I don’t know what to think or feel when it comes down to the wire. Standing across from me, he’s almost too close with his pants stretched across his thighs as his cloak billows around him. I can see his tattoos littered over his skin. It makes me desperate to see more.
He says he’s lived hundreds of years more than me. How many more deals has he made like this before? How do I know I’m not just another notch on his scythe? And why the hell do I care so much?
Chapter
Two
Bane
Almost every creature in existence has an expiry date, with an exception of a few.
Humans are the ones I deal with the most, the ones with the shortest life span.
I’ve always lurked in the shadows, watching from afar, never one to make myself known in fear of interfering with fate.
That was exactly what I was doing. Minding my own damn business, doing my job. The only reason I'm here is to collect the souls on my list.
I shouldn’t have stopped, I shouldn't have investigated the source of the melancholy ramblings of a dying man. But, I did. I allowed that tug inside me to guide me to this perplexing man.
Onyx Asher. Age twenty-eight. Diagnosis: lymphatic cancer.
He’s on my list. I’ve seen his name. Onyx was not meant to be one of those souls collected tonight.
So why did I offer him a deal? A deal I rarely make.
Owning someone's soul can be messy, time consuming, and more work than it’s worth.
When I was a young reaper, I was eager to show my worth, to prove that choosing me to do this job was the right choice.
Owning a soul gets you ahead in the game. I thought by having more power, it would put me at an advantage.
It did. But as time went on, it wasn’t worth it.
A reaper’s job is to collect the souls of the newly fallen. We bring them to Hell and hand them over to the keepers of the pit of souls. They are to decide what souls are useful, or not.
Once we hand them over, our job is done until the next batch of souls we collect.
The souls that are freely given to us in the deals we make are not that easy.
When their new time comes, they don’t go to the pit, but stay with the reaper who owns them. Sometimes they are made into a reaper themselves and work under their master, some get other positions in Hell.
If they fuck up and piss off the wrong people, we’re responsible for them.
After one of my past souls almost cost me my job by pissing off the king of Hell himself and was tossed into the pit, I vowed never to make another deal.
Apparently, that ends tonight.
As I stare down at the delectable human before me, my cock stiffens against my slacks.
Huh. Well that's an interesting reaction. Humans are not normally my thing. I prefer incubi. They’re an easy fuck, down to do just about anything I want and are like eager little puppies, willing to please. They don’t care, as long as they get off and get the power they need.
Humans are breakable. They can’t handle the undead.
Something tells me, Onyx might be the exception.
I guess we’re about to find out.
“So, if you don’t want my blood, how do we solidify this deal?” Onyx asks, shifting from one foot to the other.
