Page 111 of Reaper's Pack

Yet it had the decency to bring me to her, to cut through wards like a hot knife through butter, and for that I would be grateful until my last breath.

Keeping to the shadows, I crawled out of the tunnel I’d followed for miles, deeper and deeper into the mountain range. Hazel’s scent had guided me most of the way, but Gunnar’s suffering and Declan’s cries had hastened me along even when I could barely move myself.

The god was laughing now, no longer baiting Hazel with her pack’s misery. Declan’s back had been shredded to ribbons, and Gunnar took far longer to rise after each burst of the warlock’s magic. And my reaper watched me, still as stone, crouched at the base of those angry orange bars—waiting.

The edges of my vision blackened. Charred flesh hung off my fingers, whittled down to bone. Blood splattered the floor, leaving me light-headed but determined. I used the ridges of the stony wall for guidance, leaning against them as I shuffled along, inch by inch to my final destination.

Up close, the magical cage burned my eyes, too bright, too violent in the way its magic sizzled. But I held firm, steadfast, until the pain won out and I collapsed a few feet away. Hazel slipped a delicate arm through the bars, her pain reverberating through me when the orange wisps snapped at her skin.

Her wrist…

Covered in gold.

Metallic and salty—reaper’s blood.

A snarl lifted my lip, baring a pathetic flash of teeth, and I roused whatever remaining strength I had to pass the scythe to her outstretched hand.

“Hold on, Knox,” Hazel murmured as she wrapped her fingers around the staff—relieved me of my last burden. “Hold on…”

As soon as the scythe left my possession, my body gave out. My head cracked hard on the ground when I slumped, arms outstretched before me, the full damage on display. Both hands were but tattered flesh that hung like strips of charred fabric off too-white bones. Blood pooled in front of me, all around me. I blinked slowly, breathed slowly, the darkness around my vision sharpening and taking root. Here to stay, the shadows.

Difficult as it was, I forced my gaze up so that I could watch her in action. She looked complete with her scythe, and she got to work without a backward glance at our enemies. Mouth set in a determined line, Hazel cut herself free from her cell, slicing through the jittery orange bars, carving a door where there was none. No flash. No dramatics. She did precisely what she needed to slip out without causing a commotion, and once she did, she dropped to her knees beside me, my blood seeping into her reaper’s garb.

Scythe forgotten at her side, Hazel cupped my face with both hands, just holding me. Time slowed around us. Her eyes shimmered with tears, and for the first time all day, her relief throbbed through me instead of her pain. Gently stroking my coarse scruff with her thumbs, she lingered, her outline getting fuzzier.

“Don’t let go,” she whispered. “Stay with me, Knox. Stay with us.”

I swallowed hard, my eyes blinking in uneven beats, and watched her snatch up her scythe. She rose elegantly, practically gliding with every step, and wielded her weapon like an expert assassin, like she had been raised with a broadsword in her hand.

The cave fell silent. The god’s laughter died.

Difficult as it was, I needed to see—needed my last living memory to be of her. Pain lanced through me as I dragged my useless body along what was left of her cell, hauling myself around so I could witness a reaper’s justice.

Gunnar lay on his side, panting hard. His red gaze slid from her to me, and desperation vibrated through our bond. I did my best to nod, to let him know I felt it—that I understood. He had chosen her in the end, but it had killed him.

It killed me too.

Chest rising and falling slowly, Declan had stopped squealing, left in a heap of blood and fur behind the towering god, this creature of stretched flesh and gaunt cheeks and bony hands. His black robes mirrored Hazel’s, only he wore them like fraud.

Neither said a word as they faced off, but that blasphemous yellow gaze acknowledged her scythe with a slight widening. Hazel rolled her shoulders back, and one step forward forced the god into action. His hand shot up—but so did hers. The air sharpened, hummed with magic, invisible to all but its users. Hazel’s crashed with his, both their arms jerking at the collision.

Yet she was the one to advance. The reaper closed in on the god with slow, precise steps. Footfalls echoed suddenly; Richard had taken it upon himself to engage in the battle, to uneven the odds.

Gunnar caught him by the heel, clamping down viciously and rolling the fucker off his feet.

Silent, a predator in her own right, Hazel stopped within an arm’s length of the god. All the ancient runes on the ceiling, the sigils carved into stones throughout the mountain—no match for that scythe.

It ended in an instant.

Hazel threw her hand to the left, the thrust of tangled magic forcing her opponent to veer left as well. The god stumbled, his eyes rounded, nostrils flared.

In that split second of imbalance, she struck, swift as a viper. Hazel slashed her scythe up and diagonal, cutting clean through him from his hip to his shoulder, then across that narrow neck to rid him of his head. Three pieces of an old god tumbled to the ground, falling like thunder, his golden blood sprinkling like rain.

Face ashen, Richard booted Gunnar in the head, then took off running. Hazel gave him a five second head start, then flung her scythe. The blade whirled, round and round, slicing through the air—and decapitated our final foe before he escaped into the tunnels.

I slumped onto my side, a soft smile teasing my lips.

My warrior goddess.

---