Page 37 of The Reaper's Vice

“Eh. Just the way I’m wired.” I step over and throw my arms around her. She returns my embrace, sniffling lightly when I go to pull away,

“Do you know when you’ll be back?” she asks.

I nod, pulling her into another tight hug. “Tomorrow. I’ll spend some time with you before I go to see Ivan, and then I’ll be back after I see him. Sound good?” I pull back to look at her, the iron grip around my heart easing as I take in the small smile tugging at her mouth.

We say our goodbyes, and I hustle down the stairs and around the corner where my motorbike is parked. The engine roars to life, and I twist the clutch, laughing aloud as I shoot off down the road toward the mountain preserve.

Clouds hang low in the sky, obliterating any rays of light that would have illuminated my path and casting the entire forest in ominous shadows. In addition, a heavy layer of fog creeps along the ground, making my journey twice as treacherous. I lean low, pressing my chest to the handlebars as my bike bucks along the uneven terrain, my knuckles white in a vise grip as I try to keep upright. I’m so incredibly focused on my task, I don’t notice the danger looming a few feet ahead.

And I barrel straight into the rock placed in the center of the path.

My mouth pops in a silent scream as my momentum sends me headfirst over the handlebars, and I can do nothing but watch as the ground closes in. At the last second, I tuck my head, twisting mid-air so my shoulder takes the brunt of the impact.

Pain bursts from my right side as I make impact with the frosted ground, a cry of pain clawing up my throat and desperate to be freed. But I don’t let it.

Taking a few deep breaths in my nose, I shove to a stand, ignoring the blinding pain that shoots down the length of my arm as I gaze around the forest. About ten feet behind me lies the fishing line, the silvery thread glinting menacingly under the shadow of the canopy. And farther to the right past some trampled underbrush, lies my bike.

My heart sinks as I take in the state of it—even from this far away, I can tell it’s utterly fucked. And there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to tow it through the woods without help. I rest my head in my hands, focusing on drawing deep, even breaths—on calming down enough to come up with a plan.

But then the whistling starts.

I snap my head up as the haunting, airy sound fills the clearing. I turn in a circle, my eyes wild as they scan the clearing for the origin of the sound that seems to be everywhere and nowhere all at once.

“Who’s there?” I demand, my pulse thundering in my ears. “Are you the one who put the rock there?”

There is no answer, other than another line of whistling—and it’s then that I realizewhatthe tune is. It starts out low, then grows to a forte, each punctuated beat worming its way under my skin and scraping at my nerve endings.

In the night, little doves take flight,

Silver wings soft as fading light.

Once they trilled a gentle song,

But in the dark, their calls feel wrong.

‘O wide-eyed lovers, don’t you roam,

For the doves have found their rightful home,

In the night, little doves take flight,

Silver wings shining in moonlight

Once they trilled a gentle song,

Now a warning as shadows grow long.

‘O wide-eyed lovers, don’t you roam,

For the devil has taken his throne.

Little doves with wings of ghostly gray,

They sit from their perch—watch the living fade away.

Wide-eyed lovers, when the doves begin to sigh,

It’s time to say your last goodbye.

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