Chapter Four

“I’m disappointed to report that the soul quotas are less than satisfactory, Stygians. I will not continue to remind you of the importance of our role in the balance of life on Earth. If you continue to fail to meet the quotas, I will be forced to take action.”

—Head Reaper Marin, December 2nd

The Denver Public Library seemed a pleasant enough place to find oneself hiding from a Grim Reaper and the rest of the world. Upon entering the building of old stone and marble, I felt instantly at home. This place was entirely different from the cramped space of the Scrivener library back in Wrightwick, where I had worked with Master Scrivener Errol Dennison to improve my own Master skills. Wrightwick was an old hunting manor in northern California surrounded by orchards and vineyards. It was the formal home of all Scriveners, at least that was how Errol had explained it. The place was idyllic, hidden inside the forested mountains of Calistoga. If I survived, I would go back and read more about my kind and spend my days hidden among trees and vineyards and paradise.

Open and airy, this public library gave off the impression of a pristine museum, not a place filled to the brim with books and local history.

The gray-haired woman running the front desk made it immediately clear that no dogs were permitted inside the library, especially not inside the stacks where we were sure Nicodemus would be found. Papa had reluctantly agreed to wait outside with Dudley, grumbling something about being the dog’s babysitter when Brent was hot on our heels. I reminded him there were back doors to the library, ones I’d seen as we approached. Once we got Dudley’s arrangement worked out, Delia and I were told the man we were looking for (the one that looked like Plato with a long white beard and gray robe, the woman explained) was in a rare books section of the stacks that was forbidden to outside guests like us. Evidently, Plato had free reign of the building, however. No matter how we explained that we were with the “man that looks like Plato,” the woman wouldn’t budge. If we wanted to request a rare book, she would be the one to retrieve it.

“How then, is Nicodemus in the stacks?” One of Delia’s red eyebrows was cocked high. She didn’t trust this front desk woman. Neither did I.

The woman folded her hands together and looked down her nose at us both. “That man is a major donor. He has privileges.”

“Nicodemus is a major donor?” Delia and I said together.

“He hand-delivered a nice donation check earlier.”

Delia snorted and turned to me. “Has Nicodemus been holding out on us? We’ve been staying in hostels, for Hades sake! We could’ve been staying in hotels. Hotels, Teacup!”

“Excuse me, miss. You’re going to need to keep your voice down.”

“Voice down?” Delia roared. “I’ve been living in dorm rooms for nearly a month only to find out Nic is actually Mr. Moneybags?”

I leaned on the desk. “If Nicodemus is indeed a major donor, then you know he told us to meet him in the stacks, and if we don’t, he’ll be very upset. He’ll likely suspend financing if he thinks his requests are being undermined.”

Minutes later, Delia and I found ourselves inside the forbidden zone of the library. Whatever she thought of Nicodemus, the librarian made it very clear she didn’t like us when she said we had five minutes to get in and out or she’d call the cops.

Delia ran her fingertips along the spines of a few leather-bound volumes as we wandered the stacks, running back and forth through each tower of books and metal cases, looking for a sign of Nicodemus. I wanted to tell her not to touch the books, that it wasn’t polite to do, and that the oils from her fingers would tarnish the leather. I caught myself before I scolded Delia because I was doing the very same thing completely without thought.

Touching things, however old, felt like I was touching the past. And books held so much of our past, human and Stygian, that I almost felt like I could absorb the histories through touch alone. I had spent many years inside libraries as a kid, but something about passing by and touching stale paper and columns of books felt strangely familiar. Images in my mind of letters and skulls kept snagging my attention. Then they’d fade as quickly as they appeared. Brent’s blue eyes popped into the fog, and I skidded to a stop. He wasn’t nearby, was he? I looked behind me, then ahead. Delia’s red hair disappeared behind a corner.

No way. If Brent were nearby, my whole body would know. This was something else entirely such as a long-ago memory surfacing from the depths of a deep lake. His eyes, the card catalogue cases with the letters on them, and the smell of paper—I recalled something that had been wiped from my mind. It was from Lethe.

It was—

“Teacup,” she said in her loudest whisper. Delia’s face popped out from behind the corner she had turned. Her long red hair dangled like ribbons. “Big Donor is over here.”

I filled my lungs with one long, grounding breath and moved forward as my mind reeled. Memories of Lethe were beginning to return to me. I had been in Lethe only a few times now. One time, I’d stood up to Marin, and the only reason I knew about that moment was due to the video recording of it from the camera hidden in the buttonhole of my jacket. My confrontation was broadcast throughout Styx. But I didn’t remember any of it.

