Chapter Six

“Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world,

for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!”

—William Butler Yeats

Xiangu, as it turned out, was not in Denver. Although she traveled to Denver on occasions, she preferred a remote lifestyle to bustling cities, a sentiment I understood well. Perhaps it was our gift as Scriveners that made us introverts. Errol had lived the same bucolic lifestyle. Even Marin, who dwelled inside Quebec City, still managed to exist far from people, cars, buildings, and chaos.

Xiangu was transient. This made her more interesting to me for the simple reason that she had made her way in the world of Styx by staying on the move. Having mostly lived my life in one place, I was attracted to this possibility of traveling from city-to-city, countryside-to-countryside, doling out Deathmarks to unwitting souls. In many ways, this style seemed far more effective to population control.

Seeing as Marin established his power by hiding underground, holed up in his self-imposed prison, Xiangu’s path of traversing the globe gave me hope that I, too, could travel while still helping Styx.

Of course, my future wouldn’t mean much if I wasn’t around to see it blossom into fruition. Xiangu’s first impression of me would have to be spotless, that is if my reputation didn’t precede me. Which I was sure it did.

In a jacked-up, steel gray, 1990 Volkswagen Golf, Neema, James, and the brunette female Trivial I had come to discover was named Monkey—I didn’t ask—led us out of Denver and westbound toward the jutting peaks of the Rocky Mountains. Several more cars filled with Xiangu’s loyal crew followed behind that 1990 Volkswagen. In one of those cars was Brent, subdued and burning and probably in excruciating pain. Keeping him in the invisible, heated binds was draining on my own energy. I didn’t have to be touching him or even in the same car as him. I only needed him to be within fifty feet or so. Whenever the distance grew wider, I felt my grip on him waning. It was important to stay close, but not too close.

I would not be able to keep him contained forever, that much was certain. If Errol and Marin had figured out how to ensnare Eidolons for longer than a few hours, I was not privy to their skillset. I had outplayed Marin, but that did not mean I had half of his power as my own. I just got lucky.

Luck has a way of running out, though.

As he rode on the back of my motorbike, following the convoy, Nicodemus held onto my leather jacket like a trusting friend would. His fingers almost unraveled the leather seams. Dudley was settled comfortably into the tank bag, his ears flapping in the breeze.

Papa and Delia rode behind us in Errol’s sleek black Porsche, keeping a safe but up-our-ass distance. The roads we took weren’t highways, but two-lane thoroughfares that wound up and down steep grades and around bends. After a few hours, we reached the alpine mining town of Ouray—so said a road sign before we rolled through the quaint place. I hoped we would stop here, exhausted from the driving and slightly lightheaded from altitude. We didn’t, however. We continued onward, passing a sign that welcomed us to the “Million Dollar Highway.” Little did I know about this highway and, to be honest, little did I care to remember.

Every bend around the mountainsides was a game of chicken, with no guardrail and cliffs high enough to make a person’s stomach turn over and over. Would a car or bus or truck come barreling around the corner at us? Would we fly off the edge of the mountain road?

Anyone who feared heights would not enjoy keeping pace with an Eidolon in an unusually powerful Volkswagen. But when death was the other option, it was a simple, albeit white-knuckle, choice.

Neema had told me just before leaving Denver that Xiangu would help me without question. I would’ve liked to believe her entirely, but I knew, or perhaps my gut knew, it wouldn’t be that easy. I, too, would be cautious of how and when my skill was utilized. And if I was Master Guru at something as potent as healing Deathmarks, I’d make damn sure I was removing them from the right people.

All this to say that even though Papa, Nicodemus, and Delia were convinced this next part would be the final leg in our month-long journey, I was not. Cynicism is a matter of survival. At least it had worked for me.

We wound our way deeper into the mountains on the road that gave me repeat heart attacks around every curve. So I was relieved once we stopped at a modest gas station to defrost and refuel. It was at this gas station that we were forced into a greater understanding of each other. The sun had started to rise, causing the station lights to feel brighter than they actually were. Colors, too, felt more vibrant.

As I cupped my gas station coffee, shivering from the remnants of the night chill, my attention was directed to a small television in the corner. I wasn’t the only one to notice.

Marin and his deep, black eyes were on the screen. The two humans working the shop didn’t see him, of course. What they were watching, none of us could tell. The television waves that we perceived were on a different spectrum than what humans could see. This explained why, sometimes, humans didn’t see ghosts when we could. Stygians had the gift of being more open to other dimensions.

“Reports are in across the globe,” said Marin in his grim tone. “Souls have been reported everywhere, confused and undirected. The numbers are too great for our Eidolons to keep this epidemic under control. I demand all of you to continue your work and send these souls to their proper place. Might I remind you that it is your job to ensure they are on track to the Afterlife.”

