Shadow's Grace, page 2
“He is.” Dennis sighed. “Klassen has always been a few pegs down on my priority list. Every day it seems we face something that requires more of my attention. A plague, a demon uprising, a war, a natural disaster. My attentions are always needed elsewhere, and a solitary necromancer who creates someone like Vio every few decades hasn’t been important enough for me tackle the task. A task I did delegate to my friend Vio here two hundred years ago in exchange for a request. Which he has not been able to complete.”
“The task of finding your creator?” Ariel clarified.
Vio nodded. “Death told me if I do this favour for him, he’ll do one for me. We’re not friends. And he’s not your friend, either, so don’t go thinking he is. He makes deals and is polite along the way.”
Ariel ignored his remarks about Dennis and fixed her grey eyes on his. “You’ve been looking for Klassen for two hundred years?”
“Here and there. I haven’t been dedicating everything to the cause.”
“I need that to change,” Dennis said. “I need him found. I’ll finance both of you for this mission, along with honouring my deals for each of you. But –” he said, and the cheerful, sweet-toothed Dennis was replaced with the shadowy visage of the Grim Reaper as his eyes darkened and the mid-day shadows grew long. “No more half-assing this. I want him found within a month. If you don’t find him by then, I’ll make a deal with someone else, and our contracts are void.”
Vio’s jaw dropped. A month? That was it? He’d spent two hundred years casually searching for his creator. Though apparently not seriously enough for Death’s liking.
“Um,” Ariel asked, rubbing her forehead, “what contract?”
Dennis smiled and reached into his jacket pocket to pull out two pieces of parchment. He handed one to Ariel. When he held out Vio’s, he said, “It’s been revised to reflect the new agreement.” Vio took his and skimmed the terms while Ariel did the same for hers. He wondered what her deal with Death was, but reminded himself that he didn’t care.
After this meeting, he would tell her he didn’t need her help. But then his eyes caught a line towards the bottom of his contract. Shit, he thought. How had Death anticipated that he would try to ditch any partner he was assigned? The contract stated that Vio had to work with a partner. If he followed the contract and delivered his creator, Dennis would agree to the terms. But if he didn’t, that chance would be forever gone.
“Done?” Dennis asked. Vio looked up and nodded. “Good. Hang on to those. I’m not asking for a decision today. You have two days starting now to let me know.”
“I’ll do it,” Ariel said, rubbing her head again, just above her eyes. “There’s no point in drawing this out, though I appreciate the offer to reflect.” She folded the top half of parchment down to the signature line. “I assume you have a pen, or a knife? Is this done with blood?”
“Oh that’s far too messy,” Dennis said, handing her a fountain pen. “But you should wait for Vio to agree. This is a joint operation.”
Bastard, Vio thought. This woman clearly had something she wanted badly enough to make a deal with Death, and Dennis was putting that relief all on him. No pressure, he thought bitterly. Vio thought back to his conversation with Dennis from this morning.
I need you to meet someone, Dennis had said. She communicates with the dead and eases their suffering. Vio had thought that was Death’s department. Any dead can meet with me, but they must make the arrangements themselves in the beyond. Those that still linger are drawn to people like her. There aren’t many like her. You’ll need her ability to speak to the dead for what I have in mind.
Vio looked at the woman with the grey eyes, silky black hair, full red lips, which were now parted slightly, as though about to ask him something. Likely to press him to agree to Dennis’ terms. But she held her request to herself. If she could talk to the dead, there was something he needed from her as well. Something that he didn’t want to share with the boss.
“I’ll let you know in two days,” Vio said. He avoided Ariel’s face, but he watched it fall from the corner of his eye. Let her suffer a little. Afterall, wasn’t existence suffering?
“Of course,” Dennis said. He took the pen from Ariel, and Vio heard a faint whimpering from the back of her throat at the loss of this opportunity.
“Ariel, dear, please let me know when he’s made a decision.” Dennis took out a small black box from his pocket and placed it in her hand.