The last time I had visited, I’d confronted Marin and killed him before he had a chance to wipe my memories. I could recall everything about the place—the way it resembled the hallways of Le Château Frontenac that sat above Lethe. Now that Marin was dead and gone for well over a month, was this what happened? Everyone got back their memories of that place? Was the spell he held over everyone finally receding?

I had to wonder what it meant if that were true. Stygians would remember all the atrocities that moved in and out of Lethe. Not that Marin’s hold on Styx was strong at the time of his death. He was the most oppressive and least favorite leader in all of Stygian history. But what would happen once everyone’s memories restored those moments in Lethe when he’d banished loved ones, harmed others?

The result didn’t matter to me, least not right now. I had one purpose—to stay alive. If I survived, I would worry. Lethe is the center of Styx, our capital. Should angry Stygians raid it, what would happen, especially now that Marin was gone?

I laughed to myself. For some reason, I cared about preserving Styx when not so long ago I’d wanted to raze it to the ground, as if that would solve all our problems.

Silly Ollie.

“Come on,” Delia urged, her eyes wide.

Together, we came upon Nicodemus and a collection of unfamiliar faces that surrounded him. Each person was fixated on the old Eidolon as he spoke. It was clear by the way Nicodemus commanded their attention that Delia and I had walked in on him giving a lecture to willing, interested students. The people around him weren’t kids but adults, and some were scribbling in notebooks while others asked questions using words that were beyond my comprehension.

“What’s going on?” I said to Delia. I didn’t like that we were being slowed down by a lecture on medieval history by a man who had probably lived it. Lessons and history could come another day. Today—business.

From her perturbed expression, she seemed to know exactly what was happening from past experience. She wagged her head and marched right between the students to have a word with Nicodemus before he could answer one of their complicated questions about the socioeconomic uprising of plebeians in twelfth-century Europe. Of course, instead of making it a quiet exchange, she handled this interjection the only way Delia Sinclair could.

“All right, old man, medieval playtime is over. We have work to do.”

Nicodemus, who seemed unsurprisingly bothered by her approach, replied in haste, “I see my handler has come to end the fun.”

The group of students let out a short burst of laugher.

One man, tall, thin, with a dark beard and black-rimmed glasses, stood at the back of the group. I nudged him with an elbow to gain his attention. Brow furrowed, he didn’t like the distraction.

“You a librarian?” I asked the man.

He shook his head. “Grad student.”

“How’d you get back here, then?” There was no reason to mention the lady at the front desk and the rules. He surely already knew.

“The professor invited us back. Said he had special access.”

I rolled my eyes. Not surprising.

“Are you his student?” the man added.

I shrugged. How did I answer that in truth? I was in sense. But I also was so much more. I was a Master Scrivener who had stood up against the Head of Death, melted enemy Eidolons into a pulp, learned to heal Stygians, and had unseated the Head Reaper. I was a rebel. But he probably didn’t want to hear about all that shit.

“Nic, time to let the kids go. We really do have work to do,” Delia said with a bite. “Toodaloo, everyone. Have fun reading your books. Keep studying whatever it is you study.”

“Yes, yes, as always. Work. The world needs more intellectuals. Very well then, I bid you all a good day.” He bowed and then shuffled between grad student shoulders to greet me with a sly, almost deviant smile.

The group disbanded quickly, each one filing through a door that dumped them into a reading room filled with tables, chairs, and reading lamps. I imagined Nicodemus popping his head out of that very door and inviting them all inside the stacks to tell them about medieval monks and whatever else Nicodemus could drum up from his memory. It was clear in the way his face was filled with light that he enjoyed teaching more than anything else. After our business was done saving the world, maybe he could find a place to lecture that wasn’t inside the forbidden, secret rare books section of the Denver Public Library.

“We think we found Xiangu,” said Delia before I had the chance to spit it out myself. “And Teacup here is going to tell you why she thinks we should try to capture Brent to stop him. Absurd, if you ask me.”

I gave Delia a curt look, one with a furrowed brow, which was enough to shut her down most days. But today, Delia was in no mood to let me recklessly go about my life. She took it upon herself to be my protector and, to be honest, that both annoyed and charmed me. I could take care of myself, thankyouverymuch. But, hey, thanks for the concern.

“Don’t you think that’s obtuse? We’re so close to finding Xiangu. Talk some of your wise-old-man sense into this one, please.” Delia had folded her arms across her chest. Her gaze slid in my direction. She would not back away from her goal of getting me to stand down.

