Page 10 of Reaper's Hunt

Thecleanupisalwaysthe worst part, peeling off the blood-soaked clothes and getting rid of the evidence well enough that the crack police in this town have no leads. However, tonight, I’m pretty sure that this is the end of my game. Not only does someone know who I am, there’s a likelihood that I left a little too much evidence at the scene this time.

Regardless, I start shedding clothes into the bag I’ve prepared, each wet plop making my stomach churn with regret. What did I do wrong to have someone follow me? And why did it feel like he was protecting me? A tendril of heat follows that question, the fantasy of Dante falling in love with this grotesque version of me if I ever managed to tell him.

Instead, it feels like someone has already fallen in love with this version of me. He’s just a little…much.

“What the fuck are you even talking about, Selene? He pushed you up against a wall and made youmoan.” I growl at that and then the growl deepens as I focus on that stupid pet name. Sparrow? Seriously? “That motherfucker stole my wig,” I grumble to myself, peeling off my bra and panties as well. All of it’s going to go into the little fireplace I have in the living room before I then have to scoop out the ashes and drop them off in the dumpster. It’s an annoying process, but it’ll save me the headache later.

I used to obsess over fingerprints, DNA, hair residue, every microscopic trace that could pin me down. Not anymore. My record is clean, my fingerprints aren’t in the system, and I live the life of someone who’s already been burdened by The Reaper, so… it obviously couldn’t be me, right?

Another quick shower is in order, the fastest, hottest five minutes of my life, prepping me for the cleanup in my guest bedroom. It’s not going to be perfect, but the faster I get myself out of this place, the better.Someone knows who I am.He saw me, saw my work, and didn’t flinch. That’s not allowed. No one gets to know the Reaper and walk away.

I pace the apartment as I gather up homemade chemicals and washcloths, still naked, my mind spinning with plans. I need to pack, move, hide out somewhere in a new shithole, another town where no one asks questions.

I could head north, find a city big enough to swallow me and start fresh. But moving’s a bitch with all the new contacts I’d have to set up. I’d need a new name, too, so that Dante couldn’t find me like he did last time. He’d eventually find me, that sneaky fucker, but I need a cooling off period to make up a story, a plan,something.God, is this what freaking out feels like? Because it fucking sucks ass. Zero stars.

I drop the supplies at the foot of the guest bedroom when my phone rings. Not the burner phone but my regular cell, the one sitting on the kitchen counter, an alibi if ever someone were to try and check my whereabouts. No one ever calls me other than my boss, Dante, and Harley when he’s trying to get a date, so I’m not expecting anyone.

The number isn’t one I recognize, a text just beneath it that has me starting to freak out just a little more.

Don’t go anywhere, Sparrow. I want to play.

For the first time in my entire life, I don’t know what to do. I don’t have anyone to call, to tell, to scream to for help. Not even a good fuck is going to make this all go away. I’ve been sloppy, not safe, and now I’m paying for it.

The urgency of cleaning up the guest bedroom resurges, and I rush over to start on the bloody mess. “Get it together, Selene.” My chemical concoction pulls the blood from the carpet easily, but the bedding will have to go, and most likely the mattress will as well. I thought I would have a day or two at least to dispose of this, but it’s too close too fast. I’m halfway through scrubbing when the phone buzzes again, and I nearly throw it across the room, my heart in my throat.

Because what this unknown caller sends me is a picture of something he shouldn’t fucking have. My beautiful Gertrude. I could have sworn I stuck that shit in my trunk, but it could have tumbled out just as well. After all, he has my blonde wig, and while I didn’t like it, it wasmine.

I’ll keep this safe, Sparrow.

Him knowing who I am was bad. Him having evidence is worse. Him having Gertrude is a fucking disaster because it’s one of the few things I kept from my childhood. The handle’s engraved, a gift from Dante years ago, before I became this. Our names scratched into the wood, his and mine, with a heart between them. But it’s not Selene. It’s my birth name, the one I buried, the one only he would know. My real name, tied to a girl who doesn’t exist anymore.God, I’m so fucked.

I fumble to reply, fingers shaking as I type.

Who the fuck are you?

I’ll give it back the next time we meet. It might be sooner than you think.

I’m the Reaper, Ashthorne’s nightmare, but tonight, I’m exposed, a ghost with a name someone remembers. I call the number, but it immediately goes to voicemail, frustration bleeding through me as I shake my fist at the air. It won’t help much, but it helped dissipate the strong emotions just a bit. Now, I can’t just leave this forsaken town. I have to wait and find out who has my identity. And then I’ll rip him limb from limb, make sure the entire world knows The Reaper has a vendetta, and then disappear into the wind.

Dante

Ieasemytruckinto the gravel lot of Sinner’s Notch, the bar’s neon sign flickering red against the night, a beacon for every degenerate in Ashthorne. This place is a fucking sewer. A one-stop shop for dope, blood, and quick fucks in the shadows. The air hits me as I step out, thick with the stench of stale beer and cigarette ash but it feels like home.

The mixture of dealers, drunks slurring their words, hookers sizing up marks, and the occasional someone visiting are the sweet spot of Sinner’s Notch. It’s a chaotic place but I love it. Ronan runs this shithole, an old bounty hunter buddy who trades info when it’s worth his while. Most of his work’s legit or so he says. I don’t ask questions. Keeps my hands clean enough to sleep at night, not that I do much of that.

I cut through the crowd, eyes sliding off me like oil. They know me—ex-cop, or whatever bullshit label they’ve slapped on me. They don’t trust me, don’t talk to me, but they don’t snitch either. I’m a ghost they tolerate, a shadow they avoid. My spot’s in the back corner, a small section of the bar reserved for me alone. Ronan’s king of this dump, but I’m his right hand, the bastard everyone knows not to fuck with.

I slide onto the stool, scanning the room for anything interesting but it seems a low-key night for the most part. Nothing that would give me insight to the bastard who brought back a dead body, the case Harley’s currently on and dragged me into. Ronan glances up at me from behind the bar, throwing me a wild boyish smile as he polishes off one of the glasses. He moves toward me when he’s done, grabbing a bottle of whiskey and pouring a fifth into the glass.

Setting it down in front of me, it doesn’t even take two seconds before bullshit comes out of his mouth. “You smell like her,” he mutters, a smirk curling his lips.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I scowl.

Most guys would flinch but Ronan doesn’t. He’s dealt with some of the worst bastards I’ve ever known and having to drag them in alive isn’t a feat I’d wish on anyone. Ronan quirks his head to the side, studying me. “That spiced coconut shit. Perfume, body wash, something. Every time you’re with her, you come back stinking of it.”

A sharp laugh tears from my throat, the sound lost in the bar’s drone. “Yeah, well, Harley had some questions,” I say, taking a swig. The whiskey burns down my throat, just the way I need it to.

Ronan props his elbows up on the bar, still trying to search my expression for something. “When’s it gonna be official?” he teases. “Don’t feed me crap, Tay. You don’t care about anyone, but I see how you get around her. Well, I’ve never seen her, but I see how you get when you come back from her. I don’t even know what she looks like or what she does for a living. Hell, you’ve never even mentioned her name but I know that it’s her.”

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