Reaper (22 page)

“You could put him down.” Arizona
suggested.

“No,” Oz shot back.

Arizona adjusted the lantern downward. “He’s
dimming.”

Oz hadn’t looked at the boy. He glanced down
and realized Arizona had been right. Jamie’s Ba was dimmer than
when the wolves had taken it from the hospital. It faded even as he
looked at him.

“What’s happening? Why is he fading like
that?”

“With no body and nowhere to go, a Ba will
eventually dissipate. Cease to exist.”

Jamie’s Ba pulsed in response.

No.
Oz curved his upper body over
Jamie like a blanket.

“You have to get him back to his body or
there’s going to be nothing left,” Arizona said.

The boat slowed and scraped along a stone
walkway.

“Where is this? Why are we stopping? The
wolves are getting closer, I can hear them.”

“This is where you came in. Probably the way
out, too.”

“But you don’t know that,” Oz said.

“No one knows anything for sure, Oz. Go,
before they figure out you’re off the boat. I’ll try to keep their
attention on me. Once your feet hit the concrete, run, and don’t
stop until you’re out of this fucking place.”

“Right,” Oz said, mostly for his own benefit.
He could do this. He could.

“Ready?”

No.
“Yes.”

“Go!”

Oz jumped from the boat and hit the ground
running. Wind whipped around him like a tornado, following him,
slowing him. He had a minute, no, more like seconds, before the
wolves surrounded him, devouring any chance of escape. The corridor
where he’d come in was short and dark. Oz hit a wall at a full run
and it knocked the wind out of him and jostled Jamie.

“No. No, come on. Come on!”

The sound of bombs exploding in the distance
vibrated through him.

He coughed hard, fighting to get his breath
back. And then the tears took it away again. He kicked the wall.
Over and over he kicked it and with each kick he screamed, thinking
maybe the power of his voice would be that final push that knocked
the wall down.

Jamie’s Ba was little more than a whisper of
light.

“Please...” The word caught in his
throat.

At the end of the corridor, a pack of wolves
gathered together, eyes burning. Above him, the ceiling split and a
hand reached down.

Oz reached up and as he and Jamie were pulled
through the narrow opening, the wolves leapt. They missed his foot
by a breath.

* * *

Outside, the sun disappeared behind the
horizon. Oz sat splay-legged on a mound of soft grass with Jamie,
barely visible, draped over his shoulder. In front of him, the
hospital where Jamie’s Ba had been stolen stood out against the
pinks and yellows of the sunset. Oz looked around for whoever had
pulled them to safety, somehow knowing they wouldn’t be there, just
like they’d disappeared after pulling him from the lake. Whoever
they were, Oz owed them his life twice.

Oz limped into the lobby and past the front
desk without hesitation and without concern over whether he would
be noticed. He didn’t care. Oz dared someone to stand in his way
now. In the elevator, he pushed the button that would take him down
to the basement.

The morgue was warmer than he expected it to
be. The movies always made it seem like a steel-lined freezer. It
was, thankfully, empty and pristine. The back wall held a dozen or
more steel cabinets. One of them held Jamie’s body. Oz felt it.

The first three were empty, but the fourth
revealed an old woman with skin like wanton wrappers, translucent
and powdery to the touch. The fifth opened like the lid of a mason
jar—pop—and laying on the metal gurney was Jamie’s body.
Slack-faced and soft-browed, he could have been sleeping. Dead
bodies were pale and pasty, but Jamie looked as he always had. Oz
looked between the body and the sleeping Ba he held in his arms. He
didn’t know what would happen when he joined the two together
again. He hardened himself in preparation for the worst.

They were watching him...the wolves. Even if
he couldn’t see them, Oz felt their presence in his bones. Their
heat and death stench permeated the room, cutting through the
chemical smells of formaldehyde and disinfectant.

A shadow peeled from the corner of the room.
The wolf stalked toward him, its acid saliva sizzling as it hit the
tile.

But Oz wasn’t afraid. Once this was done,
they could have him.

Gently, he laid Jamie’s Ba over his body and
watched it sink beneath his skin. The boy’s face pinked and his
chest filled with air. He exhaled one long breath and opened his
eyes.