I wouldn’t back down from mine, though.

Nicodemus, on the other hand, clasped his hands together at his waist and smiled through his thick, white beard. “Have you ever caught an Eidolon before?” he asked me as if it was a lesson he was delivering to his students. He almost seemed chipper in asking it.

The question was valid, though. If Papa or Delia had asked me already, I couldn’t remember. I could melt an Eidolon to death with my bare hands—generally with the element of surprise on my side, since they were much stronger than nearly any other type of being, Stygian or not, in existence. But capture and contain? “I have no idea how to catch an Eidolon, but I’ll figure out how.”

“See what I mean? Teacup’s lost her marbles. She’s not thinking straight.”

“Delia,” I started but was interrupted by Nicodemus’s calm brogue.

“Delia is right. You know nothing about ensnaring an Eidolon. It’s foolish.”

“But I have you. I have Delia. And I have Papa. Between all of us, we can do this.”

He wagged his head with a measured I-think-you’re-nuts pace. “No. We wait. Xiangu can help.”

“What if she won’t? What if she turns us away, and our only other option is catching Brent first?” After everything that happened, I was not going to overlook every possible scenario. I simply couldn’t afford to handle it any other way.

“Do not let desperation cloud your mind. No matter how much Brent loves you, dear, he cannot control the calling of a Deathmark to its Eidolon. It’s like asking a human to stop breathing. It is impossible, and you should not fool yourself,” he said. “Have faith in your fellow Scriveners. Have faith in Xiangu before you close her out entirely.”

My arms were folded so tightly across my chest, I could barely breathe. Or maybe that was the damn altitude. Whatever. I ground my teeth together. Nicodemus was the oldest of us, and therefore the most knowledgeable and experienced. I wanted more than anything to tell him he was being ridiculous and then pursue Brent’s capture on my own. Trouble was, I needed his help as well as Delia’s and Papa’s. If I couldn’t convince them to help me, then I was stuck.

“Now, tell me why you think you’ve found Xiangu?” he asked.

“We met one of her advisees,” I grumbled. “He said he’d introduce us.” I was hopeful Hui would be the link we needed. I wasn’t convinced.

“Then we must pursue this option. In addition, I have some news myself.”

Delia’s eyes brightened at his words.

“I’ve discovered a rebel cell.” He said this with a proud, almost arrogant smile.

“Where? Who?” I asked.

“I was just speaking to some of them before you two arrived.”

“Those kids?” Delia pointed to the adjacent room where the group of “kids” were seated, reading books at those long, lamp-lit tables.

“They are Reapers,” he clarified.

I huffed and then rolled my eyes. “Marin’s gone. There’s no need for rebel cells anymore. Once Styx learns he’s dead, they’ll know that his allies are leaderless. Without a leader, they are nothing.”

“Don’t be so hasty. Leaders die all the time. Their ideas don’t. These kids told me that there are Trivials running amok here in Denver. Seems Trivials are expanding their threat.” Nicodemus gave me a stern look, and I broke eye contact before it could concern me too much. “Marin’s Eidolons aren’t hunting them any longer; they aren’t keeping them in check, as wrong as it was. Those Trivials are going to become a problem. Rightfully so, if you ask me. They’re angry for the injustices against them—particularly Marin’s Trivial round-up of the past few years, which, as you know, was very much like the beginnings of the Scrivener Purge. Just as you’re angry about the Scrivener Purge itself. But…” He held up on finger to stop me from talking. “They might use their anger in all the wrong ways. That is what troubles me.”

“Well, right now, the only problem I can think about is not dying,” I said, feeling incredibly selfish for it. What else could I do? I could not help Styx and quell Nicodemus’s fear of a Trivial uprising if I was dead. For me, there was only one path. For Nic and Delia and Papa, they had choices—stay with me or deal with Styx’s future.

“That’s the other thing.” He patted my shoulder like a consoling grandfather, and I couldn’t help but feel a little comforted by it. “This rebel cell has a leader. A Master Scrivener named Xiangu.”

…

The students promised Nicodemus they would try to get a message to Xiangu, although apparently she wasn’t easy for them to get a hold of—nor did she keep in regular contact with these young rebels. With both Hui and the students winding their way toward Xiangu to let her know she had visitors seeking an audience, we decided to go back to our hostel to regroup.

