my champagne, watching hundreds of people and other beings mill about as I searched the crowd for Dante’s face.

Finally, over the rim of my glass, I saw him.

He was standing in one of the doorways, leaning against the frame. Instead of his usual Reaper’s robe or casual wear, he’d dressed for the party in a well-cut tuxedo that showed off every plane of his magnificent body. I swallowed hard, feeling my face heat up when he looked in my direction. I raised my hand to wave, but quickly dropped it to my side again when he made eye contact.

I’d thought maybe he would smile. I’d hoped he might be able to overlook this afternoon’s little act and forgive me. In my daydreams, he crossed the room with a purposeful stride, took me in his arms and never let go.

In reality, his face remained cold and expressionless. He held my gaze for a minute and then turned on his heel and walked away.

Fine. I didn’t need him.

I turned away, too, eyes blurring, and bumped smack into a tall Nordic-looking woman with hair almost as light as my own. A familiar figure fidgeted nervously at her side. “Ah, Kirsty. We’ve been looking for you. I’m Sigyn. Loki’s
wife.
” She paused to glare at her husband. “And we have something to say to you.”

She elbowed Loki. He unhunched himself and met my gaze.

All moisture left my mouth while a trickle of sweat ran down my spine.

“I’m sorry,” he began, forked tongue flicking over his lips. “I should never have tried to get you stoned without your permission. I meant well. I thought if you could just relax a little, you’d feel better. You looked like you’d been through the wringer. Your hair stood out around your head like one of those little troll dolls. And there were sticks in it.”

“Look, Kirsty.” Sigyn drew my attention before I could even decide how I felt about Loki’s explanation. “We hope you’ll find it in your heart—assuming your species has one—to forgive my husband.” A smile flashed across her face for a second before her expression returned to seriousness again.

“I’ll . . . I’ll think about it,” I said. Loki’s story jibed with what Claire had told me at the time—that he hadn’t planned on doing me harm, but still, getting someone high without their permission was pretty unconscionable, even for Hell.

“All right, Kirsty. We’ve taken up enough of your evening. This is, after all, your party.”

I nodded but didn’t smile. It wasn’t a fist-the-air moment, but I did feel better to some degree.

I placed my empty glass on a nearby end table. “I’m going to go be with my friends now.” I glanced across the room and saw Kali and Amber looking bored.

I walked away from Mr. and Mrs. Loki and didn’t look back.

I had just joined my friends when all over the room people began counting down from ten. Determined not to mope over that damned Reaper, I joined in, screaming, “Nine, eight, seven!” along with everyone else. The hourglasses and clocks began to hum, dance and spin. It felt like New Year’s Eve at a fancy party, right out of
When Harry Met Sally.

“Six, five, four!” I shouted, trying not to think about Dante. The countdown grew deafening. The clocks shrieked, whistled and blasted like fireworks. A rainbow blazed out of the digital display that showed the time in San Francisco.

I covered my ears against the cacophony of catcalls and clockwork. I squinted against the flashing lights, seeking the timepiece labeled Toronto. What time was it there? I needed to know. A tiny part of my brain noticed I hadn’t referred to Toronto as “home.”

“Three, two,
one
!”

The noise crescendoed just as a blinding, brilliant light flashed. It was comprised of all colors and at the same time none.

Then there was sudden silence.

Dead silence.

Clocks righted themselves and began ticking like normal clocks should. Digital readouts showed reasonable hours. The hourglasses froze, having simultaneously returned to their upright positions. The sands shifted and began to flow downward.

I blinked away black spots from my eyes. Then I spun around, seeking the Toronto clock as I had the first time I’d been in this room. Now where . . . ? Found it! High up in a corner, amid ancient sundials and clocks from the age of Louis XIV and Seth Thomas, beside a collection of whirring watches, sat the hockey timer.

“Oh, skeg. It’s nearly tomorrow!” My twenty-sixth birthday. Time was finally running smoothly, and I was running out of it.

Chapter 13

My Unfair Lady

I WOKE AT
dawn, surprised I’d slept at all. Sadly, I wasn’t surprised to awake alone. Disappointed, but not surprised. The door to the guest room—the one I’d never actually slept in—was closed for the first time since I’d moved in.

