“So, I know that Soren’s a reaper, but I’m less clear on what you do,” I tell him.
He chuckles softly, and the vibration in his chest rumbles right through me. “I’m a hound. That’s what they call me, anyway. We’re the reaper’s ‘hounds’. Basically, I’m the muscle, Soren’s protection, whenever he’s out reaping a soul. I also help to protect the soul until it’s delivered to wherever it needs to go.”
“Do the souls need a lot of protection? Or Soren, for that matter?” It’s not like he’s some weedy guy that can’t look after himself. There’s a reason that Jet thought he was a stripper, and it’s not just because of his fashion choices. I’d imagine that he could hold his own if he needed to.
“You’d be surprised. Plenty of soul-eaters or other beasties around and about that would find the souls to be a tasty snack. It’s not too often that Soren gets attacked, but it happens. Plus, reapers aren’t exactly brought up to be super sociable… they’re pretty isolated for a lot of their lives. Sometimes a soul might need a little extra coaxing from a friendly face.”
I glance up at said face and nod. “I can see why you’d be good at that.”
“You wouldn’t mind me as your escort to the pearly gates, babe?”
I grin at him and then cock my head to one side. “Is that really a thing?”
He shakes his head with a shrug. “No idea, babe. I don’t deal with anything beyond our gate. I doubt even Finn knows what lies beyond.”
“Finn?”
“He’s our guardian of the gate to the afterlife. I’m sure you’ll meet him soon enough.”
We stride through the garden until we reach a sleek building at the base of the cliff. It’s gray with huge gleaming windows, very modern and fancy-looking, a total contrast to Brogan’s mushroom house. I can see a breakfast bar where a figure perches, peering intently down at something in his hands.
Soren.
Brogan doesn’t knock as he slides one of the massive sliding doors open. “Soren! Our girl’s back.”
“Wren?” Soren’s head twists around instantly and I can’t help feeling a pang ofsomethingI can’t quite name in my chest. His face doesn’t show his disappointment, but it’s obvious from his reaction he’d rather have her here in his kitchen.
“No, man. I mean Echo. She’s agreed to help us find Wren.” Brogan glances at me. “You have agreed, right? That’s why you’re back?”
I snort and nod at him. I guess I was too busy staring at his butt and then being a bumbling fool to explain what exactly I’m doing back here.
“Oh right. Good, good,” Soren says. “I guess we should make a start, then.” He gets to his feet, stretching to his full height in just a black t-shirt and jeans, and my mouth goes dry. Yep, it’s official. The man isrippedunderneath his duster. He grabs his coat, but Brogan puts a hand on his arm, shaking his head with a grin.
“Dude, lose the coat.”
Soren’s cheeks turn faintly pink again, and I can’t help my mouth shooting off.
“He should keep it on if he likes it. Plus, it’ll intimidate people if we need to bust some skulls to get answers.” I beam at him and he looks faintly bemused. Not sure if it’s what I’ve said or the fact I’m defending him when he hasn’t even said hello.
“Hi Soren,” I say with my friendliest smile in place, determined at least to fix the latter issue.
He nods stiffly. “Echo.”
I turn to Brogan and poke him in the ribs as a warning to be nice, and he releases a little yelp. “Okay, okay, I’ll keep my mouth shut about his fashion choices. Or maybe I won’t speak at all and we’ll see how you enjoy spending the day with Mr. Chatterbox over here.”
I snort a laugh. “Where do we want to go first? Who do you think might know something about where Wren was last or where she might go?”
???
“First things first, I think we ought to give you a proper tour of the garden, including Wren’s space, since that’s where she spent most of her time,” Brogan says.
Brogan and Soren lead me into the middle of the garden, to a pair of little sheds that look like they should house lawnmowers or gardening tools. Apparently, one of these is where Wren used to sleep.
“It’s… different,” I say, looking around. The inside is pretty cozy, actually. Kind of nordic chic and warm. It’s justverydifferent to Soren and Brogan’s homes within the garden.
“Not all of us choose to live in a glorified treehouse like a five-year-old, or a voyeur’s paradise,” a female voice snarks from the doorway.
I twist around to see a tall woman with short, black hair and an unimpressed expression on her face.
