Page 2 of Architecti
But here I am.
And here it is:My lastbirthday.
I scrunch the rejection letter up and get up from my kitchen table—I don’t have time to sulk.I guess that’s me fucked, then.This intake was my last opportunity to get into Finis Academy for a chance of saving my soul.
So that’s it.
One year left.
I fling the parchment in the bin and kick the canister for good measure.I don’t get why I was rejected—again.I mean, my role as a reaper isn’t exactly seen as the pinnacle of respectable.But I’m fucking good at my job, plus there are enough reapers at the academy.The only thing I can come up with is that Ignatius is blocking me—like stealing my soul wasn’t enough.
I’m not giving up, though; I’ll find another way to break my contract.If for no other reason than to spite my bitch of an ex who put me in this position.
I grab my keys, shrug my leather jacket on and pick up my motorbike helmet.If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late for the rave.Some of the other reapers are dragging me to this pop-up club to celebrate even though that’s the last thing I feel like doing.
I lock the house.It’s crisp tonight and the night air slides off my skin like silk on glass.My street, like many Ora streets, split in opposites.One side is bright stone, gilded frames and turrets framing the skies, the other degrading buildings, chipped charcoal brick, greying windows and festering plants—like the city still can’t decide if it belongs to angels or devils.
Nights like this are deceptive.They pretend, like summer wants to surrender to the first caress of autumn.The weight of reddening leaves makes the winds shiver and tremble.But I know better.All nights like this are filled with is trouble.
I sling a leg over my bike.It’s sleek and black, the cog-addled engine roaring like mid-winter storms.The wheels are thick and grip the road when I take the bends a little too hard.It’s built for racing, not cruising.Just the way I like it.
It’s my first and last love, especially now I’ve written off women.Once you’ve been betrayed the way I have, you don’t go back.I run my fingers down my equally sleek black helmet as a moth catches my eye.It wafts in the lamplight, fluttering like secrets in the breeze.
I squint at it, checking to see if it is actually a moth, or something I’d rather avoid.Its wings dance around my head: a soft caress of pink and hint of yellow.
“Shit,” I groan.Definitely something I want to avoid.“Not tonight, arsehole,” I shout at the moth like Ignatius can hear me.“Come on, Ignatius.It’s my birthday, for fuck’s sake.”
Why is it always the fucking entropy moths and never the Architect’s?I wish just once I’d get a moth that could create possibility instead of taking it away.
I swipe at the air, batting the entropy moth away, only to recoil— idiot.I replace my hand with my keys and lash out.I should know better than to touch them unless I want to wreck my evening.I slap it, and the moth plummets towards the ground, a wing crumpling against the keys.I press my lips together, smirking.I should feel bad.It’s not the insect’s fault.
But also, I am not working on my birthday.My last birthday, let us not forget.
I pick my helmet up off my tank as the moth surges up, fluttering like its miraculous little life depends on it.I chuck the helmet through the air, hoping it squashes the moth in its tracks.But the devious little cunt swerves out of the way.
“Motherfucker.”I swing my head, ducking its attack, and shove my helmet on, twist the ignition and flick the kickstand up.I rev the throttle as a swarm of the bastards appear at the end of my drive.
“Oh, hell no.”I click my visor down and push off, the bike engine growling like the simmering rage of a starved wraith.I surge through the swarm, smug as fuck that I’ve managed to avoid picking up any work—until I realise my mistake.
I covered my head, but in my haste, I forgot to put my gloves on.My heart thuds hard, one loud beat as I spot one of the ashkissing dustfuckers landing on my knuckle.
I swear its antennae bristle—laughing at me.My teeth grit, I keep one hand on the brake, the bike balanced between my thighs and lift my other off the throttle, carefully balancing so I can slam it down and kill the moth before it can contract me.
I yank my hand up, but the bastard sinks its proboscis into my skin.
Fuck.
I squeeze the brakes hard, the back wheel swerves, kicking out.The sting of the bite pulses through my hand as I skid off the road into a rickety as fuck street.The pavement is worse for wear, another victim of the angels leaving no doubt.My feet slide across the ground, I dig my heels in and pin the bike between my thighs right as my vision whites out and the scents of day-old coffee, broiling flesh and stale tobacco hit me.
“Gods dammit, Ignatius,” I groan.
When my sight clears, it’s the entropy moth’s mind I’m in.Ignatius’s face shimmers into focus.By all accounts, he’s handsome.His bones are chiselled in a way that screams model.He has eyes dark enough to haunt a serial killer’s dreams.I think it’s the lightly speckled salt-and-pepper hair shorn short on the sides and longer on top that softens him.Gives him the kind of ‘fuck-me-daddy’ vibes I’d sell an organ to own.
Though I swear I saw my first grey the other day.Makes sense with how dark my hair is, I’m bound to be fully grey by thirty-five—or I would be if I wasn’t going to be reaped before then.
Ignatius must be at Finis Academy because he’s wearing a dark suit with their crest emblazoned on it.He’s the dean there, which is probably why I’ve been rejected so many times.Too selfish to let his reaper do anything other than work her ass off.
“Trying to avoid work, Midnight?”he drawls.His voice is deep and husky, like molten charcoal.If I had a lick of interest in men, he might be appealing.
