Chapter Thirteen

“Do not forget, Stygians, that your work is your life.
I expect results. I expect nothing more than your best.”

—Head Reaper Marin, November 15th

There was a quiet murmur following Xiangu’s death. I would have muttered, too, if I had air in my lungs to speak. Instead, guilt began to wind its way into my heart. She had died for me. She had saved me, someone who owed me nothing.

Why? Why did she do it?

Neema screamed with her hands clapped around her face. She was buried in grief for only a moment before she flew at Brent.

“Neema!” I wailed as I tried to thwart her attack.

Mighty as Neema was, she did not present Brent with anything he couldn’t handle. She threw a couple of punches, screeched, and then collapsed over her Master’s ashes.

I put my arm around her. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t talk to me right now,” Neema snarled.

“I didn’t mean for it to go this way.”

“Go away!” She shoved me off, sending me onto my back in the grass.

As I struggled to stand, Brent’s weighted gaze followed every move I made. I soon found my footing and attempted to walk. From the corner of my eye, I noticed what was left of the Deathmark—the skull’s forehead—was flaking away as any other tattoo I had tried to give myself in the past. Little flecks of black ink blew off when the breeze caressed my arm. If I rubbed my skin, the marking would be gone forever. But I left it alone in exchange for meeting eyes with Brent.

Was it right to ask him if the hunt was over? Was it safe to approach him?

By Hades, did I even want to approach him now after everything that had happened?

Brent, it seemed, silently asked the same questions. He lingered in front of Xiangu’s ashes. Perhaps he, too, was paralyzed in disbelief that he no longer carried the burden of being my Grim Reaper. At least for now. When it was my time to go, he was still the one who would be charged with ferrying my soul.

Since Brent did not move or speak, I was the first to break the silence. I gave Delia, Papa, and Nicodemus a quick glance.

The last time we had kissed was before our final attack on Marin. The last time we had looked at each other lovingly was not long after that kiss. For over a month, Brent had been my opponent. I had run halfway across the continent to hide from him. We had faced off like enemies. And now, after all of that, the test was over.

“What—what does that mean?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said in that beautiful Southern drawl.

“Is it over?”

He gave Neema the respect she deserved and stepped around her. I had to admit that seeing Brent come toward me induced a panic I could not control. I had exerted so much energy running from him. The instinct kicked in, and it wanted me to bolt. But I attempted to temper my quivering body when Brent came close enough to draw me into a hug.

“Are you upset that you killed her when it should’ve been me?” I asked.

“I followed the Deathmark. I did my job,” he said.

“But you killed the wrong person.”

“The rules of Styx don’t agree with you.”

I winced when he lifted my right arm and inspected the crumbling lines of Marin’s Deathmark that clung to my pale flesh. Brent stared for the longest time, watching them.

He brushed the last Deathmark remains from my skin. His fingers lingered over the now empty spot. I feared he might tell me that Xiangu’s work wasn’t enough. But his ocean blue eyes softened.

“It’s over, Ollie. Xiangu did it.”

“But she’s dead because of it.” Tears blurred my eyes. I didn’t fall to the ground in wracking sobs, and I didn’t pull him close. I couldn’t move for fear of disintegrating into my vast assortment of feelings.

“She chose this option,” he said, because I must have looked like glass about to shatter. “It’s over, Ollie. It’s all over.”

He put his arms around my waist and lifted me off the ground in a show of celebration. I could not immediately hug him back. My body—no, my bones—would have broken and my muscles would have snapped from the tension that had held me captive for so long. Marin and Styx’s bizarre world had been increasingly advanced levels of awful. Brent had been the one thing that could destroy me. How was I supposed to shed that tension to expose the side of me that loved him right down to the core of my soul?

My sagging, trembling reaction to his embrace didn’t diminish his affection. Strong enough to hold me to him without my arms wrapped around him too, he dropped his head into the crook of my neck and shoulder. His grip on my waist tightened another inch. Had I wanted to hug him back, I couldn’t. He held me so close that I could not move. And as I felt his shallow breaths shift to long, deep intakes of air, I understood that this hug was for him. Like me, he was relieved and exhausted. Perhaps he, too, was as delicate as glass right now. Perhaps he would break if squeezed too tightly, leaving behind ghosts of what was.

I could not say what was the greater load—to be the hunted or to have to be the reluctant hunter—but in truth, it didn’t matter. Coming to this realization and knowing that Brent was no longer out to finish me, I found myself snaking my way around him, starting with my legs around his hips as I tried to quell the fear of him that still resided in me. I hooked my heels, unraveled my arms from inside his cage of muscle and locked my hands around his neck.

“We did it,” I said into his ear, feeling the soft bristles of his beard brush against my cheek. “We survived.”

We only survived because of Xiangu. I could not thank her now. I could not show her my gratitude. She paid the ultimate price for my series of unfortunate events. Whether she chose this path or not meant nothing to my conscience. At the same time that Brent’s lips led a trail of kisses from the base of my neck to my own lips, guilt spread across my entire being.

In the past two years, Brent and I had spent no more than a full week together at a time. Yet this closeness was not foreign. I knew him, how his lips moved, how his skin tasted, the feel of his beard against my flesh, the shivers his entire being gave me. I remembered the allure of his musky cologne.

