Reaper (3 page)

Until the White Lady came.

“Hunting alone?” The Walker waved a negligent hand as if to say
that is so yesterday
. “Why should we do so when it is so easy to draw foolish Riders away from prey?”

“Not all Riders are like me.” Piotr put his back to the closest wall. “Most Riders go in packs. They're strong in will. Much stronger than a
beast
like you.”

“Yes, we learn from the flesh!” The Walker cried, clapping its bony hands together. “She healed us, made us stronger, and taught us well! Many good lessons from the White Lady, yes! She says for us to work together, like flesh, like Riders do, like the other spirits do. It is hard at first but the White Lady had ways of making us follow her orders.”

It touched its face, where the taut skin beneath the hollow eyes was crisscrossed with twisted ropes of scars and crosshatched brands burned into the flesh.

Despite his hatred of the once-man before him, Piotr winced in sympathy. He'd been well acquainted with the White Lady's persuasive methods. She'd been a master of healing the Walkers with a kiss or, if they angered her, stripping them to bare bones with a swipe.

It was no mystery why the Walkers had flocked to the White Lady, while they willingly subjected themselves to all sorts of agony in her employ. Living in the Never required a constant influx of willpower, the ability to keep slogging through the dim, gray days of eternity without looking too hard at the shadow of the world around you. The younger a person was when they died, the easier it was to keep going on in the Never. The young seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of willpower and hope.

Not so for souls who'd lived a longer life before passing into the Never. It was often a struggle just to keep going, and adult spirits who found their will weakening had a limited number of choices—they could allow themselves to fade away, as the Shades did, or they could follow the path of the Walkers.

Being a Walker was to willingly become a monster; Walkers chose to cannibalize the essence, the unlived years, of other spirits. Those unlived years were most plentiful in the ghosts of children, the Lost. They could get nothing from the Riders, but the Lost were like ripe peaches, sweet and juicy and filled with life.

No one could remember when it had all begun, but it had been this way for eons. The Riders grouped together and protected the Lost from the Walkers, the Walkers did everything in their power to steal away the child-spirits every chance they got.

Then the White Lady—Wendy's mother—had come into the Never and everything had grown further twisted and wrong. The Walkers, normally untrusting and near feral, began to work together. And the Riders, normally a tight-knit group dedicated to the Lost's cause, had fallen apart.

Part of this, Piotr knew, was his fault.

“Jamie's gone,” Piotr said, holding out his hand to show the Walker that the cap had vanished. “But you're still here. Didn't you want some of your prey?”

The Walker patted its midsection. “I eat when I eat. Tonight is not my night for prey. Tonight is my night for talking to the Rider. We knew you would come back if we waited long enough.” It licked its lips. “You stink of female flesh, Lightbringer flesh, still. We knew you would come.”

The anger drained away and Piotr was swept with sudden chills.
Lightbringer
. Wendy.

“We have parted,” Piotr said carefully, certain now that he could hear rustling in the deepest, darkest shadows. He counted the individual movements that he could make out and was dismayed. Piotr's conversation with the Walker in front of him had allowed the others to sneak rather close. He put the count at somewhere between two and five more, each taking turns shifting closer.

“Maybe you part from living flesh, maybe not.” The Walker leaned in from its ridiculous height, bringing with it a puff of air stinking of maggoty meat and pond scum roasting in the summer sun, and said, “The Walkers who are left think not. We talk about flesh, we talk about Lightbringer, and we say to ourselves, ‘Why would they part?’ It makes no sense, flesh. It is senseless.”

For a moment, just the briefest of seconds, Piotr was tempted to laugh. Senseless indeed. He'd struggled with the decision to leave Wendy the entire time she lay comatose; endless hell. She'd looked so small and fragile in her hospital bed, childlike with her black-tipped curls tangled damply against her cheeks.

Piotr had loathed himself in those long hours, watching her sink deeper and deeper into the twilight-world of her own mind with no way to reach her, no way to draw her into the waking, burning heat of the living world. He knew; he'd tried everything he could think of to reach her soul, even once going so far as to kiss her, hoping it would be like a fairy tale, that she would wake in his arms and love him. He'd failed.

