Page 3 of Forgotten (The Soulbound #1)

The pull yanks me out of the darkness and onto the other side of the street. I stumble slightly, breathless, as the world around me sharpens into focus. The first thing I register is the scrape of my boots against damp pavement. Then… the smell hits me.

Acrid. Rotting.

And that’s when I realize where I am.

Bourne’s place. The neighbors'.

Or more specifically, their trash bin .

My hand is already halfway inside, fingers closing around something damp and sticky, before my brain catches up to what’s happening.

“What the fuck,” I rasp, yanking back so fast I nearly lose my balance.

Ugh. Disgusting.

Substances don’t cling to me like they used to when I was alive. Blood, dirt, and filth—they pass right through, dissolving before they can stain. But touch? I might not feel it, but I can still imagine it. It’s one of those annoying little remnants that never quite fade.

Pain knows it.

And the bastard threw me out into the trash on purpose. Because it’s angry with me.

I shake off the filth, scanning the area for that slimy little shit. Sure enough, Pain is perched on the mailbox next to me, looking way too pleased with itself.

I narrow my eyes before pressing a hand to the hollow of my stomach.

It still hurts—the pull. And we’re not even close to the dead soul yet.

“You are the absolute worst,” I mutter.

Pain ruffles its feathers and tilts its head.

“Yeah, yeah.” I roll my eyes. “I know. If I don’t move, the next wave’s coming. I get it.”

This time it’s for real.

With a final shake of my hands, I step away from the trash bin and into the street. Rolling my shoulders, I zero in on the one thing I can never escape.

The pull hums beneath my skin, crawling up my spine, tightening around my ribs, guiding me.

The soul I’m supposed to reap isn’t here. Not in this house. Not on this street. Not even in this neighborhood.

It’s farther. Somewhere past the rows of pristine, uniform houses, beyond the tidy sidewalks and neatly trimmed hedges. Somewhere past the place I once called home.

I listen to it and start walking.

Pain flutters above me, its shadow skimming across rooftops and power lines. I don’t look, but I know its beak isn’t empty anymore. Between those black, hooked talons, something gleams—a miniature weapon, white as bone. It belongs just as much to me as it does to Pain.

Our instrument. Our scythe.

My fingers itch to grab it, to feel the power humming inside as I close in on my target. It’s the only thing I enjoy, aside from watching the remnants of my past—holding the scythe and feeling a soul pass through. It's thrilling. Addictive, even.

Most Grim Reapers are hooked on the job. They never stray, never hesitate, never get distracted.

Unlike me.

Most Grim Reapers spend every waking moment reaping souls, or waiting in the dark, lingering at the edges of death’s door for the next name to fall into their hands. They don’t watch the living. They don’t sit on trees, whispering curses at men who should have shown at least a little bit of guilt by now. They don’t waste time.

And I suppose if I weren’t so hung up on the injustice of having my life stolen before my time, I’d be the same.

But unfortunately for me—and for Pain—I’m different. My little hobby of supernaturally stalking my living ex-husband is too tempting to give up. The routine has remained the same for five years.

I get distracted, Pain yanks me back to my job, and we repeat the cycle.

Always.

Except today… I got distracted by something other than my ex-husband, didn’t I?

Today, I got distracted by that strange man—the one with the shovel.

That’s never happened before. I’ve never been interested in anything but him .

For five years, I’ve been stuck in this loop—watching my ex husband, waiting for something, anything, that might finally break him. That might make him feel. But it never happened. And yet, day after day, I’ve returned, perching on that damned willow tree, letting the obsession sink into my bones like rot.

So why now?

The thought lingers as I move, the pull guiding my steps forward. It drags me past familiar streets, past the white picket fences and picture-perfect houses of people I used to know.

The farther I go, the more the houses become sparser, giving way to looming buildings with bricks stained by age and city grime. The air grows thick and damp, clinging to my skin. The smell of rot isn’t just coming from the trash bins—it’s everywhere. It’s seeping out of the walls, curling out from alleyways, vaporizing from the ditches that seem to be at every corner.