His kiss had not changed. He still began with a subtle pass over my parted mouth that soon evolved into passion that spoke of no bounds. But we kept our first kiss since that fateful day in Lethe restrained. We had fought for more time, and we won. There would be another chance to rekindle what was briefly taken from us.

My nervous fingers wound their way into his overgrown hair, holding his head in place as I pressed my forehead to his. Our mouths still flirted with a kiss or two. But this was my chance to drink Brent in, to reacquaint myself with the little stress lines around his eyes. Maybe by doing this I would wash away the fear that lingered.

“Xiangu died to help me…I don’t know what to say.”

“It should’ve been you,” Neema answered, still bowed over her Master’s remains.

The break in her voice was enough to bring Brent and me back from our reverie. He lowered me to the ground. My feet felt like they floated on cotton when they touched the grass.

“I’m sorry, Neema. I never believed this would happen.”

Neema look at me with fire in her eyes. “Neither did she. You come in here, asking for help. Instead, Xiangu is dead. It should’ve…been…you.”

Delia leaned against Papa’s chest, tears streaming small rivers down her rosy cheeks. Papa and Nicodemus did not cry, not that I expected them to, but their eyes were soft, faces relaxed.

Why Xiangu offered herself on my behalf, why I deserved her kindness above another’s was not entirely clear. Selfishly, I wouldn’t ask any questions. Sometimes we did things for people because it was the right thing to do, not necessarily the easiest or smartest. I would know.

“Hey, don’t walk away,” Delia shouted as Neema climbed to her feet and headed for the row of trees that led one back into the world outside.

“Delia, it doesn’t matter. She has every right to be upset,” I said.

“You don’t find it odd that Xiangu would jump in front of Brent for you?”

“Yeah, I do. But we can’t go back in time and ask her why, can we?”

Delia folded her arms over her chest. “There are crazier things in this world. Let’s try.”

Nicodemus moved into the middle of our circle like the peacemaker he was. “Let’s take a moment and note that no one in our group has died. In this world, that’s a mark of success.” He clasped his hands at his waist and, though Delia and I had more to say, we resigned ourselves to quietness. Nicodemus was right. “There is not a soul on this planet who hasn’t done questionable things. Let us not trouble ourselves with why and focus on what is to happen next.”

Of course, what we’d do next was a black void of apprehension. We knew. We had to get back to Quebec City and fix what Marin had broken.

The notion of returning to Lethe sickened me. I preferred never to go back. Had Stygian rebels bombed the enclave and let crumbled bedrock entomb it forever, the nearest I would celebrate would be from the other side of the world.

We’d have to go back because the mess was partly our doing. Good children clean up their messes, after all.

Neema returned from the tunnel of trees as if she had forgotten something. Her stride was long and angry. It took her only a few short steps to reach us. She shoved an envelope at me.

“Here,” she said.

I ruffled my brow. “What’s this?”

Neema pointed at the letter.

I unfolded the paper and scanned the florid handwriting. The message started as most messages do: “Dear Olivia.” As I read Xiangu’s handwritten words, my heart began to thud in my chest. The final two paragraphs blended into a mix of black, inky letters that ignited complete sadness. Xiangu’s signature appeared at the end in a mockery of all that I had endured.

I crumpled the paper in my hand but was careful not to burn it into ash.

“What did it say?” Papa asked, catching my elbow in his hand.

“You have to keep her name clean,” Neema said. “You have to honor her sacrifice. She deserves that.”

Everyone kept their distance as I sat on the edge of the pond watching ripples in the water. Green lily pads were clustered in one corner. A few pink and white lotus flowers sprang out of the muddy water.

This silent meditation following Xiangu’s letter was a warning to my companions. From the concerned looks on their faces, each of them wanted to ask what it was that ripped me away from a happy reunion with Brent to this. They’d find out soon enough. For now, I needed time.

But the moment was short-lived like everything in Styx. I felt someone approach me from behind. He padded quietly across the grass, like he was sneaking up on me, but my nose knew it was him. I’d never grow tired of Brent’s scent. My glance over my shoulder was my invitation for him to sit down at my side.

Brent copied my position—arms locked around his knees and pulled to his chest. He gazed out across the pond with me. The water grew still. The next breeze would come along and then he could watch the ripples in the water make everything dance again.

“I was hoping we’d find a quiet spot and make up for lost time,” he said. “But no pressure or nothing.”

I sighed. And then, after trying to fight it, I laughed. The air I breathed to laugh felt rejuvenating. Strangely, I had forgotten how to breathe.

“You were just trying to kill me not too long ago,” I said. “Need time to think.”

“I never wanted to hurt you. It was an instinct older than time.”

“I know what it was. But…” I gulped. “I don’t know how I feel right now.”

He made a little sound in his throat, a catch. Not that he ever saw me as anything but his equal, but I had a lot to learn and prove. Brent was the most powerful Eidolon I knew. I had not only outrun him, I’d outwitted him, too. I had stopped Marin. I had stopped Brent from his ultimate job. I had, finally, earned my stripes. I was a Master Scrivener and, as far as I knew, the most powerful one in Styx. That title I would humbly wear. I would not become corrupted like my predecessors.

