Case 1 - Ep. 3: When The Reaper Calls

The Reaper's Case Notes by Beki Yopek

Of course the demon had a homemade bomb. What better way to get a lot of free life force without using magic? Hit Haymarket Square, get the local humans to make you a bomb, and blow the crap out of police and protesters alike. It wasn’t my job to stop the killing--humans needed to die in order to produce souls full of life force--but it was on me to stop that demon from stealing the life force of the recently deceased.

I waved at The Reaper down on the ground and signaled him to fly right behind me. He ascended at the same moment the bat-winged demon did, and we watched the demon drop that bomb on the crowd. The moment it landed, flame and sound blasted outward from it, and bodies tumbled ten different directions. Blood peppered the dirt where the explosion had caught police officers and ended their lives. Among the whorls of dust and fleeing humans, a handful of souls flickered to life like candles in the dark.

Swooping downward, the bat-winged demon reached out a hand to consume the life force from the first soul he could touch. I snarled and dive-bombed him, spearing him in the chest with my horns a foot before he could reach the souls. All demons had horns made of brimstone, and they protected us from pain and harm unless the source of that damage was haloxite. Angels’ halos were made of haloxite, and I was no angel, so my horn-headed spear tackle only caught him by surprise.

I flapped hard and dragged the demon along the dirt, away from the souls. He spat a curse and pumped his wings, escaping the spear tackle and kicking up dust. Swerving upright, we stood and faced each other among the thrashing crowd of humans in Haymarket Square. I stopped his farmer punches with outward blocks and counted the number of holes he left open in his guard. After I swatted away the fifth punch, I swept his legs out from under him with my left foot, then spun with the momentum and brought a high axe kick down onto his nose.

The boot-to-head method would have snapped the bones of any human, but the demon’s horns protected him and I only needed to stun him for another second or two. Any time he could, The Reaper liked to finish off demon thieves, and I was happy to oblige him. It wasn’t showing off, it was a teamwork exercise. I looked to the sky and saw The Reaper descending with Seversoul in a two-handed grip, ready to strike. I pulled back from the thief and grinned.

So that was when the thief wrenched his head to the side and shouted, “Get back to Hell, Rage. The Reaper’s here with his--”

The two-toned scythe ripped through the demon’s torso and he burst into smoke that mixed with the dust in the air. Both of his horns dropped into the road, and The Reaper stood above the spot, seven feet of shadow and bone and curling ram’s horns. He pointed at two burly humans fleeing the scene and rasped, “They spotted us. Summoners.”

Two human summoners. In overalls and caps. They’d attacked the police earlier and delivered a bomb into the middle of a riot in Chicago. If they’d seen us, then they planned to deliver the bomb to the demon, and they all worked for the same being according to those dying words. They’d be running right back to their boss.

I yelled to The Reaper, “Follow me,” and launched skyward in pursuit of the two summoners. Their caps blended in with the hats and berets of the workmen rushing away from the scene. What stood out was the path of trampled humans they left behind them. I smirked and swooped closer to the pair of them as they carved out an escape route through the scrum.

In the air behind me, The Reaper cackled and shot past, swiping his scythe through the two humans and absorbing their souls on the spot. We soared over the dead summoners and landed well outside the Square. Enraged humans dashed by in twos and threes, hollering their victorious glee at the bomb-fueled vengeance they’d gotten against police who’d killed some of their fellow workers the day before. They ignored the corpses The Reaper had left behind, probably because they thought the bodies had been caught in the explosion. Humans tended not to notice details when they were panicked or blinded by anger.

One detail stuck out like a sore hitchhiker’s thumb, and I nudged The Reaper with an elbow, then pointed at the sky back in the direction of the Square. A gray-skinned being built like Ajax flapped away toward Lake Michigan on gunmetal-silver dragon’s wings. His brown leather jacket fell from him as he booked it, and I'd have called him a shirtless Icarus wannabe if he could hear me from that distance.

It was Rage, one of the Septuplets, the seven deadly sins made flesh. I’d been so sure those summoners were running toward their boss that I’d blitzed without reading the situation first.

“Rage must have stolen the life force from those souls,” The Reaper spat. “That’s why he was here, and you took us away from the scene.”