I weave through this part of the city, catching glimpses of flickering neon signs glowing even in daylight. Laughter spills from the doorways of dingy bars—the kind that never really close, no matter the hour. Bricks, stone, and mortar lie scattered like discarded trash.

And just as I reach a building that looks strangely like an old warehouse, the pull tightens around my ribs like a noose.

The soul is somewhere here.

I slow my steps, scanning the area. By now, I’m somewhat of a regular in this part of town. It’s never a good place to die.

Some might argue there’s no such thing as a good place to die, but I’d disagree. After five years of doing this job, I’ve seen all kinds of deaths. There are the ones that happen in warmth, in the arms of someone who cares. The ones that come softly, like a whisper at the end of a long life. Quiet deaths. Peaceful. Even welcome.

And then there are deaths that happen here. Those that no one wants to witness.

Usually, they happen in nooks that reek of damp concrete and rotting garbage. They leave nothing behind but a stain on the pavement—unnoticed, unremembered. Tragic.

This death—this is one of those.

I step forward, letting the pull guide me to the exact spot. Pain lands on a rusted metal railing nearby, its claws scraping against the surface. Only I can hear it, but the faint metallic echo cutting through the empty street? It fits the mood.

I focus on the soul.

Where is it? It’s close. Too close. And yet…nothing.

I close my eyes.

Below .

Somewhere beneath all this concrete, a soul is waiting for me to collect it.

I glance up at Pain and point, informing it where I’m headed. The truth is, I usually try to reach my targets the normal way—like a human. I don’t take any shortcuts, nor use any tricks. I like to get to them by walking, pretending I’m still something instead of just an abstract concept in a vaguely human shape. I like to imagine the legs I see are real, that the black clothes I wear aren’t just an illusion stitched together by whatever cosmic force keeps me tethered to existence. I like to pretend I still belong in this world.

Even though I know I don’t.

But sometimes, I have to stop pretending and exist in reality.

Like now.

I need to flicker out and slip through the concrete, down into whatever basement is hiding the soul.

I sigh.

I hate doing this. I’ve hated it since the day I got this job.

Flickering out isn’t what I once imagined teleportation to be when I was alive. It’s not seamless. It’s not smooth. It’s like yanking myself inside out. Forcing my way through a door that won’t fully open. Being torn apart and put back together—only never quite the same. It’s uncomfortable. It’s unnatural. It hurts.

And sometimes, it’s really freaking necessary.

I press my fingers together and take a deep breath—not because I need to, but because old habits die hard. Then, with a sharp tug of will, I let go.

The world bends. Warps. Shatters.

And then I’m down there.

The basement is pitch-black—the kind of darkness that doesn’t feel empty, but full. Full of damp air, mildew, and something else. Something wrong.

Blood . There's a lot of blood in here.

The pull hums in my bones, stronger now, like it’s driving me straight into the heart of my destination.

Pain materializes beside me, dropping the scythe into my hand. I reach up, fingers curling around the cool handle before it hits the ground. The moment I touch it, the miniature form extends—unfolding into a sleek, curved blade with a lantern hanging from its back edge.

Power floods through me instantly.

My grip tightens, and just like that, the veil of the living peels away in layers, like water sliding off glass. The world is the same—but not. It’s different. The edges blur, colors dull, shapes shift just a fraction. Sounds go muffled, distant, like I’m hearing them through thick fog.

All except one.

The sound of a soul.

Breathing.

Ragged. Shallow. Wet.

Breathing…? Does that mean the human is still alive?

Weird. The pull only ever calls me when a soul has already left its body—or when it’s just about to slip free. But this one… this one is hanging on.

The pull has never been wrong before. That’s rule number one of being a Grim Reaper: you listen to the pull. You don’t fight it. You don’t question it. Because it’s never wrong.

I might bend the rules now and then, but the pull is still my guide. My most important power.

I start walking.

And sure enough, the deeper I go, the scent of blood thickens. It clings to my throat, thick and metallic, like breathing in copper-laced tar. My fingers tighten instinctively around the scythe’s handle.

