REAPERS - Book Two: The Hunger and the Sickness

24

When his shift ended Jinx collected his things and bade his coworkers a good night. Those in his position were subjected to full body searches when they entered and exited the Triad. When this unpleasant necessity was done Jinx took a coach to Camshire Cemetery and began his walk to the tomb where he could pick up his work as he had left it in the morning. He was thankful to live in these quieter wards of the city. The Reaper had heard the ramshackle blight on the far side of this cemetery had suffered from wave after wave of plagues and riots. He once enjoyed going into the seedier parts of town before the war, when he'd drink and carouse and feel immortal. Since his return he cared nothing for those things. Now he had a new obsession that eclipsed all others, the ambition for true immortality and not the pale illusion of it that youth had brought.

A mourner in a black coat slowly walked toward Jinx from the opposite direction, the stranger's boots clapping the stone path. As Jinx drew closer he realized he knew the man's face—it was one of the Diluvian Inquisitors who had visited his home with Wral. Jinx saw another figure step out from behind a monument of winged children beset upon by sculpted demonic dogs. The newcomer was another of Inquisitor Wral's underlings. But where was the officer himself? Jinx felt someone's breath at his neck. He had not heard the stranger's approaching steps. Perhaps they had been veiled by a cantrip. Wral whispered into his ear and the Reaper remembered the phrase from his studies, always written but never spoken. They called such spells 'lullabies,' designed to instantly put the listener to—

— • —

Sleep. Precious and fleeting. Cut short too soon. Tusk woke with a scream. Something was on his face. A strange tugging. The ranger put his hand to his skin and felt a smattering of small scabs that now covered half his skull like a fixture of barnacles on the hull of a boat. The things were smooth on their backs and ridged on their edges, not unlike the scales Tusk had seen on many a beast. The scabs were on his arm, too. The Reaper glanced at sleeping Aoh. She was sheathed in the things. Tusk stifled another shriek and tried to brush the clinging objects from her leg. Not one budged. The animalist was baffled in his panic. Were they plants, insects, fungi, lichen? Were they venomous or diseased? Again he was at a loss when it came to the life of the deeper wastes. Aoh stirred at her companion's prodding and her eyes opened. She smiled at the sight of Tusk's face despite the parasites that clung to his cheek.

"They're all over you," Tusk whispered frantically. He reached up and pulled at one of the objects that clung to his own flesh. It held, pulling skin, then came loose with the slight sting of removing a tick.

"Be calm," said Aoh. "We call them 'night scales.' Your home does not have them?"

Tusk examined the thing he had plucked from his face. Its suctioned and toothy mouth was at the center of an underside ringed with tiny roving legs. A chitinous back like a beetle's. The Reaper flung the insect deeper into the hole in which the duo had slept the night.

"They will not harm you. They are patient. Like..." Aoh searched for the word "...vulture. They wait, and only eat you once you're dead. If you are alive, you are safe. This was likely their home. We are the invaders here."

"It does hurt a little," said Tusk as he plucked another scale off.

"Such a child," Aoh said as she gently removed one from her own skin, and then another. "Some see them as a blessing. Each night scale, when removed... the sting is like a kiss from our god."

They helped each other clear their bodies of the bugs. Aoh was right, Tusk admitted to himself, these 'night scales' were no more than a nuisance. After the painworks this ritual was no true ordeal. "I suppose every sort of wilderness has its own scavengers and parasites and predators," said Tusk. "And I'll take these over a swarm of plain mosquitos any day." These unexplored lands held a fascinating host of new species, however disturbing, for the animalist to discover. The back of his mind began to turn with the realization that he could now, thanks to this unlikely savior, allow himself to hope again in some remote way. He began to envision himself leading an excursion team back into these wastes someday, equipped for survival and study. With enough thought perhaps he could sell it to the Nation as an expedition that could be of benefit to the war effort.