“I left her,” he said to the Walker stiffly, “for her own good.” And it was the truth, so far as truth went, even if there was more to it. Wendy had found herself in the hospital because he'd been unwilling to step away from how he felt about her, because he wouldn't allow her to become her mother's pawn; he'd been unwilling to sacrifice the Lightbringer's soul for his fellow Riders or even the Lost. He'd sworn to protect them and, when faced with a choice of losing Wendy or the Lost, had let an explosion of Light obliterate everyone in the room instead.

Somehow, out of them all, he alone came out unscathed. How he'd survived…well, that was still a mystery.

“The Lightbringer needs the likes of you?” The Walker chuckled again and its bones rattled in mirth. Piotr felt a wave of cold come off the Walker, a chilly breeze that reminded him not to let the Walker get too close lest it freeze his very essence and trap him there to be shredded apart. “Rider flesh has a high opinion of itself.”

“You said you were waiting for me,” Piotr snapped, annoyed now and revving up for a fight, trying to stay out of the cold air pockets but feeling pressed upon on all sides. He glanced left and right, trying to pinpoint exactly where the others would come from, or how he might turn their numbers to his advantage. “So what is it that you want? Some sort of deal, like the White Lady had with you? You wish this territory?”

“Want? Flesh wants to bargain with us?” Rocking back on its heels, the Walker shook its head and laughed its gravelly laugh. “There is no bargain with Walkers, flesh. You have bothered others too long.”

“Others?” Piotr asked. “What others?”

“Others matters to flesh? Now? How funny! We come for you now because it is time. We are paid, we take care of you. You are example. To other Riders. To Lost. To Lightbringer. I am bored. We are done here. Goodbye.”

The rustles had grown very close now. He could feel the encroaching cold, the ice that clung to branch and rock wherever Walkers trod. Now his breath frosted the air. Piotr knelt down.

He was tensed, preparing for the attack, when a long, yodeling war cry cut the air. Twin blades flashed as a slim, dark-haired woman darted from behind a nearby bush and leapt at the Walker.

A second shape darted by and Piotr found himself thrust aside into the rough-hewn wall by a familiar blonde figure. Slowing only a split-second to make sure Piotr was unharmed, Elle flashed him a quicksilver grin and leapt into the fray.

Watching the girls fight was like watching a ballet. Elle, who'd died a rich society girl in the late 20s, had been an only child of two world-jaunting glitterati. Her parents had no time for their darling only child but spared no expense when it came to her education, interests, or hobbies. Fencing, archery, horseback riding, dancing—Elle had tried it all and was good at most of it.

Lily, on the other hand, had lived the quiet life of a plains-dwelling tribeswoman, a girl so long dead she couldn't even reliably recall the various names of her tribe and only occasionally the names of her gods. Her range of talents wasn't quite so varied, but the lithe brunette unerringly wielded her twin bone daggers with lethal precision.

In moments the pair was flanked—five Walkers, all towering above the tiny girls, all armed with their claws sharpened to razor-fine points and stunning, slowing ice-breath.

The Walkers surrounded the girls and pressed forward on one side, attempting to nudge them into a less advantageous position so that they'd be overwhelmed, slowed by the cold. Piotr expected Lily to fall back—she was adept at strategizing, especially during close combat such as this—but instead she shrieked and flung herself forward, slashing high at the nearest Walker's face with one dagger and punching low with the other.

Hissing, the Walker fell back, clawing at his hood, which dropped to reveal the last few remaining wisps of sparse white hair across his crown. His features were a desiccated maw of teeth and rudely stitched-together twine frayed at the edges and seeping yellowing pus-like essence.

Elle, likewise, was aiming for the eyes or, at least, where the eyes used to be. The Walkers fought hard but the girls fought harder, recklessly ignoring the chill and dodging the sharpened hands. Within minutes all but one Walker had fled the scene, bleeding and cursing, leaving the pair facing the Walker who'd distracted Piotr earlier. They stalked around and around, moving toward him as the Walkers had circled Piotr, slowing only when Piotr stepped forward and cleared his throat.

Though intimidated by their strength and skill, Piotr was also pathetically glad of their support and his unexpected salvation. Trapped in a group like that, he never would have thought to go for the eyes, much less been willing to take on such heavy odds, even with another Rider at his side. Lily and Elle had hardly blinked before wading in and saving his skin—again.