The breathing grows louder. I feel it inside my own head, like I’m the one gasping for air. Like it’s my lungs struggling for breath.

This soul isn’t supposed to be alive.

But hell if it doesn’t sound alive.

Pain perches on a rusted pipe jutting from the far wall, its beady black eyes unblinking. Watching. Waiting.

I exhale slowly. The lantern on my scythe flickers, casting light over the room.

And what I see?

Let’s just say, after five years of witnessing death after death, this scene is brutal enough to still leave an impact.

Blood is everywhere. The floor, the ceiling, the walls. It’s pooled in the corners, seeping deep into the cracks in the grimy flooring. Thick. Dark. Some of it fresh, some of it old—flaking in places, smeared across the walls in deep, rust-colored streaks.

The room is small, maybe six feet across. Concrete walls, I think, with a plastic sheet separating a portion of the space from whatever’s on the other side. In the center, there’s a table. A middle-aged man lies stiff on top of it. Right beside him, a syringe sits half-filled with a liquid I don’t even want to name.

I know death. I know its scent, its weight, the way it sinks into a place and never really leaves.

And this room?

This room has seen a lot of death.

But right now, the only thing that matters is the man on the table.

His chest rises in shallow, stuttering breaths—every inhale a battle. It doesn’t look normal, nothing like when someone’s heart gives out or their lungs collapse. This is different. Man-made. Most likely caused by whatever’s in that syringe lying next to him.

Poison, maybe. Or something worse.

I glance at Pain, who just flew into the room.

“This is where you had to drag me so fast?” I ask, wincing. I’d take an old woman dying in a hospital any day over this. Hell, I’d even take a homeless man dying from heat stroke or a car crash.

This? This is just macabre.

Pain blinks, unimpressed.

I step closer, taking a better look at the man on the table. His eyes are wide open, filled with terror. He can’t see me—or Pain, of course. Only my crows are visible to humans, and they only show up when I stay in one place too long.

But he knows. He knows he’s about to die.

Anyone would.

It’s obvious. There are no open wounds on him, but his skin is ashen, his lips cracked like he’s been sucked dry. His pupils are blown wide, fingers twitching like he’s trying to grasp something that isn’t there. His breath rattles, strained and labored.

He’s suffering.

Badly.

“How the hell did you lose that much blood, man?” I mutter, even though he can’t hear me.

I take another step forward, slowly circling the table, starting at his feet. His clothes are expensive—shiny black shoes, a tailored shirt unbuttoned at the collar, a glimpse of a gold chain resting against his sunken chest. His slacks are dark and crisp, held up by a sturdy-looking belt still fastened around his hips.

Not a single drop of blood on him. In a basement drenched in it—blood smeared across the walls, pooling on the floor, splattered everywhere you look—he’s somehow spotless.

It’s only when I reach his middle that I notice something peeking out from beneath his sleeve. Right at his wrist—a cut.

Not just any random wound. Not the kind you get by accident. This one was precise. Surgical. A thin, deliberate slit running parallel to the veins beneath his skin.

Someone did this to him, knowing exactly where to cut. Exactly how deep to go.

I stare at it for a long moment. Then, slowly, my gaze shifts to the syringe lying beside him.

And just like that, with nothing else to do, I start playing detective.

The realization hits me, like puzzle pieces snapping into place. Whoever did this didn’t kill him with the blade. They drained him.

The blood in this room—this thick, clotted mess coating everything, hanging in the air like a part of the atmosphere—I had assumed it was the result of something brutal, something savage.

But now I see it for what it really was.

Systematic. Intentional.

This wasn’t chaos. It was calculated .

Someone was careful.

And judging by the state of this man’s body, they didn’t stop until there was nothing left to take.

Pain flutters closer, its wings rustling in the silence.

“Well, shit,” I mutter, exhaling. “Times like this, you almost wish you were a pigeon, huh?”

It doesn’t answer.

“Yeah. Me too.”

I press my lips together and take a step back. The pull is still there, as strong as ever when I’m about to reap a soul. But for some reason, there’s no flicker of light from the man’s body. No soul ready to be collected. It’s right there on the edge… just waiting for that last nudge.