I checked my hellivision—for the first time since someone said “Let there be light,” it was the same date both in Hell and on the Coil. The news said we could expect a few more glitches, but that pretty soon, it would all be worked out.

So I could safely say that today was my graduation from the Reaper Academy. It was also my twenty-sixth birthday, the anniversary of my accidental reapage
and
the anniversary of Conrad’s original soul Deal. Today Conrad Iver would try to get my beloved Aunt Carey to trade her soul for his by lying to her and telling her it was to save me. Clever bastard. I was his bargaining chocolate chip, and Aunt Carey loved chocolate.

And me.

I was cutting it close. As soon as I got my scythe I would go AWOL, run down to the ferry and get Charon to take me over along with the souls who were being reincarnated today. I couldn’t teleport because I existed simultaneously on both planes, so I’d have to travel backward up the slippery slope, over the GIs and make my way past the gee-gnomes and through the void. But I could still arrive minutes too late. It would all depend on the graduation ceremony. But that bastard Conrad was goin’ down! And I meant that very literally.

I hadn’t told a soul. Or a demon. Or anyone for that matter. I tried hard to not even think about it in case one of the psychics read my mind and turned me in. I’d avoided both Claire Voyant and Sue Sayer. I’d apologize later—in this afterlife or the next.

But here’s a fun factoid I’d stumbled upon when I’d been researching scythes between semesters: you can’t be scythed twice. Apparently I wasn’t the first person to be reaped prematurely after all; it had just happened so long ago, nobody remembered. But I’d read the dustiest old tomes and scrolls I could find. According to a couple of obscure references, if I could get back into my body, then I couldn’t be scythed out of it again until
I
decided to go.

If things went according to plan, then I’d rescue my aunt, see Conrad punished and get my life back. I couldn’t wait. In fact, I really couldn’t wait. I might have lost a year of my life, but I wasn’t losing another minute. I had to get going.

The fact that Dante was obviously done with me only made the decision easier.

I dressed carefully. I wanted to look my best to receive my scythe, but I needed to wear something that didn’t interfere with my escape strategy. I decided on stinger-proof black leather pants and low-heeled boots, the better to charge up the slippery slope with. I then selected a wine-colored, scoop-back top that showed off my new tattoo. When I’d been reaped, the tattoo I’d gotten for my twenty-fifth birthday had stayed with my body on the Coil. Finally deciding to replace it, I’d gone out after the bash last night and gotten a pair of wings tattooed across my shoulder blades. Not feathery angel wings like Ira’s, but bat-like wings with a ton of intricate detail. I was a bad-ass Reaper now. And once I’d finished being Kirsty d’Arc on Earth—say fifty, sixty years from now—I was coming back to Hell and making the most of my afterlife. I’d drag evil skeggers like Conrad to Hell. I’d be the best Reaper ever!

But I was living out my life on the Coil first. Hell would just have to limp along without me till I was good and ready to go. All those things I’d resolved since finding out I was just dead weight, I was going to do. I’d save the whales and recycle. Read to the blind. Get a cat. Tell my aunt I loved her. Tell Dante . . .

I fluffed my hair out. The white took some getting used to. It sparkled even more than Ira’s wings. It was going to look great against my black Reaper robe. I’d paid extra for velvet piping. Oh, sure, I’d only get to wear it for a few minutes today, but it’d be here when I got back. I just hoped my friends would be, too.

And Dante . . .

I went looking for him, hoping to apologize for touching his scythe. Jeez, he usually liked me to touch his . . . never mind. Even though he was mad at me, at least we could walk over to the campus together while I picked up my robe.

But he must have left our apartment while I was in the shower, without even saying goodbye.

That was pretty petty of him. I was starting to feel righteously indignant. So what if I’d touched his skegging tool? Well, he had to be at the ceremony. I’d catch him there. We could fight it out and then make up like we usually did. I couldn’t help smile when I thought about how we liked to make up.

