Reapers - Thirteen Brothers

XXXVI - The Messenger

I sat on my heels at the edge of the large gaping hole in the front yard. My breath fogged the chilly air as I stretched my hands to the warmth the Gate offered. The heat was soothing to my damaged hand, making the pain almost imaginary. Closing my eyes, I tried to connect the dots, search for answers to calm the rising terror inside me.

Death. My mind warned. A cold, gnarled hand seemed to wring my heart. Death wanted me.

For what reason, I couldn't tell. It made me think of the centuries-old curse that ran in my family. I remembered Vincent bringing that up in his conversation with Vladimir. Myth or no myth, the curse was already broken. At least, that was what Mom believed. Death had taken so many unfulfilled lives. Taken mothers from innocent daughters. Laden fears through the generations. So what more could he want from a dead girl like me? It didn't make any sense.

"Not too excited, are we?" It was Amyr who sat on the porch's steps, apparently unwilling to get so close to the Gate. "It's a gathering. Not a trial," he chided with a wide grin, pausing only to feel the long scar on his face as though too much smiling would open up the wound.

I avoided his eyes, a pang of guilt rising in my chest at the thought that I couldn't even help them during the battle. I was useless, comfortably lying on the snow, watching them while they put their lives on the line. If only I was stronger...

"Not so used to being less pretty, huh?" I mumbled unintentionally, an edge in my voice as I opened and closed my injured hand.

"Honestly, no," he retorted. "Too bad scythe-inflicted injuries don't heal that easily. Once Rosario's back in shape, I'll make her do something about this."

I removed the bandages around my hand, surprised to see that it was already fully-healed when I recalled it bleeding just this morning. Thoughtfully, I stared at it, letting the strips of dressing flit into the hole. All that was left was a long straight scar—a reminder that I was different from them. That the Door didn't kill me. That I was defective. Alive, yes. But not the same. Nirvana, I thought, was a very complicated concept. Both alluring and terrifying. Comforting and destructive. Being aware of that, I went back to the porch and sat beside Amyr, savoring the silence for a while before nudging him on the side.

"As vain as ever..." I muttered, rolling my eyes.

He sneered, faking a wince as he raised both his arms up. "Hey, I'm just human. But you got to admit, you still love me though."

"Right..." I nodded, trying to keep a straight face. "That's some confidence you got there. Somehow, the attitude's going well with the scar."

Suddenly, he took my right hand and placed it on his lap. He silently traced the faint furrowed line across my palm with his finger. Quickly, I withdrew and hid it in my pocket. I didn't want him to see that. I wanted to be like them, one of them and part of them. Not some freak of nature. But when he looked up to me, all I saw was a warm big smile. I reminded myself that this was Amyr who couldn't care less about the world, laughed in the face of danger and found the good in everything. He would accept me no matter what.

"Know what?" Amyr started, narrowing his kind eyes. "I think I'll keep the scar. Gives me that ragged bad boy look, don't you think?"

Laughter filled the air and I realized that it was coming from me. I couldn't remember the last time I really laughed. It was amazing how he could easily make situations seem a little less heavy. He made everything easier.

When the talk veered to the stunt I pulled with the big legion of wraiths we encountered last night, he said, "So you've seen us doing surveillance before, huh?"