Chapter Nineteen
Sikras
THE STENCH OF A ROTTINGcorpse upon opening the mansion doors had turned out to be an unwelcomed surprise, but nothing a few open windows and a gallon of patchouli oil couldn’t cure. After ensuring Helspira’s parents had settled inside, safe from the banneret, the trio left the mansion behind them, Sikras glimpsing Benjamin from the corners of his eyes as they paved the way toward Stow’s Peak. “If it makes you feel any better,” he said, “I’m confident Canida didn’t feel any pain when the spell wore off.”
“Yeah, sorry, I couldn’t just kick her out to rot in a ditch after we, uh”—Benjamin shrugged, ever the gentleman—“finished checking off her dying wish.”
“Looks like she took her last un-breath on your silk sheets,” Sikras said. “I’ve seen people die in worse places.”
As they passed into the open terrain where snow covered the sunken paths worn by decades of caravans and wandering feet, Sikras stared into the sprawling, open field, a chilling breeze tossing his hair. Some amethystle managed to poke up from the white powder, peppering little purple dots across a bright landscape of sleet. Fortunately, the owligators typically hid after the first snowfall, but beaked reptiles with long jaws and serrated teeth promised to be the least of their problems.
Sikras faced Helspira. “You trust your parents will be comfortable in the mansion until we return?”
She met his inquiry with a flawless smile, a vision to focus on in the near-blinding terrain. “Mum already started cleaning up all that paperwork you left on your dining room floor, and Da is digging a grave for Canida out back. At least they won’t be bored.”
Good. Helspira’s parents were settled. That only left one thing. Sikras’s short strides did little to delay the inevitable. Like it or not, he had to summon Death at some point. At least it wasn’t like he had to put the hardest part of the plan into action immediately. Once they confirmed the details of the bargain with the reaper, he would have the entire walk back to Stow’s Peak to savor the comfort of Benjamin’s presence. Unless ...
“You’re absolutely certain you’re okay with this?” Sikras asked, gaze landing on Ben.
“As certain as I’ve ever been. I want to help Saelihn. I want to help Nyllmas. But don’t worry.” Benjamin nudged Sikras with his shoulder. “I’m an expert at dying by now.”
“Right.” Sikras nodded too many times to pull off a visage of confidence. Nevertheless, he clapped his hands together. “Here we go.”
His eyelids fluttered closed. In his mind, he reached out, beckoning Death to appear.
And so she did.
Sikras felt her presence before he saw her. Forcing his eyes open, he beheld the reaper’s commanding figure, her scythe leaning against one shoulder. With a curt nod, he mustered as formal a greeting as he could. “Death.”
“Mr. Nikabod.”
An awkward silence surrounded them, until Benjamin waved. “Hi, Death.”
Sikras thumbed in the opposite direction. “She’s over here.”
“Oh.” Following Sikras’s gesture, Benjamin waved again, unaffected. “Hi, Death.”
The reaper pushed the hood from her fleshless skull, revealing the sprawling dark hair and ochre-hued bone beneath. “Kindly tell Mr. Reese that I extend salutations.”
“She says hi,” Sikras whispered to Benjamin. “So”—he regarded Death again, arms crossed—“how’s the scythe?”
“Sharp. I see Helspira is looking well.”
Without hesitation, Sikras leaned into a deep bow. “Yes. I’ll forever be in your debt for that.”
Another extended silence followed. Gods, it was like standing in Enos. Surely, the unsettling quiet brought no discomfort to Death as it mimicked her soundless domain, but a rattle of unease shook Sikras’s shoulders. “Right, well, now that we’ve got the pleasantries out of the way, I’ll cut to the chase. I’ve a final bargain I’d like to make if you’re willing.”
A rumbling sound of consideration echoed from somewhere in Death’s jaw. “We’ve had bad and good bargains. You’ll understand why I’m hesitant to accept another, particularly when you lack anything I want.”
“I think I have something you’d like very much.” Sikras held up eight fingers. “Eight somethings to be exact.”
“Wait, eight?” Breaking her silence, Helspira stepped forward, unknowingly rippling through the visage of the reaper she couldn’t see. “Are you bartering with your lives?”
Sikras offered her as gentle a smile as he could muster. “They’re all I have left to give. I’d relinquish the power of the Cat’s Eye itself if I could, but given that the little bugger is fused with my soul, I suppose the lives it gives me are the next best thing. What say you, Death?”
“Sikras”—Helspira shook her head—“I don’t like where this is going.”
