Author: Kimberly Rei

“Sold! To the well-dressed gentleman in the front row.”

The gentleman in the front row bowed his head and placed a hand upon his heart. He quietly noted the rage and disappointment flickering in the air, but his eyes were locked on his latest prize.

Gloved hands lifted the wood jar and placed it in a well-padded crate. The gentleman didn’t look past the hands. He could not possibly have cared less who they were attached to. Only the object, ancient and precious, mattered.

He watched the staff nail the crate shut. He kept watching until they pressed a large wax seal onto the crate. The seal was a mark against tampering. Payment would only process if the crate arrived at his home intact.

“Another win, Francis?”

The man looked up from the small journal he was writing in. He finished his notation and tucked pen and paper into a jacket pocket. “Alexander, how lovely to see you again.”

“How goes the collection, my friend? Have you found the answer yet?”

Francis frowned as he rose and stepped away from his seat. “I never should have told you about it, you charlatan. The topic is not for discussion.”

Alexander’s soft laughter followed him, the derisive sound sticking like tar to a feather.

By the time Francis arrived home, he was trembling with anger. No one but Alexander could get to him that way, no one but Alexander could…

Francis shoved the key into his front door lock and twisted it hard enough to bend the key. He slammed the door behind him. The crate would be delivered tomorrow. A smile tugged at his mouth, the lips too thin and stern to form an actual grin. He would need to make room for his latest prize.

Forgetting the key jammed in the lock, Francis latched three security bolts and a chain. It would take a lot more than a firm push to invade this man’s castle.

Francis tapped out a security code at the attic door and made his way up the narrow, winding staircase. The attic was the main selling point for the house. It would have been at home in any decent ghost story. He had, of course, cleaned the space until it gleamed. The carpenter who built crucial and specific cabinets left his mark on every inch of wood and Francis couldn’t be happier.

As always, he stopped at the top of the stairs to offer homage and allow wonder to cleanse his soul. A deep breath, eyes drifting closed as he swayed. He murmured an invocation before stepping fully into the space, from carpet to bare wood, from life to death.

The cabinets and floor blended seamlessly into a sea of rich mahogany. Near invisible glass shielded a lifetime of treasures. Once a week, he came into this room with far different motivations, bearing rubber gloves and cleaning supplies. He threw open the velvet drapes and set the overhead lights to blazing. Once a week, he closed himself off from the near swoon and eradicated all forms of dust.

The sides of the room held scrolls, bottles of poison, jars of ointment, and small, unreadable journals. Francis knew the properties of each item, down to the region of origin.

He ignored them all as he made his way across the room to the only case not attached to a wall. This beauty was an island, stretching from floor to ceiling. The glass gleamed, beckoning the viewer closer. His breath always caught, hunger stirring his blood as he gazed upon items long forbidden.

He opened the case, fingers itching to stroke the executioner’s axe, caress the hangman’s rope, linger over the Tecpatl knife. Each had drawn his blood and knew the taste of him. Of his mortality. He dared not let any of them enjoy a second sample.

Francis pulled pristine white gloves from his pocket and carefully pulled them on. He heard the whisperings from the shelves, the siren’s call to Death. They were music to him, and he savored resisting their pull.

With deft movements, and lingering only as long as necessary, he made space for the newly acquired canopic jar.

***

A figure stirred in the dark, irritation marking movements as a hand waved away shadows. A font tucked into a forgotten corner obeyed. The scrying pool shimmered, then cleared, showing a man at a glass case. The items around him were blurred, but the figure needed no details. It knew what the shelves held; tokens of worship stolen and locked away. Only one bit of information remained hidden.

Where?

A low snarl rose, robes sweeping across the library’s marble floor as the figure passed unseen. One student looked up, distracted from her studies by a soft whisper. Another shivered. Three would suffer nightmares for a week, losing precious rest and focus.

Fortunately, finals were still months away.

***

Francis pressed the “forward” button and a new slide appeared on the screen behind him. He turned to the auditorium. “The Tecpatl flint knife was used by the Aztecs to cut the beating heart from a sacrifice.”

He clicked the button again, enjoying the collective gasp from his students. The slide was a painted depiction of the knife in action, splashed in garish colors that left nothing to the imagination. It was one of his favorite pieces of art. The original hung over his fireplace.

“It was thought that the hearts would feed the gods, who would, in turn, offer blessings. Questions?”

A beautiful young woman raised her hand. Francis pointed to her, willing his arm to steady. He noticed her on the first day of class, imagination caught in dark eyes and darker hair. She was neither pretty nor plain. She was ethereal. She stirred desires in him that had nothing to do with the body. She made him wary. And curious.

“Yes?” His voice shifted a pitch upward, and he began to hate her.

“When did your fascination with death start?”

He tried for a smile. “Psychiatry major?”

She blushed, the room laughed, and the tension building in his chest broke. “Understanding death has long been a mystery for humanity. We have no idea what’s on the other side, so we strive to grasp the mechanisms. We aim to control what cannot be contained.”

The woman raised her hand again.

Francis nodded to her.

“Would you stop it if you could?”