Everyone—meaning Stygians—in the shop sighed. Some rolled their eyes. Others shoved the shop door open to light up a cigarette outside.

Neema’s voice was in my ear as Marin continued with his broadcast. “See how there are fewer wrinkles around his eyes. This was recorded long ago.”

Marin’s timeless face, lacking a strand of hair that could show his age, did look younger than his more recent television appearances when he was alive. Having seen that skull face without his TV makeup, I could not get hung up on the number of wrinkles around his eyes like Neema. I had seen the devil. I had watched him kill Errol. I had annihilated him. Even though I had won that battle, his face gave me chills I could not shake. I never would.

Wrinkles didn’t meant shit. But to Neema, they were a clue she was right to cling to.

“News of his death is gonna get out eventually,” Neema said.

“Well, good riddance,” Delia, clearly eavesdropping, grumbled.

Neema’s gaze grew heavy on Delia and me. Telling them that I had melted the fascist motherfucker in Lethe seemed arrogant. So I said nothing, even though I gave Neema the slightest cock of my eyebrow as a hint that she was onto something. I would be damned if I let her in on the secret. Following my lead, Delia chose silence, too.

“You know something, Scrivener.”

Delia and I simultaneously sipped our bitter gas station coffee.

Neema began to whisper something to Monkey, and though I wanted to hear for myself what she said, I didn’t need to lean in or eavesdrop as Delia had done.

“We are not assassins,” Nicodemus said from the corner of the shop, giving Neema and Monkey a stern sidelong gaze. He had sharp ears despite his age.

Neema and the Trivial ally stopped chattering.

“We are here for one request, and then we will move along in peace,” he added, this time looking down his nose at them, as wise, old men tend to do. “Your Master is not in any danger.”

“Master Xiangu will want to know everything. She will need to know the truth before we arrive,” Monkey clarified.

“What do you need to know?” I said before Nicodemus would speak.

Neema and Monkey shared looks. Both said together, “Did you kill Head Reaper Marin?”

There were only a few ways in which to respond. Seeing that I didn’t have my wits about me, frozen as I was, the decision was simple. “No, I didn’t kill him.”

Monkey’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. “You lie!”

“I do not,” I intoned.

“You did something to him,” Neema said.

“Nope.” They asked about Head Reaper Marin. As it was, he wasn’t a Reaper at all, so I was telling the truth.

“Master doesn’t help killers,” Monkey added.

It was Papa’s fist on the pane of glass on the shop’s door that caught everyone’s attention. “Let’s get moving,” he said.

No one argued with Papa. Few ever had. Papa, who was a six-foot-tall Grim Reaper covered in ropes of thick muscle, was not an Eidolon, but he carried the confidence as if he was one. That’s all that really mattered. So we all marched through the gas station doors back toward our vehicles to continue on the harrowing journey to Xiangu’s hideout.

“We swore to protect Master,” Neema whispered in my ear. “We have to be sure you won’t kill her. You understand.”

“I’m not here to do her any harm.” My words were firm. “I want her to remove the Deathmark on my arm. Then I will never bother her or you again.”

Neema pushed closer into my personal space as if she was about to kiss me. She smelled of tea tree oil, an alluring scent—one I had always found delightful. I still did. Neema was protecting her Master. She was doing what was right. I didn’t hold that against her. “There are some things you must know about Xiangu.” Neema glowered defiantly over at Monkey before continuing, “She will test you. She tests everyone.”

“Do you tell others about these tests?” I asked.

“Sometimes. It didn’t help, in their cases.”

“Why? Did she refuse to to help them?”

“If they failed, she killed them.”

She was attempting to scare me, which was difficult to do these days. If Xiangu killed me because I failed her test, well, what would it matter? I was already a dead Stygian walking. Dying tonight or tomorrow, by Xiangu or Brent, didn’t make a bit of difference to me.

“What kind of test should I expect?”

“Don’t know,” Neema answered. “She’ll expect a lot from another supposed Master Scrivener. She’ll want you be sure you’re good intentioned.”

“Well, I know Teacup, and she’s as badass but as good-intentioned as they come. A real Annie Oakley but with manlier hands,” Delia interjected, forcing Neema to give me some space so I could breathe in mountain air and not her in-your-face menace.

“Thanks, Prada. I’m glad you noticed.” I tried to smile.

“Teacup? Prada?” Neema gave a curious look. “Are those names?”

“They’re called pet names, sweetheart. Get used to it.” Delia’s one curved eyebrow spoke volumes. Neema read Delia’s message and, after brief tense pause, she smiled back at her. This was as much of a conversation as we would have for the remainder of our drive to Xiangu’s hideout, and though it was full of tension, it was the minor lift that I needed.

I was a step closer to healing this Deathmark.

And a step closer to reuniting peacefully with Brent.