Infamous Reapers Novels & Stories

In fact, extended stays on the surface world is fatal to us. At the Helm, I’m joined by the three other reapers I saw at the abandoned airport on my first day. They’re all, just like me, controlled by Septimus with his variously styled gothic rings: talon, jester, and scorpion. Respectively they are Kera, the evil Valkyrie, Ankou, the creepy clown, and Yama Ranger, the four-armed and blue-skinned cowboy. Collectively they call themselves the Bureau of Transmigration. Not that they tell me things or they’re ever in a talkative mood. In fact, with the exception of Septimus and Ankou, the reapers are taciturn to the point of seeming mute. Ankou isn’t much of an improvement either with his posh

I apologise. "Is that a fresh injury, or would you call it an old battle scar?" Clarissa raises an eyebrow, visibly concerned. It's like I have met many vampires, but the ones I have encountered are enough to make me think they're all horrible. First the Hunters, then Vladimir and his regular patrons were all overly aggressive and full of hate. Now, I met Octavius and Clarissa, and they're both gentle with me. Sure, Kieran is cold and distant, but I think it is in his nature to push everyone away.

I scrambled away, my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. The water-Reaper took a step onto the bank, its form solidifying as it left the river, becoming a figure of sculpted darkness, its surface shimmering with trapped moonlight and crawling filaments of black-gold code. It didn’t look at me. It looked at Marcus. >Asset: Marcus. Designation: Infected. Protocol: Reaper. Directive: Assume control. Marcus stood his ground, his head cocked. “Directive conflict. Primary target: Thorn.” >Thorn is mine, the water-Reaper intoned, its voice the sound of a rushing river and grinding stone. >You are recalled.

I had no idea how much time had passed while I was being dragged through the Veil, but I knew I didn’t have much left before the darkness became completely uncontrollable and my absence weakened Elara. “What do you want?” I demanded. He studied me for a moment, head tilted, as if weighing a soul I no longer had. “I was the first Reaper,” he said at last. “The first fool to accept Death’s terms. The first to realize, too late, what the debt truly meant.” I bit back the urge to demand that he get to the point, and I let him talk. “Your plague,” he continued, nodding toward the burning pyres. “The one that tore through your pack, your family… Do you still believe it was random chance?”

Then I grabbed the Ducati keys from the hall table so hard they cut into my palm. I headed toward the elevator with murder in my bloodstream and fire in my lungs. Richard had tried to kill her. Aaron had hidden her from me. But both of them had forgotten one critical thing. One fatal thing. I wasn’t a corporate prince. I wasn’t a politician. I wasn’t civilized. I was a Reaper. And Reapers did not let go of what belonged to them.

"They cut the hardline." Kael sat beside me. He was vibrating with tension. He had ripped off his tie. His knuckles were white as he gripped the door handle. "How many men?" Kael asked. His voice was a low rumble that shook the seat. "Dorian has a team of four," I said. "But my father would not send thugs. He would send the Reapers." "Reapers?" "Private military contractors," I explained. "Genetically enhanced. Pain resistant. They are the ones who burned our house down five years ago."

I see with horror pictures of the men who are part of my daily life and me. They are all there. From the old newspaper vendor on the corner to the food delivery man. From the maintenance man to the manager of my company. The bastard remains silent and just watches my reaction. I swallow hard because that's the effect all the men in this damn Family have when they target someone: dread. The chilling fear. The kind that makes you freeze in place and forget which Saint to beg for help. When the men of the Family want to get something, they send capos. When they still don't get it, they send Santo. Nobody says no to Santo. At least, those who did say no are no longer in this world to tell.

No names on this job, only call signs. We have Reaper, Ghost, Shade, Viper and me, Blade. They were the best the clan ever trained, monsters I’d bled beside before I ever wore a professor’s jacket. Each one carried the feather scar somewhere on their body, each one owed Old Might their soul. But tonight they answered to me. Reaper, he's tall, shaved head, and his voice sounded like gravel. He was the first to speak. “Package count?”

"If I have to kill Alef to end this revenge, I will." "Not like that, Fathia," Sebastian warns. When they faced each other, Fathia's eyes were usually serene, but now they blazed with anger. There's a small smirk Fathia forms, not mischievous or playful, but a chilling smirk. Sebastian reaches for her fingers and gently strokes them, trying to immerse himself in the fire that's burning there. He's trying to dampen it as much as possible, because Sebastian never imagined Fathia could be like this.

“I’ve been waiting to get a hold of you all night. I . . . read your letter regarding the Viscera Sisters. I take it you’ve already claimed them?” “I have.” “Are you quite positive that was a good idea? There have been fakes, after all. Ones that killed those who tried to claim them.” “It was the only way to be sure,” said Salem. “Actually, Warren, I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to ask: how do you control so many Reapers at once? I’m still learning to do that for my Uncivil. Trying to see from so many eyes is . . . disorienting.”