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As I start to walk in the man’s direction, he looks over his shoulder and blinks, as if confused by the sensation of someone watching him. His eyes lock straight onto mine.

The pupils of the human eye dilate in response to certain stimuli, to desire and curiosity and fear. I think of this fact as I see the man’s pupils grow, the twin black pools expanding until they nearly engulf his irises.

Bone-deep terror.

The shifting desires of each god means they often get in one another’s way. In this case, my target is a con artist, and a favorite mortal of Thorn, the god of Lies. Years ago, when Thorn discovered that the man was destined to die soon, he cloaked the man in an illusion that mimics other souls, making it difficult for the god of Death to find him. Raven has been hunting for him ever since.

Until today. Eventually, everyone’s luck runs out.

I’m still puzzling over how he senses me. The man can’t possibly know who I am or why I’m really here. Perhaps, given his line of work, he thinks I’m out to arrest him. He turns away and walks briskly toward the platforms. Someone yells at him as he bumps hard into their shoulder, but he doesn’t look back.

Instead of stopping at the platforms’ barriers, he throws himself at them right as someone in front passes through. People shout as he jams himself through the gate, managing to squeeze past with his briefcase but not his duffel bag. He drops it on the floor and starts to run.

I manage to ram my way through the closed gates, then sprint after him.

Ahead, the man dashes toward the train at Platform 7, which is about to depart. A security officer starts hurrying after us, but in a few minutes, it won’t matter which of us gets to him first.

The man makes it into the train right as I catch up to him. As I step on board, he skids to a stop, then turns and tries to run back out. I dart in front of him, forcing him to stop so abruptly that he stumbles and falls to the train car’s floor. He scrambles backward, hand raised as if shielding his face. He suddenly seems to realize something is strange about me. His wide eyes turn fearful.

“How’d you know I was coming?” I ask.

“Please,” the man stammers. It’s the same thing everyone says. Even me.

It will never get easier, Raven had told me after my first mission. I have never known him to sugarcoat anything. No matter how many times I do this, no matter how good I get, I will never, ever get used to it. This will never not hurt.

Gifting an aspiring doctor the power of death. My god’s idea of cruel irony.

“Please,” the man repeats. “I’ll do anything.”

I just shake my head sympathetically at him. He shrinks away from me.

As with all moments before death, the world around us slows down, people freezing in their steps or while looking at their phones, passengers pausing midstride while stepping into train cars.

The man just stares up at me with those frightened eyes, his arm still lifted, locked in place. Only I move. My hand stretches out.

From the corner of my eye, I see the flash of a figure. I hesitate for a fraction of a second.

And find myself staring at another Harbinger.

He has a troublemaker’s look, with chiseled features and a tall, well-built silhouette, a mess of golden-brown hair, and narrow, mischievous green eyes that are always plotting something. The sleeves of his collared shirt are rolled up to his elbows, and below the hem of his cuffed trousers, his leather loafers shine.

The kind of handsome that is both undeniable and obnoxious.

He smiles as he steps casually into the train car, situating himself between the man and me. “Fancy running into you here,” he says.

It’s Étienne Beauchard, the favorite Harbinger for the god of Lies.

I swear under my breath.

Each god chooses their top Harbinger to be their Regent, their understudy and leader of their Harbingers. If a god dies, their Regent will step into their shoes and ascend as the new god.

Seems like Thorn felt threatened enough to send his best today.

Of all the gods, Thorn and Raven clash more often than most. There have been wars between the gods where Death and Lies were on opposing sides. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve shown up to collect a soul only to see Étienne there first, completing some underhanded task. Stealing a letter of confessions that the dying person had meant to send to a relative, or wanting one more lie out of someone before Death claims him, or recording a rambling promise from the target—to do better, to change, to be a new person.

“Why are you here?” I snap.