The wolf stepped back, growling until his
physical form became nothing but another harmless shadow. The other
shadows along the walls retreated into corners and the fluorescent
light of the morgue brightened. They wouldn’t be coming back.

They’d lost.

He’d done it.

No more words formed in Oz’s mind; there was
only warmth. Open air. Relief like he had never felt. Jamie lived,
and he, Oz, the reaper, deliverer of death, had brought it back to
him. Oz buried his face in Jamie’s hair and cried.

“I’m naked,” Jamie said.

Oz laughed and searched the room for
something that Jamie could cover himself with. Hanging on a rack
next to the door was a set of large scrubs. He pulled the toe-tag
from Jamie’s foot and helped him off the gurney. The scrubs hung
like a tent on his small frame.

“Are we where I think we are?”

“Don’t ask,” Oz said.

“You’re crying.”

“Allergies. Pollen.”

Jamie scrunched up his face.

They walked hand in hand from the morgue, up
the elevator, and into the ICU where Oz could find someone that
would recognize Jamie and take care of him. Luckily, the doctor on
duty was the same as when Oz had left. The doctor practically
collapsed at the sight of Jamie—alive and asking anyone who would
listen for something to eat. He grabbed Jamie by the shoulders and
stared. A nurse behind the desk fumbled with the phone and demanded
that reception connect her to Jamie’s mother. An oblivious
custodian mopped up a pool of vomit.

None of them noticed Oz, still standing at
his side.

He squeezed Jamie’s hand and scolded himself
for not realizing the truth earlier. Jamie looked just like
him.

“See you later, kid,” he said.

The doctor hustled Jamie onto a bed already
occupied by another small boy and mashed a stethoscope against his
ribs. Jamie looked to Oz. He smiled and waved before he turned and
limped toward the elevator. His body needed a break. A hot bath.
But the lizard part of his brain itched. Someone was waiting for
him.

Chapter
Twenty-Three

A man with a mop of gray hair sat on the only
bench in the hospital’s courtyard, staring up at the sky. Oz sat
beside him without a word.

“It’s not a star, you know. Venus. Bitch only
thinks she’s a star.”

Oz couldn’t help it. He smiled.

“Jamie’s okay,” he said.

“I know.”

Bard stretched, his arms reaching behind his
head to touch the back of the bench. Familiar, red scars striped
them both.

“Now what?”

“What do you mean?” Bard said.

Oz could see the car still idling in the
roundabout. He pointed to it. “I did what I needed to. I’m ready
for whatever comes next.”

Bard plopped a brown paper bag into Oz’s lap.
“Next is dinner.”

Inside, was a burger, the wrapper soaked in
grease.

“It’s probably cold by now,” Bard said.

Oz didn’t care. He didn’t realize how hungry
he was until the first bite passed his lips. He inhaled it.

After swallowing, Oz said, “Was it you? In
the lake?”

Bard didn’t answer. He traced a fingertip
over a particularly large scar that circled his wrist. It was
identical to the one that circled Oz’s wrist. “While you were
fixing your mistakes, I was finally able to rectify an old one of
mine. Suppose I have you to thank for that.”

“Me?”

Bard nodded. “If you hadn’t fucked up so bad,
I wouldn’t have been able to save your ass. Makes us even. You, me.
Them.” Bard pointed upward.

Oz finished his burger, even licking the
wrapper, before stuffing the bag and wrapper into his pocket to
dispose of later.

Bard stood and lit a cigarette that he pulled
from his front pocket.

“Cora’s waiting in the car. We’ve got a pick
up.” He paused, turning to face Oz. “You coming?”

Oz glanced up at the hospital. He caught
Jamie’s silhouette in one of the windows. Maybe one day he’d tell
Jamie everything. For now, though, Oz would keep a distant eye on
him. Couldn’t be easy for a kid to come back from the dead, but
he’d fare better associating with the living.

“Yeah,” he said, “I’m coming.”

THE END

About the Author

Katrina
Monroe
is a novelist, mom, and snark-slinger extraordinaire.
Her worst habits include: eating pretty much anything with her
fingers, yelling at inappropriate times, and being unable to focus
on important things like dinner and putting on pants.

REAPER
is her first novel.

www.authorkatrinamonroe.wordpress.com

Twitter:
@AuthorKatM

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