“What is this?” she asked.
“A way for you to communicate with me when needed.”
Vio looked over her shoulder as she opened the small box, and gasped. Her fingers went to her mouth at the sight of the platinum necklace. It was as though a tombstone was made into a piece of gothic jewellery. A skull the size of a fingernail sat at the top of the cast, and at the bottom rested an angel with wings facing up. The same angel that marked thousands of tombstones. And nestled in the centre was a disc of polished obsidian.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, her gloved fingers running over the polished stone. Then she winced slightly and pressed her finger to her temple, before giving Dennis a faint smile.
“Press your thumb to the stone, and we’ll be able to communicate through it. Tell me when he’s made a decision, and I’ll return to collect the contracts.”
“Why does she –” Vio started, but Dennis cut him off.
“Because she’s your communications representative. As the contract stipulates. And they also stipulate regular updates. You’ll not shake off another partner, Vio. This is your last chance. I once thought you were the best suited for this task. But if you can’t make it work with Ariel, you’re out of bargains. You’ll have to wait until my successor to make another one. Make this work in a month, or wait another three thousand years, and ask the new Death.”
Dennis stood, done with the conversation. Vio gritted his teeth while his hands balled into fists. Three thousand years. Fucking prick.
“Ariel, always a pleasure. Please let me know his decision, or if yours changes. If he won’t agree,” Death sighed, as though he was a disappointed father, “I’ll see if I can find someone else. I look forward to hearing from you.”
And then he was gone. “Shit,” Ariel said. “I’ve always assumed he could do that, but I’ve never seen it before. He’s just . . . not there?” she reached over to where Dennis was sitting and touched the empty space. “Well, at least he took his garbage with him,” she said, and Vio noticed that the cup was gone.
“Oh yes, he’s a real fucking saint.”
“I don’t think he likes that,” she said, standing. She tucked her contract into her pocket. She winced and her hand went to her forehead. He wondered if she was getting a headache or a migraine but told himself he didn’t care.
“What doesn’t he like?” he asked instead.
“Saints. Christianity. He’s not a fan.” She winced and rubbed her temple again.
“And how do you know – never mind, I don’t care.”
“What do you care about?” she asked, her grey eyes boring into his. Vio pushed up and crumpled the contract, shoving it into his pocket.
Ariel shrugged. “You must care about something to make a deal with Death. I don’t need to know what you’re hoping to get from Dennis. But you must care about finding your creator if you’ve been searching for two hundred years. Why are you suddenly resistant to the idea?”
“I’m not,” he said. “Don’t you know anything about negotiations? Never accept the first offer.” He turned and walked towards the garden gates. Behind him, he heard Ariel swear and chase after him.
“Where are you – are we – going?”
“We?” he asked, raising his eyebrow as she matched his stride.
“Didn’t you hear him? We need to do this together. Even if you decline, I need to tell him that. So yea, we, until you tell me your decision.”
Vio paused and whirled on her. She bumped into him, her chest hitting his. Before she could step back, he gripped her arms and kept her pressed against him. He met her eyes while his grip tightened. She held her ground, and he had to admit that surprised him. As well as how much he liked her being this close. She didn’t smell like most women, who coated themselves in perfumed lotions. She smelled like earth, like the cold, like . . . winter death. “Are you going to follow me, even to bed, little witch?” At the w-word, Ariel’s eyes narrowed. She broke his hold and stepped back.
“I’m not a witch,” she spat. He smirked, knowing he had hit a nerve. He tucked that piece of useful information away.
“Then what are you? A medium?”
“I’m a – well we now prefer the term ‘psychopomp,’ or ‘spirit healer.’”
Vio rolled his eyes. “Forgive me for not keeping up with the political correctness of the past four hundred years.”
“You’re certainly not keeping up with your creator,” she snapped. He opened his mouth but no response came out. She smirked, knowing she had won that round. Vio growled and spun on his heels.
“Where are we going?” she demanded again.