But that wouldn’t happen. I’d be breaking the few rules we had down here and Dante wasn’t likely to forgive me this time. I sniffled back tears, trying hard not to ruin my mascara. If it was over with Dante, then I didn’t have anything to stay for. I’d bring Conrad’s soul in. One look at Charon and some of the other denizens of Hell and he’d sing like a canary. Once he’d confessed, they’d grant my life back and I would probably never see Dante again.

I ended up redoing my makeup from scratch.

I still managed to arrive at school early. I picked up my robe, hung out in the caf with some of the other Reaper grads then finally wandered into the area set aside for the graduation ceremony. I took my place among my classmates in the seats marked “Reserved” in the front row. I felt like a big bundle of nerves as I checked my death watch. Time may not have been out of sync anymore, but the minutes crawled by as I waited to go up onstage.

There were interminable speeches and commencement exorcises and finally, finally, Professor Schotz strode onto the stage.

He retold the story of our “daring rescue” (his words) and managed to make us all sound very brave and noble. Even Rod. Especially Rod.

The engineers, who couldn’t be there due to time commitments, had endowed a chair in the name of Raul Manjay, the worker who’d been lost to the vortex first. A moment of silence was observed in memory of Rod and Raul, followed by a moment of screaming and yelling. It was a time-honored Hellish tradition and I, for one, felt it was much more cathartic than silent prayer.

Even while I appreciated the sentiment, I was anxious to get on with the ceremony. I had a lying, cheating, Deal-welching ex-boss to confront.

Dude, where’s my scythe?

“And now . . .” The voice of the Emcee (Evil Creature) boomed out over the assembled masses. And the rest of us, too. “It gives me indefinable pleasure to welcome this year’s graduates. Six bright personages who are being inducted into the Reaper Corps here today. Cadets, due to your bravery above and beyond the call, you are all graduating
magna cum laude!
”

“With noisy melted rock?” I teased, feigning ignorance. I’d taken a semester of Latin in high school.

“With great honor,” Ira translated. Kali flicked the back of my head.

“
Ow.
”

“And to present your scythes to you today, we are honored to have our great Dark Underlord—make that Underlady. None other than Her Satanic Majesty herself. Everyone, please join me in welcoming Lucy Phurr.”

There was a smattering of polite applause. I craned my neck, anxious to finally see the ruler of Hell in person. Preceding Lucy, a mousy-looking woman with a bad haircut and an ill-fitting suit ambled onto the stage. I peered closer. Oh, wait. That wasn’t some lady-in-waiting or other attendant; that was the great queen herself. Huh. She seemed . . . ordinary.

Lucy accepted the microphone from the Emcee. Her pale lips moved but even in the front row I heard nothing.

Some underling trotted out and showed her how to turn the mic on.

“Thank you,” she said to him, nearly deafening us. He showed her how to adjust the volume. She thanked him again, this time at a manageable volume level and faced us. “And thank you all for inviting me to be part of your commencement ceremonies today. Before I hand out the scythes, there are just a few words I want to say.” The mic clunked on the podium and the crinkle of paper grated across the sound system and my eardrums. “Sometimes we forget, here in Hell . . .”

After five minutes of boring drivel badly delivered, I tuned her out. Even feeling smug about how much better a speech I could have written for her got old fast. This gal could use a good makeover and a huge PR campaign. I felt sorry for her. “Sympathy for the Devil”—now the campaign in my head had a theme song.

“Lucy ought to fire her speechwriter—with real fire,” I whispered to Kali. She nodded and yawned. You’d think with six hands she’d put one over her mouth.

The speech went on and on and on. I fidgeted until Kali flicked me again. Ow.

“And on that note, I’d like to call the graduates to the stage.”

M’Kimbi punched me in the arm, grinning. “She is addressing ourselves. We must go to her now.” He dashed to the stage, shouldering Horace out of the way. Ira bypassed the stairs and flew to the front. I ended up near the back of the line, glad there were only six of us now, then appalled at myself for that selfish thought. Why, if Rod were here, I’d be glad to see him—at the back of the line, that is.

“C’mon. C’mon.” I jittered nervously. I had a scythe to get and an aunt to save.

“Before we begin to distribute your scythes . . .”

Oh, seriously, lady. Now what?