I would die before that ever happened.

“So you gonna tell me about the letter from Xiangu?”

There was no sense in keeping Xiangu’s message from Brent because, in the end, he was the only one who could help me.

“Remember the Interceptor?” I said.

“I remember the look of fear in your eyes when we rigged it to the roof of the Château.” Le Château Frontenac, one of Quebec’s grandest hotels, sat on top of Lethe, unbeknownst to every human who worked or stayed there.

“Then you remember that I created it to watch human shows on television because Marin made it illegal to watch them.”

He edged nearer, closing in the sliver of grass that was between us. I was grateful he wanted to be close. But I didn’t feel comfortable with that right now. I scooted away. Brent kept his reaction stifled. He stayed where he was, exuding calm like a human trying to approach a frightened, injured animal.

After a tension-filled minute of silence, I handed him the letter that was crumpled into a ball at my side.

After a couple failed tries, he unfolded the ball of paper and flattened it over his knees. I lingered quietly as he read. When he was done, he let out a harrumph, scrunched it back into a tight ball, and handed it back to me because that was what the letter deserved—to be a ball of paper, left forgotten in the trash.

“Xiangu confessed that she let Marin start the Scrivener Purge,” he said with bitterness on his tongue.

I knew this already. She had said as much. What she wanted from me, however, was to protect her name from getting tarnished. She asked that I erase her part in Marin’s tyrannical takeover of Styx. And I could not say no considering the sacrifice that she made for me. I was a mix of anger and grief and guilt. There would be no more lies.

Except for this one, I guess.

“Scriveners were nearly eliminated because of other Scriveners. Why would they destroy their own?” I said, mostly to myself.

“Possibly because Marin and Xiangu knew what Scriveners are capable of. You came along and took them both out. Seems like their concerns were warranted, even if they were evil.”

I shook my head. “Maybe. But it doesn’t make sense.”

“Not everything makes sense.”

“Everything does if you know what to look for. Even if it’s for a shitty reason.”

“You’re angry because you don’t know why they did it. That’s perfectly understandable.”

The scrunched note in my hand felt like a twenty-pound weight. Nothing Xiangu said was helpful. She had confessed to turning her head the other way while Marin plotted out the Scrivener Purge. Xiangu had known he could never cross over the millions of souls. Having permitted him to sit on the throne for so long, and by looking the other way when her own people were dying, she was no less guilty than Marin.

She had my birth parents’ blood on her hands.

For the past couple of years, by way of rebel cells and my minor uprising, Styx had been asking to see Scriveners restored to their usual numbers. But that was without knowing that the very people who were victimized caused decades of fascism. Once the truth came out—and it would—Styx’s sympathy for Scriveners would die. They would be seen as the enemy so vile, they’d do away with their own kind.

I wasn’t proud of my lineage at the present, but I would have to be if Scriveners wanted to earn the respect of Styx.

“How are we supposed to fix what has been done and prevent it in the future if we don’t know why?” I said. “I can’t lie about Xiangu’s role. But I have no other choice. That’s not how governments should be run. Stygians need to know the truth, but I can’t give it to them now.”

He put his hand on my knee, and something warm and comforting moved through me. His eyes flashed between yellow and red, a sign that he was starting to see what I had been digesting for the past hour. He shifted his attention to the water again. It was an understandable move. The water with its gentle waves and lily pads and lotuses was a nicer scene than the one we would soon face.

“It isn’t over,” I said. “Our problems are different. If we don’t clean up Marin and Xiangu’s mess, we’re going to be the next in line to take the heat.” I did what I had wanted to do since I read Xiangu’s letter—I burned it into ash. Black flecks fell from my palm and landed on the grass at my side. Soon, the wind blew them away, forever.

“We can’t let them know about this.” Brent knew of whom I spoke—Papa, Nicodemus, and Delia. “No one else can know.”

“Neema knows.” So long as Neema kept the secret, perhaps no one in Styx would learn what Brent and I knew. And if she refused, one of us would have to make her quiet—an action that could so easily turn us as vile as Marin ever was.

“Maybe I’m showing the limit of my skills or knowledge here, but how are you and I supposed to fix this?” he said.

Well, that was the problem. I didn’t know. But like everything I had ever done, I would find out as I went. Brent would have to trust me.

“You know what makes me the angriest?” I asked my beloved, avoiding answering his question.

He gave a peculiar grunt as if to say, “What?”

“After everything I’ve been through, I’m angry with myself for believing until now that everyone is inherently good, even Marin.” More than anything, I wanted to run for Lethe and let it wash away my memory of the letter. For once, the realm and the river of forgetfulness would be useful.

“Xiangu must have had some regret for the past, or she wouldn’t have saved you instead of herself. Do you forgive Xiangu since she gave her life for you?” He was brave to ask this.

I set my jaw. “I have to.”

“Do you forgive me after everything that’s happened?”

My eyes slid to meet his. I had an answer for him. It wasn’t the answer he wanted, though. So I said nothing before I got up and walked away.