“The Grim Reaper might eat that candy shit, but I need a fucking drink.” He walked for a dozen strides before he noticed she wasn’t beside him.
Out of curiosity, he turned to see if she had decided he was too difficult to work with, and walk in the other direction. Which would work for him. It was damn near impossible to find his creator, and having a bunch of money and a woman who spoke to the dead thrown at the problem couldn’t possibly change that. On second thought, he didn’t need Ariel’s gift anyway, it was best to leave the dead alone. He knew that better than anyone. He would find the man on his own.
But when he turned to see her, she hadn’t turned and left him. His eyes narrowed in concern. “Ariel?” he asked. She stood on the empty path, doubled over, her hands gripping her stomach. What he could see of her bowed face was twisted in pain. “Shit,” he swore, and walked to her.
“Are you –”
A groan cut him off. She sounded like a wounded animal.
“Ariel, what is it?” he asked. He dropped to one knee to look up her face, which was now pale, her breathing shallow. He reached up and took her shoulder in his hand, steadying her as she swayed from whatever was causing her pain. She latched her hand around his bicep and squeezed hard enough to bruise. He winced, her strength surprising him.
“I can’t keep her away,” Ariel panted. “I tried, for Dennis . . . to focus on the meeting.” Her eyes looked up, wide with fear, past his shoulder, and she groaned. “She’s here,” she whispered.
Chapter 3
Ariel
Ariel woke in an unfamiliar bed, surrounded by scents of burning wood and a masculine musk. Her heart rate spiked as she looked down at the unfamiliar blankets and wondered where she was. She recalled the scene in the gardens in flashes. A dead woman – a sex worker – who had died at the hands of her pimp, had latched on to Ariel and demanded a resolution for her violent death. Ariel recalled strong arms wrapping around her, people asking her if she was all right, and a lot of gruff “fuck offs.”
“You’re awake,” that same gruff voice said. Her eyes darted to the corner of the room, where Vio sat, perched on a window seat, a book in his hands. He wore the same clothes as earlier, making her think – and hope – she hadn’t been passed out for too long. Beyond him, grey light filtered through an ancient lace curtain. She took in the rest of the room; worn wooden floors, dark wallpaper that pealed in several places, a fireplace with a few logs crackling, a window that let in light from either daw or dusk, and the bed she laid upon. Everything was covered in a thick layer of shadows, as though light couldn’t make it through this space.
“Where am I?” she asked, about to sit up. Movement caught her attention and she turned to see a ghost hovering over her shoulder. She flinched away from the older man, who was dressed in something from the early nineteen-hundreds. After seeing ghosts for almost twenty years, she had become an expert on dating clothing.
Thinking of clothing, she noticed the man was looking down at her expectantly, and she suddenly realized her clothes were missing. She squeaked and pulled the quilt up to her chin. The older man frowned. She shooed him away with her hand, and he left the room.
“What are you doing?” Vio asked.
Ariel turned back to either her captor or saviour. “Your house is haunted, and where are my clothes?” She was grateful she still had on her black bra and panties, but would really like to be dressed now.
Vio chuckled. “Haunted?”
“Yes. A creepy old guy was trying to see under the blanket.”
“Well, try not to be too upset. It’s not as though many half-dressed women visit under this roof.”
“Why am I in this state?” she demanded. She propped herself up to sitting and juggled the blanket around her chest.
“You threw up after whatever happened with what I assume was a ghost. I put your clothes in the wash.”
“Oh,” Ariel said, faintly remembering traces of the pain in her stomach. It had been the most violent and intense encounter since taking over her aunt’s powers. She swallowed thickly. Her throat tightened at the thought of the painful future looming before her.
“Here,” Vio said, unfolding himself from the window seat. He looked taller in the small room, taller and darker, like he was one with the shadows. He tossed a handful of fabric on the bed. She noticed what must be his shirt and sweatpants, and a floor length black lace and velvet dress that made her think of the 1930s. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want to wear. Come downstairs if you want something to eat.”