I shuddered at his bare-skulled glare. Mix guilt and fear, shake thoroughly, and you’ve got one demon bodyguard on the rocks. My leadership was a big reason The Reaper paid me, and I’d just let the source of a big soul-thief problem escape. Seven Septuplets ruled seven of the nine Circles Of Hell, and until that day, I’d believed that each of them supported The Soul Fountains. Mote production was the best system for keeping the masses of demons and angels alive since everything changed during the Industrial Revolution.

They didn’t have a name at the time, but the Pneuma Coalition’s first strike against our mote system had been a drinking party compared with what came next.

Case 1 - Ep. 2: When The Reaper Calls

The Reaper's Case Notes by Beki Yopek

Of all the days he could start with, The Reaper had to pick a day in May, 1886. A hundred and thirty freaking years ago. That was a few years after the Soul Fountains were built, and I’d been trying to forget that time of my life. Humans had just about stopped summoning demons and praying to angels thanks to the Industrial Revolution. Why call up demons or angels when all it took to settle a grudge was a factory-produced gun? It wasn’t like we needed the life force they exchanged for summoning us or anything.

Chicago was next on The Reaper’s list, and it was overdue for a good soul harvest. Humans there had been rioting over bad labor conditions. Something about capitalist society exploiting workers and making them work too long. Those humans back in the day thought of themselves as radicals and anarchists, but they’d never met the demons I drank with at the bar.

The Reaper and I flew over Haymarket Square and touched down outside a jostling crowd of workmen that looked dirtier than farm pigs. Blocky brick buildings bulged out into a dirt road where several streets met in a thoroughfare that was dim thanks to the overcast sky. Hollow glows emanated from clusters of souls that meandered along the Square’s dusty outer edges. I wore a leather trench coat over a blouse and pants, the better to announce The Reaper’s arrival to any demon thieves lurking among the humans assembled there. Stealing the life force from these wandering souls would earn any demon thieves my knife in the ribs or The Reaper’s scythe in the chest, or both.

I jogged toward the souls with The Reaper close behind, and he gripped his scythe in both bony hands. Seversoul was the only weapon of its kind I knew--a Hellblessed weapon. Half of its blade was brimstone, and half was haloxite. The magical materials native to Hell and Heaven were a lot more common in the ancient times when the scythe was forged. Both materials usually repelled each other like hateful magnets, yet the scythe united the two, not that I had a clue how. Brimstone and haloxite mines in the 1880s were pretty much dried up, and modern brimstone and haloxite could only be found one way. The violent way.

Raising Seversoul over his head, The Reaper whipped the two-toned blade through the souls’ glowing forms. Each soul and the life force it contained got sucked into the scythe as it went. The scythe already had tens of thousands of souls trapped within it, and it never filled up, but twenty thousand souls or so was full enough for a return trip to the Soul Fountains. We were almost there.

I hustled along behind The Reaper and moved toward the next soul cluster on the corner of Randolph Street across from Haymarket Square, putting up both fists in case any demons ambushed us. Cries and screams echoed off the grubby buildings around the Square, and a chant I couldn’t quite make out rippled through the crowd. Men tore canvas overhangs from shop windows and threw stinking fruit at police officers, who emerged from buildings and tried to contain the rioters. Dust, mud, and pulped foodstuffs filled the air with a grit that choked me like a bad wine.

Seversoul sliced into the last of the souls in the Square and The Reaper bounced the haft against his shoulder with a clacking sound. “Avaline, there is a suspicious lack of demons in the area.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, eyes darting to two men in overalls and caps who’d sprinted past us. Humans never saw demons or angels unless they summoned or prayed properly. That was the one upside to the Industrial Revolution and what it did to humanity. We could go about our business without people annoying us with exorcisms and banishments every time they spotted one of us.

Both of the burly workmen shoved their way to the front of the crowd and bowled over one of the police officers hemming the crowd in. Nearby officers blew whistles and brought truncheons down on any others who attempted to pass. I whirled and checked on The Reaper. This righteous riot would be a good distraction a demon thief could use to sneak up on us from the air and unleash a little backstabbery. No dark winged figures circled above, and none followed behind or to the sides that I could see.

The Reaper held Seversoul point-out, ready to swipe. His voice was gravel underfoot. “I said suspicious. You haven’t killed a demon in ten minutes. There is a reason.” He pointed the scythe toward the middle of the square, where a ring of police officers had infiltrated the masses and was pressing them back toward the side streets. “See? Crowd control. Their dispersal isn’t working. Someone stronger than the police is breaking their ranks.”