He held her gaze, masking a sudden suspicion. What did she know? How did she know? “Stop Death? No. No, my dear, that would be foolish. Man is mortal and meant to pass beyond the Veil, making room for others. Death is the natural order.”

Movement caught his attention. For a brief moment, he thought their conversation had summoned the subject, but he scowled as Alexander stepped through the door.

“That’s it for today, folks. Remember, your papers are due in a week. I expect to learn something from every one of you. Enjoy the weekend!”

Alexander waited until all the students left before making his way down the stairs. He looked worried.

“What do you want?” Francis snapped his briefcase closed.

“Look, old friend—”

“We’ve never been friends.”

Alexander waved a hand. “That’s your fault. Now stop bickering and listen to me. Something is amiss in the Society. There’s talk.”

“There’s always talk.”

“Not like this. Someone is interested in you.”

“Me?” Francis lifted his books and headed for the door.

Alexander grabbed his arm. “I’m not kidding, mate. Questions about who you are and this collection of yours. Pieces are being put together, and it doesn’t sound good. Consider laying off the auctions for a while.”

“What is it, Alex? You want the next piece? The Bundy electric chair, isn’t it?”

Alexander shook his head. For a moment, Francis almost believed the concern. He never expected to find sincerity in Alex’s eyes. There was too much betrayal between them.

“No, you idiot. It’s a fake. No, that’s not…look, just watch your back. Too many questions. Too many disappearances.”

Francis climbed the steps to the door. He paused at the top. “Thank you. You’re likely overreacting, but I appreciate the warning.”

Disappearances. Did he mean the campus troubles? Security had been patrolling more after a few students went missing. It happened every semester, but the College kept the news mostly quiet. Questions could lead to problems for Francis.

He hurried to his car. The crate would be arriving soon, and he should be home to sign for it. He pushed aside the blend of worry and arousal stirring his blood. He couldn’t allow any distractions. Not now.

***

The moon hung fat and bright, but heavy clouds gave the light a hide-and-seek quality. For the student walking home, the effect was unsettling. A memo had gone out campus-wide, cautioning everyone to move in groups. It was her third year at the college and the first time the administration admitted there was a danger.

She paused under a streetlamp to tie her shoe. She didn’t hear him creep up behind her; didn’t have time to scream or call out for help. She caught the slight scent of nail polish remover before the night went completely black.

A far more acidic, medicinal smell woke her.

“Ahhhh. You’re awake! Good. I’m glad you could join me tonight, Kelly.”

A hand, parchment-dry, stroked mouse brown hair from her damp forehead. Her eyes widened and a feral desperation took over. The smells alone were enough to cause raw panic: antiseptic, blood both new and old, sweat, and strangely enough—cherry tobacco, the kind her father used to smoke. It was the last that caused the primal creature at the back of her neck to chitter in terror.

She nearly passed out when she finally became aware of the restraining straps. Vision was the last sense to join the party.

“P-p-professor?” Her throat was dry, her mouth stuffed with phantom cotton.

Francis smiled, that grim almost curve of lip, and dribbled water into her mouth. It was cold and crisp and offered enough relief, she dared consider this might be some elaborate prank. He wouldn’t give kindness if he meant harm, right?

A drowning mind will reach for any ballast.

“Yes, dear. You’re going to help me with a crucial bit of research. I’m sorry to say you won’t see the rest of the semester. A shame, really. We’re going to cover some fascinating rituals. But this is the most important one.”

He lifted a tube connected to her arm. She didn’t react, watching her blood running through the hollow plastic. Shock was setting in, convincing her it was all but a dream.

“If we shadows have offended.” Kelly blinked and giggled.

Francis joined her, his laughter canted too high and slightly to the left of sane. “It was a delight to find you alone tonight, child. Your blood will help me unlock doors. There’s just a small flavor missing. I’m afraid you won’t enjoy this part. But I need your blood to scream. I need you to scream.”

Francis picked up an obsidian blade and leaned forward, one hand on Kelly’s shoulder as he pressed the tip to her chest.

She found the energy, the dear girl, and screamed louder than any of the others.

***

The scales shuddered, chains rattling. The figure glanced over. Had anyone been there, had anyone been able to withstand the sight and not perish on the spot, they would have seen not just anger, but true fear twist sharp features.

The stone floor trembled, and the chains shivered again. The weight pan, the side where the figure would judge a life, broke free and clattered down to spin like a top. Warning.

The figure swept their cloak off a hook, swirling the cloth over shoulders and yanking the hood into place. Rage-laced frustration punctuated every move. They paused at a rack of tools, pausing long enough to decide sickle, scythe, or sword.

Scythe. The oldest and most traditional.

***

Francis once again opened the glass case. The whispering assaulted him, trying to coax another drop of his blood. Another taste, just a sip, Francis, you won’t miss it, miss it, missitfeedus…

He shook his head violently and removed the tools, one by one. He set them gently on the floor, each marking a cardinal direction. A warming plate sat in the center, cradling a pitcher. Cordless, of course. Modern technology made rituals more convenient. He could take his time knowing the blood wouldn’t cool. He’d worked diligently to ensure it stayed at a steady body temperature.

