Kate Evangelista
REAPING ME SOFTLY
To Marilyn, the best momager ever, for loving me unconditionally
Chapter 1
DEATH SAT AT HIS DESK wearing on his androgynous face a scowl that could level a whole mountain range. Not many thought of him as breathtaking. Well, not many lived long enough to see his true face: one surrounded by golden locks that reached his chin. If they did, maybe they’d die smiling. But, with the human population swelling to six billion and counting, Death barely had time to think about the triviality of beauty. Keeping his Reapers in line already consumed a majority of his attention.
His voluminous midnight robes spread out around him as if the fabric were alive. With his slate-colored eyes he skimmed the latest status reports. Numbers in neat columns jumped off the page at him. He tossed the yellowing parchment onto the table and leaned into his high-backed chair made of human bones. The numbers added up. People died on a daily basis.
He closed his eyes and longed for the days when he escorted the dead to the afterlife himself. He gripped and released the skulls at the ends of his chair’s armrests, searching in vain for some sort of release from the tension building behind his eyelids. He grimaced. Death—one of the most powerful entities the universe had ever given birth to—experienced migraines. Who would have thought? He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, but he didn’t.
He gave in to massaging his temples. The wars in the Middle East had reached a fevered pitch as of late. Nothing in terms of genocide yet, but close enough. He should have been happy. Business was booming.
Death sighed, as if the weight of eons rested on his shoulders, and let his hands fall away. He opened his eyes, seeing his baubles spread out before him—scattered over his desk, arranged on shelves along the walls and imprisoned by glass cases. They were a collection of odds and ends from over a millennia of millenniums: an angel’s tear; the hoof of a unicorn; the skull of Genghis Khan that he used as a paperweight; an index finger from Confucius; the tip of a dragon’s tail. Things that tickled his fancy. Even his albino crow, taken from the Ark of Noah himself.
A new stack of Death Certificates—which indicated the name, date, time, and manner of death—appeared on his lava-stone table. He plucked a feather from his pet, eliciting an annoyed squawk from the bird on his shoulder, and sharpened its tip with an ornate dagger he often used as a letter opener. After impaling the dagger in his paperweight skull, he dipped the newly sharpened nib into an inkwell, tapped off the excess, and scrawled his signature on the dotted line. Every time his pen left paper, the sheet vanished—to be delivered to its assigned Reaper.
Arianne gave Ben a sidelong glance as they walked on the grass embankment running parallel to the road. Weeds tugged at his baggy jeans. The setting sun dyed his FOUL BALL T-shirt orange. He’d picked up a stick and some pebbles and played “pitch and hit.” The bill of his Braves baseball cap smiled upside down over his boy-next- door face. Every properly timed
“Did you change your hair?” he asked after his third imaginary homerun.
Arianne jumped at the sound of his voice.
“Boy, you’re nervous.”
“Mom decided to trim some off the tips.” Arianne twirled a length of the red strands, attempting to act natural and failing when she didn’t notice a protruding root and stumbled over it. She righted herself and said, “Split ends and all that.”
“It looks nice.” Doubt invaded Ben’s grin. He loved to smile. Even when he didn’t feel like it, he smiled. Sometimes, as exampled by this moment, other emotions would creep in and the result looked less than natural. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.” Arianne laughed away her uncertainty, and failed in that too, managing to come off more awkward than before. She returned to the topic of her hair. “In this heat, I want to chop it all off. My hair, I mean.”
“Don’t!” Ben paused and checked himself. “I mean, you’ll regret it. Remember the time you decided you wanted to look like Marilyn Monroe and your hair turned orange instead of blond?”
She shuddered. “Don’t remind me.”
“What are best friends for if not to warn you away from potentially devastating actions? Remember, you’d have to live with whatever you do to yourself, no one else.”
She considered what Ben said.
“So,” he continued, tearing her away from her hesitation, “what are you going to tell me?”
Arianne scratched an itch on her arm that wasn’t there. “Who said I wanted to talk about anything?”
This time, Ben let go of his grin entirely and regarded her with full on skepticism. “I’m insulted. We’ve known each other since kindergarten and you still think I don’t know when you want to tell me something?” He grimaced. “Normally, we’d take the bus, but when you want to talk, you always suggest we walk the
“Am I really that transparent?” Arianne shuffled her sneakers and adjusted the strap of the bag on her shoulder.
“I just know you better than anyone else.”
She smiled a small, shy smile. “You’re right. I have to tell you something.” She collected her thoughts like scattered clothes on her bedroom floor then said, “There’s no easy way to tell you this…”
All signs of life drained from Ben’s face. Eyes wild, he grabbed her shoulders. “Is it Carrie? Did something happen to her?”
At the mention of her sister, she held on to his wrists like she was about to fall off a cliff. “What? No! I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you have to chill. No more coffee for you, mister.” She extricated herself from Ben’s death grip. “This has nothing to do with her.”
He took off his cap and ran his fingers through his sandy hair before jamming it back on. “Don’t scare me like that.” He huffed and strode away. “And I don’t drink coffee!”
Arianne pulled on her earlobe before scrambling to catch up. “You’re the one who jumped to conclusions. And if anything happened to Carrie, you’d be the first to know.” She came up to him until her steps matched his. “I’m trying to tell you that I see dead people. Well…technically, I see their souls.”
Ben kept marching on.
“Hey, did you hear me?”
“Happy April Fool’s to you, too,” said Ben.
“It’s September, you ninny.”
“Well, it sure sounds like April to me.”
Arianne grabbed his sleeve. Ben searched her face, and her gaze fell. An afternoon breeze ruffled the leaves of the trees lining both sides of the road. The sunset stabbed shadow knives all around them.
“As in M. Night Shyamalan ‘I see dead people’?”
Reluctantly, Arianne nodded. “It sounds crazy—”
“You bet your ass it sounds crazy.” Ben paused. He heaved a long and weighty sigh. “Look at me when you’re