“That’s where the demons will be,” I blurted, unfurling my wings.

A crowd of rioting humans plus murderous demons equals life force stolen from The Reaper, and he pays me good motes to stop shenanigans like that.

I flapped skyward and hovered a dozen feet above the churning crowd, searching for horns poking out of a hood or a hat. A pasty, bare-backed man had shed his coat and was unfurling brown, hairy bat wings the size of carriages. The two men in overalls that had pushed into the ring of police dropped something on the dusty street, and the bat-winged demon scooped it up. A homemade bomb.

Then he launched into the sky with it.

Case 1 - Ep. 1: When The Reaper Calls

The Reaper's Case Notes by Beki Yopek

When The Reaper comes for you, death is usually involved. Either you’re dead and he’s here to harvest your soul, or you crossed him and he’s here to harvest your soul. I’ve worked with him long enough to know. Demons like myself didn’t get to be The Reaper’s bodyguard by dying in battle or by crossing him.

I folded both wings in tight and caught my reflection in The Reaper’s office door. Cherry red hair, dark skin, horns, scaly wings, and a smirk shone back at me. The gray pinstriped blazer and crimson blouse I wore hung off me like a sweaty martial artist’s uniform, the way they always did after a shift. I needed a change of clothes and a Sin and Tonic, but when The Reaper calls for you...

Shoving the door open, I strode in and crossed a dimly lit, ultra-modern office with deep wood flooring and file cabinets along the walls. Bay windows at the back let the city’s lights fall on the being facing me in the middle of the office, a being composed completely of shadows. His skull, hands, feet, and his ram’s horns were the kind of black that rippled behind you in a nightmare. The hood of his brown robe was down, and his voice was the grinding of stones when he spoke. “Ava Vasaga. You stuck to the plan and unloaded the souls from today’s shift early.”

I crossed my arms. “It might be Monday, but I plan to kick demons‘ asses every day. They try to steal your souls, they get dead, courtesy of me. Do you need me for more than martial arts and magic?”

The Reaper tilted his head and said, “Are you ready to search my memory?”

“Ah, so you want to bounce some ideas around.”

“Our responsibilities to the Soul Fountains are done for the next hour. The Fountains will continue to extract the life force from the human souls we harvested and produce motes for demons and angels to live on. These memories of mine cannot be placed in coins the way life force is. I need you to assist in documentation.”

He waved a bony hand toward the glass-topped desk behind him, where three chairs stood facing a fourth with a high back and carvings around the edges. The Reaper rounded the desk and seated himself in the carved-out chair, then produced a moleskin journal and a pen from a drawer.

I pulled out the middle seat across from him and raised one eyebrow. “A set of files would be easier.  Haven’t you written before?”

The Reaper drummed his bone fingers against the desktop.

I snorted. For him, harvesting souls with an iconic scythe was easier than gripping a pen. In two strides I was digging in a file cabinet, and in two more I was sitting in the middle chair, holding blank writing paper, a stamp, and a stack of manila folders. “I’m not a journalist. Are you sure you don’t want this done by a professional?”

He pointed at me. “You are one. A bodyguard’s perspective will help me dig up what I want.”

Snagging the pen and clicking it, I said, “Which is?”

“What I want is for you to start writing. The scythe is locked away for now, and the other bodyguards will arrive soon. Every day after your shift, we meet here. I speak, and you write.”

So he didn’t want his other bodyguards to know. Know what? That he was writing an autobiography? That he was meeting me in secret? That he had a senior’s memory?

The Reaper leaned forward in his carved-out chair. “We may need to leave here on occasion and meet at a more private location. One I am not known to frequent. Do you know of such a place?”

I brushed back some hair with one hand. “A few. Sounds like you’ve got something sneaky in mind.”

“Obfuscation is always a benefit when it comes to our job.”

That was true enough. When it came to harvesting souls, we rotated schedules and wove different magic into each shift. Hence the need for multiple bodyguards. The less The Reaper’s enemies could expect, the better.

“I will cast around for different memories I feel are crucial,” The Reaper rasped. “They won’t be in order.”

“Good thing I’m not writing your biography then.”

“The case notes don’t need to be grammatically correct, nor from my point of view.”

I bit back a joke about calling me ‘Professor Ava’ and said, “The facts matter most.”

“So do my enemies and their movements, among a great many things. Can you do this?”

Better not let The Reaper down. I twirled the pen between my fingers. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m listening.”