Page 7 of Gods and Graves

CHAPTER SEVEN

THEA

B est. Day. Ever.

If I would’ve known stabbing a hellhound would lead to this, I would’ve done it ages ago. Not that I know what “this” is or how long it’ll last, but for now…

I inhale deeply, taking in the unfamiliar smells of the forest. Pine, I think it’s called. And something else, something distinctly earthy.

And who would’ve thought being slightly stabbed with a sword would make my skin feel like it’s burning?

Eeep.

I jump to my feet—god, the grass feels amazing beneath them—and turn towards the wraith. I did save his life, after all. The least he can do is buy me some popcorn.

And maybe give me some orgasms, but we’ll get there with time.

Baby steps.

“Sooo. About that popcorn?” I fold my hands together and gaze up at him innocently, pushing my lips out.

He blinks, seeming at a loss for words, and I call that a win. I think I like making him speechless.

“Come on! Chop, chop! Let’s go. Who knows how long this will last? What if it’s permanent? Oh my god.” I squeal and clap my hands together.

Next to me, the wraith winces, reaching a hand out to cover one of his ears.

“You’re a reaper?” The shifter stares at me incredulously.

If I had to guess, I would say he’s the leader of this little group. If I want to get my popcorn, he’s the one I’ll have to impress.

“Pretty sure.” I shrug, already bored of this conversation.

Above me, a bird flies by, cawing, and I turn my head to watch it, transfixed. What would a feather feel like? Soft, I imagine.

“How can you be ‘pretty sure’?” Irritation laces the shifter’s tone.

“I don’t know.” I shrug again. “I just…arrived in my little prison room and started reaping souls. I’m pretty sure that means I’m a reaper.”

He exchanges a glance with first the elf, then the blood fae, and then finally the wraith. Confusion draws his brows together.

“Is that normal for a reaper?” he asks, and at first, I think he’s talking to me.

But the wraith is the one who answers. “I’ve never researched them before, but from what I gathered over the years, they’re born and trained by their families until they eventually take over. I don’t even think they’re immortal, though they do have longer-than-normal lifespans.”

Huh. Interesting.

But not as interesting as my popcorn is going to be.

Look, I may not know a lot, but I do know my one purpose in life is to reap souls.

If that doesn’t make me a reaper, then what else am I?

I wonder if I’m some elite super reaper.

Ohhh, like an assistant manager to the other reapers, though I’ve never done anything even remotely “manager-like” in all my centuries of existence.

“What are we going to do with her?” The shifter thrusts a hand in my direction.

Are those tattoos on his skin?

“Ohhh. Pretty,” I murmur, instinctively reaching for him.

I’ve always wondered what a tattoo would feel like. Is it different from normal skin? Coarse? Rough? Soft?

Just before my finger can make contact with the angel wings, the shifter pulls away from me with a snarl.

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” I growl, mimicking his tone. Then, a thought occurs to me. “What are your names?”

The shifter folds his arms over his chest and scowls, obviously not in the mood to talk, but the elf takes a step closer.

“I’m Krystian, love. That brooding, angry asshole is Everett. The wraith is Zaid. And the blood-soaked psycho is Rafe.”

Zaid smiles timidly, though he doesn’t make a move towards me. Everett continues to scowl. And Rafe? He just watches me, his head tilted to the side, blood sliding down his face and neck in steady streams.

I wave at him.

He blinks.

I wave again, a little more vigorously, and finally, he lifts a hand and wiggles his fingers.

“God, the movies made it sound like making friends would be hard, but it’s not, is it? I already have four amazing besties.” I clap my hands together enthusiastically.

“Friends?” Krystian draws his brows together.

“Besties?” Everett growls, then he bends to grab my dagger, still embedded in the hellhound’s side. He cries out in pain and drops the weapon, shaking out his fingers. “What the fuck?! It burned me!”

“Maybe you shouldn’t touch what doesn’t belong to you.” I awkwardly reach for the dagger and slide it into my thigh sheath.

“What the hell is that thing?” Everett demands, still staring at his fingers like they betrayed him.

“It’s her version of a scythe,” Zaid answers, appearing stunned. He forks his fingers through his dark hair, ruffling the strands. “Fuck, this is insane.”

“It fucking burned me!” Everett repeats.