The hostel we had been using catered to foreigners from across the globe. We had stumbled upon it by following around other young travelers who couldn’t afford the lavish accommodations of hotels in a big city like Denver. The hostel was nice enough. Most importantly, the place welcomed dogs, and the employees said nothing about Nicodemus’s odd dress of a floor-length gray robe and long white beard. Most people would assume he had come from the latest Comic Con, dressed as Gandalf the Grey. Thus far, no one had questioned his outfit, thank Hades.

In the afternoon, I had expected to return to the bunkrooms to find peace and quiet as we composed ourselves and discussed our next moves. What we returned to was a hostel packed wall-to-wall with babbling, smelly young tourists with overstuffed backpacks and concern cut in their weary faces. Some bordered on raging hysterics as their friends offered consolation. The clerks at the front desk appeared as frazzled and troubled as their guests.

Having been on the run for a month, I, too, wanted to break down into tears and beg my travel partners to take me home. This mass panic wasn’t from homesickness, however.

Papa, Delia, Nicodemus, Dudley, and I lingered by the door, listening in on the many voices shouting, “They kicked us out” or “Threatened us” or “It’s totally uncalled for.” I didn’t know what they were grumbling about. Had the hostel owner kicked them out? Had someone come in and bullied them? What?

Delia elbowed my side. “Good. That means we’ll have the bunkhouse to ourselves.”

“Delia,” I grumbled.

“We can push two beds together to make a king size. I love to stretch out. It’s important to a good night’s sleep.” She must have thought and planned this strategy ahead of time. “What do you think is going on anyway?”

Like Papa, Nicodemus, or I would know. Whatever humans did on their own time was their business. We only cared when it came to their deaths or lack thereof. Still, anger and fear was rampant. The hostel owners were at a loss as to what to do. They threw their hands up, and one of them said, “Already called the police. We have to wait.” Papa, who never let anyone or anything stop him from the truth, moved through the crowd of angry tourists and backpacks to make his way to the large, communal room full of bunkbeds and a row of windows that looked out onto the tree-lined street. The room was a dormitory that cost ten dollars a night. It had been our home for the past week despite Delia’s constant, rampant complaints, and the spot that we had shared with most of the upset tourists.

With Nicodemus and Delia trailing close behind me, I followed Papa into the dormitory to see what exactly had the tourists upset and angry. Had I not been a tattoo artist, had I not seen things that would give normal people nightmares, had I not recently faced off with the Head of Death and lived, I would have been scared, too. Sitting on the top bunks, bottom bunks, sprawled across window frames, or just standing with their arms folded was a collection of individuals who looked to have been plucked out of London’s 1980s punk scene. Mohawks and leather and chains and black clothes and dour faces greeted us. These folks were not the charming college kids from the Denver Library. They hadn’t appeared to open a book in their entire lives, and they looked ripe for a good fight if we demanded that they leave.

I wasn’t in any mood to play games with punks causing a ruckus among the hostel’s guests. They would not kick out tourists if I had something to say about it. As I made my way around Papa to begin defending the upset tourists downstairs and my clan of allies, I came face-to-face with the dreadlock-wearing Neema, the Eidolon from this morning.

Ah. So, these ’80s punks were Stygians. They had to be if they were with Neema.

Hui stepped out from behind Neema. His eyes were turned downward, and they did not rise to meet mine as Neema began to speak.

“Xiangu has received your message. She does not want to meet with you,” she said, her voice strong and low.

Well. That was fast.

I folded my arms across my chest, crunching the leather sleeves of my jacket. Papa copied my stance. Or maybe I copied his. It didn’t much matter. Our body language was clear—this business meeting had started whether we wanted it to or not. I felt Delia and Nicodemus’s presences behind me. Dudley pressed against my right leg. We were a tough group even if we didn’t look it. The group standing and sitting before us would learn quickly that we didn’t take shit and not wipe.

“Are you Xiangu’s gatekeeper?” I asked after a good, long pause.

“Who was that male Eidolon chasing you?” Neema volleyed. Several of her punk groupies straightened their backs when she asked. They were readying themselves for something, like a fight, I would presume. It would’ve been an unfair fight, but then, the five of us had seen worse.

Fighting, however, was not my endgame. I wanted peace. I was sick of fighting.

“That Eidolon,” I said through clenched teeth, “is my personal Grim Reaper. He will finish me if I don’t get Xiangu’s help.” This seemed an appropriate moment to pull up the sleeve of my leather jacket to expose the Deathmark. When I did this, Neema looked at it, cocked an eyebrow, and then turned to Hui and another Stygian and whispered.

“If it’s your time, it’s your time,” she said with a smirk.

“I know that. But I’ve still got a lot of work to do. I need Xiangu to remove it.”