The first Walker, backed up against a wall at this point, held still and silent, a ruined rabbit in a terrible snare. Looking between the three of them, it chuckled, seeming to appreciate the irony of falling prey to the fate it'd initially intended for Piotr.

“You seem to be at a disadvantage,” Piotr told the Walker before crossing his arms over his chest and smiling thankfully at the girls. “But Elle, Lily, I am grateful for your intervention.
Spasibo
. You have my great thanks.”

Elle shrugged. “You think we'd let a poor little bunny like you duke it out all by your lonesome, Petey? Some friends we'd be.” She crouched a little lower and her skirt rode up, exposing a length of strong, tan thigh. The Walker shifted, claws twitching, and Piotr knew it was imagining punching through Elle's exposed flesh with its fingers, tearing her leg from her body. “These dizzy palookas were taking you for a ride.”

“Indeed,” Piotr agreed gravely, interspersing himself slightly between the Walker and Elle. “I noted that myself.”

“We were too late to save the boy,” Lily said coolly, lifting her daggers shoulder-height and easing back on the ball of her left foot. Piotr had seen her relax into this stance before; it allowed for a fluid, viper-fast movement to the left or right with only a slight shift in weight. “But rest assured, he is avenged.”

“This is good,” Piotr said and looked to the Walker. “Did you arrive in time to hear our talk?”

Elle snorted, rising so that her skirt once again covered more of her thigh. “Yeah, but why are you bothered about beatin’ your gums at this one, Petey? What's the point? He's all balled up.”

Now that she wasn't as exposed and vulnerable, the Walker chuckled and turned its face away from Elle. Slightly between them, Piotr relaxed.

“The flesh speaks in riddles. Always the talky-talky.” The Walker flapped his fingers in a quacking motion. “Either do for me as you did before or let me walk, flesh. I live on short-time, the dawn comes.”

“Ol’ white and creepy here's right. We oughta stop futzing around and bump off the hood already.” Elle rested one fist on her hip and leered darkly at the Walker. Then she glanced at Piotr and groaned, irritated. “Jeepers creepers! I know that look.”

Lily, peeking at Piotr, sighed and relaxed her pose. The entire set of her body radiated disapproval. “As do I. Piotr, you do not wish us to finish this beast off? Why? What use does this abomination hold for you?”

“Patience,” Piotr cautioned mildly, picking up the hilt of his shattered knife from the ground. “Something he said earlier struck me. He was asking about the Lightbringer. Then he suggested that he'd been sent by others. That he was, perhaps, taking the orders?”

Lily frowned. “Sent by others? Surely, I do not comprehend. The White Lady has been dispatched. Who is there to send such as these after you?”

“That's what I'm wondering. What genius would send this dewdropper to give ol’ Petey the bum's rush?” Elle narrowed her eyes at the Walker and, shoving Piotr over, waved her knife beneath the Walker's neck. “Come on, palooka. Talk and maybe we'll just take your teeth instead of your whole head.”

“She speaks true. This is your last chance at salvation, beast,” Lily agreed coldly, striding up to the Walker and holding the point of her dagger to his left eye. “Speak what you know and by Piotr's willing grace we shall allow you to continue with your poisonous ways. This time. Speak not and I promise the sting of my knives shall be but the first pain you feel tonight.”

The Walker seemed to take her seriously. It hesitated and then shrugged. “Flesh is…persuasive. Perhaps it is the poison it coats over this blade.”

Piotr glanced sharply at Lily. Poison? This was new. He made a mental note to ask her about it later.

The Walker, holding one bony hand outward in a gesture of peace, dug through its robe with the other until it found what it was looking for. He passed the object, a small sheet of tightly folded paper, to Lily and stepped back, putting plenty of space between her daggers and his face. Elle took the sheet from Lily's hand and unfolded it.

“Oh Petey,” she whispered. “Have they got the goods on you.” She held up the paper and Piotr was stunned silent when it turned out to be a sketch of his own face staring back at him. It was clumsily made, true, but he recognized the hand that'd done it. One of his Lost, Pandora, had been a budding artist and had been fond of drawing anyone who'd sit still long enough for her to capture the essence of their features. Piotr had often been a subject.