“It didn’t want you to touch it,” Rafe deadpans.

Krystian takes a tentative step forward. “Why don’t we bring her back to the hotel for now? Just until we have more information.”

“Someone keep an eye on her at all times,” Everett grunts out, still glaring at me.

“Oh. A hotel? I’ve never been to a hotel before. How far away is it? Does it have a pool? A hot tub? Let’s go!” I begin to skip ahead of them, but before I can make it more than a few steps, someone grabs the veil of my dress and gives it a tug.

“Wrong way,” Rafe says, still staring at me with unnerving intensity.

I give him a two-finger salute and then hurry in the opposite direction, jumping over the dead hellhound bodies.

This is fucking awesome.

This is not fucking awesome.

“How much longer?” I whine, dragging my feet.

My bruised, bloody feet.

Apparently, walking barefoot through a forest is a big no-no.

“Why the fuck aren’t you wearing shoes?” Everett snarls.

He has only just seemed to realize my current predicament, his eyes intent on the blood staining my soles as I hold one up after the other to inspect them.

“Because I was incorporeal and never had to worry about shit like this,” I snap back.

Apparently, pain makes me crabby. Who would’ve thought?

“Here.” Krystian moves in front of me and kneels down.

I stare at his back in disbelief.

What the fuck does he want me to do?

Wipe my blood off on his shirt?

Before I can voice my question out loud, I feel hands on my waist, hoisting me in the air. The tan, bloody hands tell me they belong to Rafe.

A second later, I’m on Krystian’s back, my legs dangling. I instinctively squeeze his throat in a death grip.

“Can’t. Breathe,” Krystian rasps.

“Sorry.” I loosen my grip.

Krystian rises, and I realize that he’s giving me a piggyback ride so my poor, abused feet won’t have to touch the ground.

My pulse thrashes sickeningly.

“So…” I begin conversationally, resting my chin on Krystian’s shoulder. “You’re an elf?”

Krystian chuckles, and I decide I like the sound. It’s…calm. Comforting. Warm.

“How can you tell?” he asks sarcastically, wiggling his pointed ears.

“You’re a light elf, correct?” I continue.

I can’t help but wonder what he would do if I licked the shell of his ear. I’m not an idiot. I know that can be seen as…inappropriate, but the desire to do so is nearly overwhelming.

My question, for some reason, makes Krystian stagger. I tighten my grip on him, but he regains his footing before we both become intimately familiar with the forest floor.

“Something like that,” he answers evasively, and I don’t press.

My knowledge of the world only stems from what I gathered during my reaping jobs and through books and movies.

Light elves and dark elves have been at war for centuries.

Light elves derive their power from the sun, while the latter utilizes the moon.

Besides that little snippet of information, I don’t know much about them.

“So, how long have you been working with this group?” I ask, desperate to keep the conversation going.

Who knows how long I have before I poof out of existence once more?

Krystian seems relieved at the subject change, the knots in his shoulders loosening.

“Do you want the literal answer or the figurative one?” He slides his gaze towards me, his eyes twinkling.

“Um…both?”

“Well, we met hundreds of years ago, after we were all born marked as a member of Ares’s team. We trained until we were in our twenties, then we were put into a deep sleep until we were needed. We woke up only two or so years ago.”

“Two years, three months, twenty-seven days,” Rafe deadpans from farther back.

“Wait…” I remember hearing about that. All of the gods and goddesses chose an “elite team” that they trained in an elusive, secret compound. Only one team is ever active at a time, and the second that team is killed off, a new one takes its place. “You’re Ares’s team?”

“The one and only.” He chuckles, though the sound is strained, lacking any genuine warmth or amusement.

“Enough small talk. We need to get a move on if we hope to make it back to the hotel before dark,” Everett snaps with a pointed look in Krystian’s direction.

Once again, the muscles beneath my fingers turn taut, though Krystian doesn’t snap back.

The five of us walk the rest of the way in silence, and the entire time, I brace myself for my body to fizzle and fade away.

For my dagger to heat where it rests in its thigh holster—because I refused to leave without it and no one but me can carry it.

For the voices in my head to scream at me incessantly. For the tug in my chest to intensify.

It never comes.

And I can’t help but wonder…

Am I free?

Or is this another gilded cage I have no hope of escaping from?