I narrow my eyes at Pain. Again.

“You know, you really deserve to have a feather ripped out for this,” I say. “Not only did you drag me away from the house—where, by the way, some mystery guy showed up with a shovel under my willow tree—but you also brought me here . For what? So I can sit around in this blood-soaked basement, waiting for this poor guy to… what, die of shock? Blood loss? Or…?”

I have no idea, and honestly, I don’t even want to know. It’s been a long time since I last felt disgusted by death, and I can’t say I missed it.

I exhale slowly and continue rounding the table—if only to keep passing the time. I walk up to the man’s face, meet his terrified eyes, then keep going until I reach his middle from the other side. Nothing new to note. Nothing except the slick, slimy feel of my boots splashing through the jelly-like dark blood pooling on the floor.

I’m already teetering between absolute boredom and ridiculous revulsion when something happens. Not with the body. No. Behind the plastic curtain that slices this room off from whatever’s beyond it.

There’s movement.

Then, a voice.

“I think we’ve got it,” someone says.

The sound is so low and dark I almost mistake it for the distant rumble of a car passing by the abandoned warehouse above. But no—it’s real. A voice. Just beyond the plastic divider.

A man’s voice.

Pain shifts uncomfortably on the rusted pipe, like it’s caught off guard. The bird doesn’t get startled easily, but this time, I can’t blame it. I feel that same strange unease curling in my gut. It’s rare to find the living in places like this—by the time I get to a soul, the violence is usually long over. But, well… Apparently, this case just has to be special in all sorts of ways.

Not only am I ridiculously early, but the soul refuses to leave the body. Oh, and we’ve got some seriously creepy visitors too.

I shift, my fingers twitching on the scythe—some distant survival instinct from when I was human. It’s faint, but it still prickles under my skin, an uneasy sensation warning me not to be in the same blood-soaked room as the killer.

Or killers , as it turns out.

The man isn’t alone.

The plastic curtain rustles, and suddenly, I’m face-to-face with two massive men, both wearing unsettling smiles. Dressed in all black with rubber gloves on, they step into the room like it’s a dentist’s office and they’re here to show off their pearly whites.

I freeze completely.

Not because I have to—after all, I don’t breathe, I don’t fidget, I don’t even really exist in their world. But there’s something about the way they walk in, so casual, so at ease in this scene of horror, that knots something tight inside me.

They don’t look like your typical killers—if that’s even a thing. Aside from their big, dangerous bodies and the gloves, they just seem… normal. Handsome, even. The kind of men who look like they have it all figured out. Like a version of my ex-husband, except with clear signs that, unlike him, they actually know what it means to be alive.

But I’m a fool for having these stupid, wildly inappropriate thoughts. Because these men? They know exactly what it means to kill.

They step closer to the body, stopping right in front of me—just on the other side of the table.

The glow from my scythe washes over them, lighting up their faces.

The shorter one has sharp, foxlike features and a thick scar cutting from his cheekbone to his jaw. His left eye is completely white—no iris, no pupil. A wound, maybe. Or something else entirely. His hair is a deep, burnt ginger, but under the glow of my scythe, it flares into the color of dried blood.

The taller one is different. Dark-haired, with features that almost lean aristocratic—but not in the polished, untouchable way my ex-husband had. No, this man has the look of someone born into power but who clawed his way into keeping it. His hair is slicked back, but a few strands have fallen loose, brushing against his forehead, making him look just a little too wild. A little too unpredictable.

And the weirdest part? His right eye looks just like his companion’s left. Milky white. Clouded over. Sightless.

A matching set.

One left. One right.

If I were still alive, I’d shudder at the sight of them.

But I’m not. I’m just here to wait for the man on the table to die, take his soul, and get the hell out of here.

All I want is to come back to my weeping willow and stare at the life that could have— should have —been mine.

Except… something even stranger than two uncanny killers showing up at the table happens. They lift their heads from the man and look straight at me .

No.