“I’d like to call Reaper Alighieri up on the stage. Dante, dear. Where are you?” She shaded her boring brown eyes and scanned the crowd. “Oh, yes. There he is, in the back. While we wait for Dante to make his way up to the stage, I’ll just entertain you with an amusing anecdote, shall I?”

She told some dull tale about a soul Deal she’d once made. I barely listened, although the name Faust seemed familiar. Instead I searched the crowd for Dante. He stepped past me on the way to the podium without so much as a glance in my direction. By the time Lucy Phurr finished her speech, Dante stood before her and my feet had started hurting.

“To show my appreciation for the part you played in averting the recent crisis, it is my pleasure, Reaper Alighieri, to reinstate your rank of Reaper First Class before this assemblage and permit you the right to come and go between Hell and the Mortal Coil as you see fit in the execution of your duties as Reaper.”

She shook his hand while we whooped and yelled. I was proud of him, finally getting to go dirt-side again. I wondered if we could partner up on some of the more difficult reaps that lay ahead of us. After I finished living out my life on the Coil, that is. And if Dante ever agreed to speak to me again. And if they still let me be a Reaper when I returned from rescuing my aunt and having a life. I suspect that going AWOL your first day on the job is something that goes in your personnel file, even in Hell.

Dante left the stage and Lucy Phurr began calling us over to the podium one at a time.

She congratulated each new Reaper warmly and personally. It took for-skeggin’-ever: Ira, M’Kimbi, Horace, Kali. Only Amber remained behind me.

It reminded me of my high school graduation, when I felt like a jittery bundle of boredom. Of course, when I’d looked out into the audience on that day, in addition to my friends, Aunt Carey and Leslie had been there, smiling proudly.

My friends were here today, too. Charon and Claire. Sue and Bob. I hadn’t expected Sybil to get the day off, but there she was, right down front. She waved. I gave a tiny finger wave back, but she kept waving, getting wilder and wilder until she resembled a crazy helicopter. What the skeg? She smiled hugely, gesturing and pointing at the two nice young women sitting beside her. They looked awfully familiar. Who could they . . . ?
Oh, my God!
I must have been thinking that so loudly that the air turned blue despite the fact I hadn’t said anything out loud. “Oops,” I said to Amber, waving the rotten-fish fumes away. Amber narrowed her eyes at me. Well, excuse me. What’s a little more sulfur in Hell? Then I remembered what had made me take the Lord’s name in vein and turned back to the audience. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There sat Aunt Carey and Leslie—the youthful, healthy versions.

Carey looked so proud. And a little dazed. They must have only just arrived in Hell. Sybil had broken all protocol to bring them to my graduation. I was so touched.

Wait. Wait! Aunt Carey and Leslie were here? Now? At my graduation? I stared at Sybil. She mouthed, “Car accident,” grimacing in sympathy.

The whole family could be together again.

But I still wanted my life back, didn’t I?

And Conrad still needed a soul to buy his extension with. If he couldn’t get Carey’s, then who would he go after? Who would he try to trick into trading their soul for his?

I had a horrible inkling.

“Kirsty d’Arc!”

Oops. I’d made the Queen of Hell call me twice. My bad. I crossed the distance to the podium.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Kirsty. You’ve been causing quite a stir since you got here.”

I probably should have been nervous, but really, I was preoccupied and unimpressed. I shook her hand, wondering if I should curtsy. “Thank you, Ms. Phurr.”

“Oh, please. Call me Lucy.”

Just hurry up and give me my skeggin’ scythe,
I wanted to say, but didn’t.

“You’ve proven yourself a worthy denizen of Hell, Kirsty, and a contributing member of our little subterranean society. It’s my great pleasure today to present you with your scythe and bestow upon you the time-honored title of Reaper, Grim or otherwise.” She produced my beautiful new scythe, waving it around as she spoke.

Light glinted off its shiny chrome surface, practically mesmerizing me. I reached for it, but she whipped it away again.

“I’m not going to give you this scythe, however. At least, not right now.”

What the skeg?
Hell was all about temptation, and my patience was at an end. I considered shouting, “Let’s do lunge” and diving for my scythe to rip it from her grasp, although that kind of behavior might come back to bite me on the ass someday.

“Excuse me, ma’am. I thought I’d earned—”