“Xiangu only removes Deathmarks in exceptional cases,” hissed a man with a familiar air about him. I had never met him, that much was certain. He was tall, thin, wore his chin-length black hair down and partially dangling in his face. To be honest, he was beautiful. Black leather accentuated his ghostly pale skin. Charcoal eyes peered at me between strands of dark hair. He reminded me of Errol in some way, until he stretched his arms and legs a little longer and taller than normal and erased all connection between the two men. It was, from my experience, the mindfuck of a Trivial. He was a Trivial like those back at Wrightwick still defending the damaged Scrivener cultural and historical stronghold in California.

I feared little nowadays. His presence didn’t trouble me.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

The Trivial did not respond. He glared, willing death upon me, I guess. Perhaps he could succeed at it too, seeing as I was so close to my grave, I could taste the dirt. But I didn’t back down. Instead, I gave him a flash of red-hot fingertips to emphasize that I would not be fucked with.

“Demons don’t give their names because it weakens their power,” said the Trivial.

“Well,” I laughed. “You’re no demon even if you think that skull-and-crossbones T-shirt makes you an honorary one. So what’s your name, kiddo?”

Neema, whose arms were folded across her chest, seemed pleased with this interaction. She was sizing me up, which was fine. I was doing the same to her and her comrades. To trust or not trust…it was a matter of survival.

“Call me James.” He didn’t look pleased with giving me his name.

“Was that so painful?” Delia quipped.

“Regarding my worthiness with Xiangu, I assure you all, I am an exceptional case.” I brought the subject back to me. The more time spent posturing, the more time Brent had to catch me, so we had to get on with it. Ollie first, dammit!

Neema and James exchanged words again, ones I couldn’t hear. As I waited for their chattering to end, I noticed Papa giving the Trivial a stern look. He certainly remembered their attack in Montana and their known lack of ethics or morals. He knew they were Stygians born without a soul, so they didn’t necessarily abide by the rules of Styx. As for me, I remembered that Trivials were being hunted down by Marin’s best Eidolons, Brent included at one time, and then exterminated. But even though they were sociopathic, it was the Trivials who helped protect Wrightwick from the army of Eidolons that had tried to destroy it on Marin’s orders. Trivials might lack souls, but they did have the capacity to do what is right.

“That Eidolon chasing you. What’s his name?” James asked.

My throat tightened. I didn’t want to answer for fear that this one knew about Marin’s genocide against the Trivials. If he did, then he likely knew of Brent’s unwilling part in it to serve Marin on my behalf. Marin had hated the Trivials because of their unpredictability—he couldn’t control them. He also couldn’t kill them: The only ones capable of annihilating them were Eidolons.

Papa nudged me because he must’ve understood why I hesitated. He probably felt my heart pounding my ribs, screaming, “No! No! Don’t tell them!”

“His name is Brent Hume.” Those words felt like lead slipping off my tongue. Whispers amongst the entire group of punks rippled from one side of the room to the other.

James’s dark eyes narrowed. “A murderer.”

“Well, technically, aren’t all Eidolons?” Delia claimed.

His eyes snapped to her, and then, I noticed something soften. Was she familiar to him? Was she attractive to him? Or was he about to unleash that eerie Trivial mind trick? Instead of speaking back to her, he remained silent, staring Delia down as if he was memorizing every nook and cranny of her perfect face.

“Xiangu may help you, Scrivener, if you bring her Eidolon Hume,” Neema said.

My brain grew foggy with anxiety. “What for exactly?”

Neema stepped toward me. She had a smaller frame than I did, but I knew her strength far exceeded her size. Eidolons were one of the most powerful types of beings in Styx. Though Master Scrivener powers were different, they were as equally threatening.

“Xiangu will only remove that Deathmark if you turn in Eidolon Hume to the Trivials for the crimes against them.” Neema’s eyes glided to the group behind her. It was in that small gesture that I realized this roomful of punk groupies were mostly Trivials, too. Neema was an Eidolon. Hui, silent and obedient, was a Scrivener. And their Trivial posse was, just as Errol Dennison’s had been, their army.

To save myself, I’d have to betray Brent. The thought made me sick inside. I would have to play my cards carefully, so Xiangu and her followers would not get close enough to him to do any harm. I would somehow, someway, get what I needed first. I would have to, or Styx might never be in balance again. I hated myself for doing this, for even considering it given how dangerous it was for Brent, but I managed to spit out the words, “You have a deal.”

“Good.” Neema’s face cracked the slightest of smiles. “Now let’s get some pancakes.”