No, that can’t be right. They can’t be looking at me. It’s just an illusion. I learned that much today, didn’t I? Even if it seems like people see me, it’s just a coincidence.

The fox-faced one tilts his head slightly, his white eye catching the faint glow of my scythe. A slow, lazy smirk spreads across his lips. His companion—the taller one—doesn’t react the same way. His expression is unreadable, a mask of cool detachment, but his eyes are locked onto my face, like I’m just another tangible thing in this bloodstained room.

Honestly, this has to be one of the most convincing coincidences I’ve seen since I died—maybe even more than the shovel man.

Why? Why the hell is this happening? One weird guy staring right at me was bad enough. Now there are two.

I take a step to the side, just to settle my nerves. Just to prove to myself that this is another one of those stupid moments where I think something impossible is going on, when really, I’m just slowly losing it.

But they follow.

Their gazes. Their heads. Their fucking bodies.

The taller one doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even blink. His eyes track my every move.

The shorter one—Foxface, my mind supplies—leans against the table, resting one gloved hand beside the dying man’s twitching fingers. His smirk deepens, like he’s savoring this moment somehow.

“Aw, it looks surprised,” he says suddenly, his voice smooth, velvety, dripping with sin, stirring something... off inside me. I don’t know what it is, but it’s there. Something distant. Something strong. Something human . “ It’s never been caught before.”

Pain flutters down, landing on the edge of the table with a sharp, decisive snap of its wings. Its talons scrape against the metal, its black beak clicking once, twice. A warning.

Get the hell out of here.

Foxface's grin stretches wider. “Little late for that, don’t you think?”

Is… is he looking at Pain ?

I don’t know what's happening. I don’t want to believe this man is talking to me, or looking at Pain. But when I take a step back—

Nothing happens.

I can’t move.

W-what?

If I had lungs, my breath would’ve caught. Instead, a cold, creeping realization slithers through me.

I can’t move.

It’s not the usual pull—the force that yanks me from place to place, deciding where I go, when I reap, when I stay. No, this is different. Something else.

Something unnatural.

My fingers tighten around the scythe’s handle, my knuckles going ghost-white. The lantern at the base of the blade flickers erratically, the dim glow pulsing like a heartbeat in distress.

What the fuck is happening?

Foxface notices. His smirk deepens, twisting into something almost gleeful. His one working eye gleams.

“Oh, this is fun,” he murmurs. His gaze flicks to my scythe. “Did you see that, Cassian? Its little lantern’s all twitchy. I think it’s scared.”

Cassian—the taller, dark-haired one—still doesn’t react. His eyes, one black, the other a dead white mirror of Foxface’s, stay locked on mine. He’s studying me, dissecting me with his gaze, like he’s trying to understand… me. Or something about me.

And that?

That’s worse than Foxface’s teasing.

Because it means he doesn’t just see me.

He’s figuring me out.

I force my limbs to move, to break through whatever invisible force is holding me still. My entire being strains against it, my existence flickering at the edges, but whatever this is, it’s stronger.

Cassian tilts his head slightly. “You’re real.”

I hate how he says it. Not like a question. Not like a joke. But like a fact he just confirmed for himself.

That’s how I know. These two really do see me.

“That's impossible,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. It feels like I’m rambling to no one—just talking to Pain, like always. The only thing that ever listens.

Except this time, I’m not alone.

Two others hear me.

And they answer.

The thing they say? Yeah, I think I'd rather have the silence. At least silence is always predictable. Always constant. Always ignoring me.

But now, the silence is gone. Like it ran off and hid somewhere far, far away.

Because Foxface? He grins like I just handed him the best news of his life.

And Cassian? He scoffs at my words.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that if I were you,” Cassian says. “After all, aren’t you just a corpse with a glowing scythe, Grim Reaper? You should know a lot’s possible.”

And even though I know I shouldn’t feel it, my heart races like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest. Fast. Hard. Desperate. Like I’m dying all over again.

I know this feeling. Even after five years, I’d recognize it anywhere.

Panic.

Because these men aren’t just seeing me.

They’ve been waiting here for me.

And I just walked into whatever trap they set.