He walked past her bed and out the door, closing it behind him. Ariel let out a shuddering breath. Fuck, what had she gotten herself into? A deal with Death, a month long . . . whatever . . . with four-hundred-year-old Mr. Brooding, and ghosts assaulting her until she threw up and blacked out from the pain.
Checking to confirm the ghost was still gone, Ariel pushed out of bed and grabbed the dress. She couldn’t wear his shirt; she didn’t wear men’s shirts. Wearing a man’s shirt was more than just putting on a garment. It was cutesy, it was endearing, it was flirty. And it led to deeper feelings, which she didn’t have the ability to return.
Ariel pulled the dress on. The velvet bodice fastened at the front with silver buttons, while lace sleeves flared over her wrists. It must be almost a hundred years old, yet it fit like it was made for her. She sat on the bed and noticed the quilt was frayed, the colours muted over the years. She wondered how long he had lived here as she laced up her ankle boots.
Outside the room, the scent of cooking food made her stomach rumble. She hadn’t eaten before the funeral, and after throwing up what little was left in her stomach, she felt ravenous. Something smelled good and lured her down the dark, twisting stairwell. Hanging from the ceiling was a black crystal chandelier that cast long shadows over the space.
Ariel followed the smell of food to an open concept kitchen and dinning area. The counters were dark, the table ebony wood, and a large fireplace rested at the end of the room, the flames casting the space in liquid shadows. Two flickering candelabras sat at each end of the table. Vio stood behind a counter, prepping their meal.
“You don’t like light?” she asked him. He looked up from the counter, where he had been slicing a baguette. His gaze burned on her exposed skin from the plunging bodice, and she wondered if she should have worn the less revealing clothes that smelled like him. It’s what most women would have done. You’re not most women, she reminded herself.
“I think,” he said, placing the bread on a platter and moving to the table, “people like us are better suited to the shadows. Isn’t that Death’s realm? Please,” he said, sweeping a hand over the table. Her eyes flickered hungrily over the spread of pasta in a tomato sauce, the bread, a salad glistening in dressing, and two empty wine glasses. She took a seat, and he poured a blood red wine into one of the glasses, handing it to her.
“Thank you,” she said. She took a sip, pleasantly surprised by how good the unlabelled wine was, and placed the crystal glass on the table.
“Are you joining me?” she asked.
“I am,” he said, taking the seat across from her. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and a black and gold tattoo wound around one of his wrists. It was intricately detailed, with gold skulls, black roses, and a mix of thorns delicately placed throughout. And, despite the dim light, she saw the raised skin of a scar under the tattoo.
Vio took a sip of wine and rolled his hand, looking at the tattoo thoughtfully. “You see the scar,” he said, his faint accent seeming thicker when he talked about himself.
“I do.”
“A stranger’s hand, forearm,” he said, rolling up his right sleeve to just above the elbow, where a similar tattoo circled the muscle, “and a left foot. The rest is, I guess, mine. But I don’t know what that word means to me. You’re your own body, you have your own memories, your own . . . essence. I have no memories of this body before I opened my eyes in a laboratory.”
Ariel flinched. “That’s awful.”
“Eat,” he instructed. “I know you’re hungry.”
She gave a faint smile and nodded, filling her plate with what she quickly discovered was absolutely delicious food. “This is incredible,” she said.
“If you can’t master a simple tomato and cheese sauce after four hundred years, you’re doing something wrong.”
“Well, you’re obviously doing something right.”
Vio lowered his head. “That’s not what Dennis thinks.”
Ariel took one more bite of the bread topped with pasta and wiped her mouth on the red linen napkin. “You’ve been looking for your creator for a long time?” she prompted.
“I have. I guess not well enough, based on this,” he said, and placed a folded piece of parchment on the table. A shiver of fear ran through her. Where had her contract gone?
“Relax,” he said, adding a second contract to the table. “I didn’t read it.”
