Page 20 of Reaper’s Ruin (Reaper’s Ruin Trilogy #1)

I couldn’t stop replaying it in my mind—the cold, deadly calm in Rhyker’s voice as he’d told that thug to walk away, the blur of movement when he’d grabbed him by the throat, the sickening crack as he’d slammed him into the stone.

Part of me was in shock. I’d never seen anyone move that fast, with that kind of lethal precision. Never witnessed violence that raw and immediate.

Another part of me—a part I wasn’t entirely comfortable acknowledging—was undeniably, embarrassingly turned on.

Was that wrong? Being attracted to the way he’d defended me? He was Death itself—literally the grim reaper—and here I was frothing like some rabid, sex-crazed ghost, having completely uncharacteristic dirty thoughts about him slamming me against a wall next.

But that raw power, the protective growl he’d unleashed, the way he’d stood in front of me like a shield forged of sheer muscle—it had lit something in me.

Something primal. Maybe it was biology, like some ancient instinct in humans meant to make us swoon for the strongest male in the room.

Whatever it was, it had worked. Because damn.

.. I was all kinds of hot and bothered when I should’ve been terrified.

I’d thought that when I died, I’d float up to the clouds, be greeted by angels with harps and halos inviting me through the pearly white gates.

Instead, I was a ghost put into a mortal body walking around the seedy criminal underworld in some strange fae land with a straight up stone-cold, alpha male hot zombie I wanted to climb like a tree.

God, my life—or afterlife—was messed up.

“You’re quiet,” Rhyker said, his voice low enough that only I could hear it over the constant buzz of the Dark Market.

“Just... processing,” I replied, glancing up at him.

He walked beside me like a shadow given form, tall and imposing in his black leather. The crowds parted before us, people stepping quickly out of our path, their eyes lowered or deliberately looking elsewhere.

“It appears word travels fast down here,” I observed.

Rhyker raised an eyebrow.

“Everyone’s avoiding us. You, specifically. Reminds me of high school. Someone saw Jenny Miller blowing Jake Trion behind the bleachers, and half the school knew before they even came out.”

“Blowing him? I don’t know what that means,” he said stiffly.

“It means...” Heat rushed to my cheeks. “When a woman gives a man...” I shook my head. “Never mind. That’s not important. I just meant to say that news spreads quickly in small communities, and what you did to that asshole has definitely beat us to this section. People are scared of you.”

“The Dark Market has its own ways of communicating. They know better than to interfere with us now.”

“Thanks to you,” I said. “For what you did back there. With that guy.”

He shrugged, the movement rippling through the broad expanse of his shoulders. “It was nothing.”

“It was something. You... protected me. Thank you.” I hesitated, then added, “And he had it coming. I bet he’s done worse to other girls. Girls who didn’t have their own personal Reaper protector. ”

Something in Rhyker’s expression shifted—a slight softening around the eyes that was gone almost as soon as it appeared. “Perhaps he’ll think twice next time.”

I smiled. “I hope so. Justice comes in many forms, I guess.”

Rhyker didn’t respond to that, his attention already shifting to our surroundings. “We’re close,” he said. “The weapons trader should be just ahead.”

The pathway widened suddenly, opening into what could only be described as a small village built beneath the city above.

Unlike the chaotic maze of stalls and makeshift booths we’d passed through, this section housed permanent establishments—actual shops with solid doors and locked windows.

Wrought iron signs hung above each entrance.

A sword for the weaponsmith. A bubbling cauldron I assumed was for the potion maker.

A cracked skull for... something I definitely didn’t want to investigate.

In the center of the square, a handful of vendors had set up smaller stalls, their voices competing as they called out to people passing by.

“Venoms! Fresh from the Sylvan wilds!” “Protection amulets, guaranteed against three types of curses!” “Finest assassin’s tools, satisfaction guaranteed or your gold back! ”

Rhyker guided me toward a shop at the far corner, its blood-red door marked by a sign depicting a crossed sword and dagger.

A bell jangled softly as Rhyker pushed open the door.

Inside, the shop was dimly lit but meticulously organized.

Glass cases displayed smaller weapons—daggers, throwing stars, small swords.

Larger items hung on the walls or stood on racks.

I stood, stunned, spinning around as I looked at the walls.

They were a macabre display—weapons of every description mounted like trophies.