Four sacrifices, four cups of blood blended into one apertif. Four artefacts hungry for just a sip, Francis.

He wore no gloves this time, bare flesh touching these vessels of destruction. Their call was harder to resist, but he needed them focused on him. On his intent.

Each took something from him. Warmth, focus, willpower. Only the canopic jar remained silent. It didn’t know him well enough to recognize his weaknesses. It didn’t yet know the way in.

And yet, when he lifted it, last, from the shelf, he felt his heart stutter. He hadn’t asked what organ the jar protected. He knew the jar would tell him, eventually.

Francis walked around the chalk drawing he had sketched the night before. He didn’t believe in magic and fantasy. Runes, tarot cards, potions, and tinctures earned his disdain. But alchemy? That was different. That was science. Alchemy embraced ritual as purely as any new age frippery, but it did so with the weight of test and time behind it. His circles within and overlaying each other were precise, the formulas perfection. Decades of learning and searching, of doubting, of practice led him to this moment.

He was afraid.

He stepped away, moving to the window, but didn’t draw the heavy curtains. Sunlight had no place here. But knowing it was close, that only velvet stood between him and the bright day, eased his anxiety.

He chided himself. This was not the time to back down. He could wait if he needed to; the ritual required no special alignment of mood and planets. More frippery. As if something so simple as the cosmos could dictate his destiny.

He paused a moment longer, reviewing his journey. The sacrifices in the name of progress. The bodies yet to find. Future kills awaiting him.

A shiver of anticipation raced up his spine, straightening both his posture and his mind. He stepped into the circle and lifted the pitcher.

Time to feed the hungry.

“Put that down, you unrepentant ass.”

Francis nearly dropped the pitcher. He stared at the figure suddenly standing in his loft. He glanced at the door and was rewarded with a snort. No, this figure didn’t travel by mundane means. The scythe in one skeletal hand was testament enough. The hood, casting features into absolute shadow, was a bonus clue.

Licking his lips against the dry fear clogging his throat, for all the good it did, he set the pitcher back on the warmer. If this went as he hoped, he would need it later.

He slid to his knees and stretched his arms before him, hands folding over each other into a point.

He saw the sweep of a hand from the corner of his eye. It didn’t prepare him for the involuntary slide across the room, breaking the alchemical circle. He halted at the figure’s feet.

At Death’s feet.

His soul, tiny and dark though it was, scurried into a corner to hide and watch.

“What do you hope to gain from this foolishness?”

The voice was softer; less resonant. He dared to glance up. Death had pushed back her hood, and he stared at dark eyes and darker hair. Ethereal.

“Would you stop it if you could?”

His student, facing him down in class. Alexander’s warning about being watched. He hadn’t made the connection. How could he?

He bowed his head again. To look upon Death was to invite one’s own, and he was not trying to seduce her. Not in that way.

“Majesty.”

“Bumpus.” Her derision startled him. “Don’t ‘Majesty’ me. You want something. Spit it out before you open pathways you cannot possibly control.

He froze, pondering her caution. What pathways? What else was out there?

He focused on his immediate goal. She was here. She was glorious. And he could speak to her.

He sat back on his heels, careful to keep his eyes cast downward and his pose contrite. Death did not care for arrogance. All the writings said so.

“I wish to form a partnership.”

None of the research spoke of Death’s laugh, but if Francis had been asked, he would have lacked inspiration and described a rattle, a wheezing sound painted by a graveyard’s midnight breeze. Poetry and gothic terror, dancing together.

He never would have imagined the bright college student sound of pure humor that filled his pristine treasure chamber.

“A partnership? With me? Professor, you seemed smarter than that.” Her tone shifted to more of what he expected. As his bowels clenched and his heart once more tripped, he regretted that change. “What do you have to offer me?”

“I-I-I…” Francis cleared his throat. This was his moment. This was what he wanted. He dared to look up and boldly meet those dark eyes and found himself falling. He knew if he didn’t speak quickly, he could spend an eternity falling. How long before they found his body, desiccated and kneeling in a room overwhelmed by dust?

“I can bring you sacrifices. As many as you want. As often as you like.”

“And in return?” She sounded almost intrigued.

“Cover my tracks.”

Laughter once more filled the room and Francis saw the entirety of his life, of his dreams and aspirations, in a single moment. He was indeed a fool. An arrogant ant, straying from the colony, to bargain with a force older than the gods.

“You’re a serial killer and you want me to protect you? Is that what you think of me? A guardian to sweep away the pesky details so you may slaughter at will? You have spent a mortal span seeking me and you want me to be your…maid?”

He flinched and flung himself back to the floor. His mind scrambled for the proper words to apologize. He had erred, badly, and needed a way out. He could always find a way out.

The tip of her scythe touched his neck, settling on the carotid pulse. It barely broke the skin, but the scent of his mortality filled his world.

He looked into her eyes again. And fell again. But not into oblivion. No, this journey was curated, purely for him. He tumbled through the final moments of every life he stole, through soul deep fear, through bodies failing, through confusion and exhaustion and lives extinguished. Over and over and…

Francis, the dear boy, found the energy and screamed louder than any of the others.