Some I recognized—gleaming swords, wicked axes, sleek bows—but others defied explanation: multi-bladed contraptions with gears and triggers, curved weapons that seemed to shift shape as I looked at them, and what appeared to be gauntlets with retractable blades where fingernails should be.

This wasn’t just a weapons shop. This was an arsenal for those who had turned killing into an art form.

Behind a counter at the back, a wiry fae man looked up from a ledger. He was older than most we’d seen in the Dark Market, with silver streaking his red hair and a network of fine lines around his eyes. Those eyes—pale yellow, almost like a cat’s—narrowed slightly as he assessed us.

“Welcome to Morden’s,” he said, his tone neither friendly nor hostile. “What can I interest you in? I have a new shipment of Tide Court pearl blades, very rare. Or perhaps something from the Winter Collection? Frost-forged steel is quite popular this season.”

“We’re not here to buy,” Rhyker said. “We’re looking for information about a specific weapon.”

The trader—Morden, I presumed—leaned back slightly, his expression growing more guarded. “Information costs more than steel in my shop.”

Rhyker placed a small stack of coins on the counter. “We’ll pay fairly.”

Morden’s eyes flicked from the coins to Rhyker’s face, then to me. “What sort of weapon?”

“We need to identify a dagger,” I said, stepping forward. “With symbols etched into the blade.”

“You’ll need to be more specific.” Morden crossed his arms as he eyed us both up. “I’ve seen thousands of daggers with markings.”

“This one was...” I paused, trying to recall the details of the weapon that had ended my life. The chilling memory ignited a wave of pain as I remembered my death in detail, but I pressed on. “It had a curved blade. Not like a normal knife. And the symbols glowed as he—as it was used. ”

Morden’s expression remained neutral as if glowing daggers was something commonplace around here. “I’ll need more than that.”

I sighed. “I’m not good at drawing, but I could try if you have a pen and paper.”

He furrowed his brow, and I realized pens were likely not a thing of Faelora.

“A pencil? Quill?” I kept on.

“Here. Let’s try this,” he said after a moment, reaching beneath the counter.

He withdrew a small crystal sphere, setting it on a wooden stand between us. With a few murmured words, the sphere began to glow with a soft blue light.

“We use this to create custom orders for clients. Lets them see everything before I get started. Place your hands on either side,” he instructed. “Focus on the dagger. The crystal will pull the image from your memory.”

Hesitantly, I placed my palms against the cool surface of the sphere. A strange tingling sensation spread up my arms, and the light within the crystal intensified.

“Think of every detail you can remember,” Morden said.

I closed my eyes, recalling the horrible moment when I first saw the dagger. The curved blade. The strange, swirling symbols etched down its length that seemed to glow with an inner light. The hilt, wrapped in some dark material and set with small blue stones.

When I opened my eyes, a perfect, three-dimensional image of the dagger hovered above the sphere, rotating slowly like a hologram.

“Holy shit,” I breathed. “That’s incredible.”

The illusion was so detailed, so perfect, it was as if the actual weapon floated before us. But Morden was frowning, shaking his head .

“The details aren’t clear enough,” he said. “The markings—can you remember exactly?”

I leaned closer, studying the projected image. “No, they were more... like this.” I tried again, and to my amazement, the image shifted, the symbols reorganizing to match my mind’s image.

“And the stones in the hilt were bigger,” I added. “Deeper blue.”

The illusion changed again, responding to my description.

“The blade was serrated on one edge,” I continued, watching in fascination as the image adjusted itself again. “And the point was hooked slightly, like a talon.”

For several minutes, I refined the image, directing the crystal to add or alter details until it matched my memory exactly.

“That’s it,” I said as I stared at the floating hologram. “That’s the dagger. Do you recognize it?”

Grinning with pride I’d done it, I glanced at Morden. His face had gone pale, and he was staring at the floating dagger as if it might suddenly become real and strike him down.

Morden swallowed visibly, then shook his head. “No. Never seen anything like it. Sorry I can’t help you.” He waved his hand, and the image disappeared, the crystal’s light fading. “No charge for the attempt. Best of luck elsewhere.”

He was lying. It was written all over his face in the sweat beading on his forehead, in the way his eyes darted nervously to the door as if calculating an escape route.

Rhyker clearly saw it too. Before Morden could step back, Rhyker’s hand shot out, closing around the merchant’s wrist with enough force to make the fae wince.

“Try again,” Rhyker said, his voice soft but laced with menace. “And this time, don’t insult our intelligence.”

“I told you, I’ve never—”