Scythe Does Matter

I WOKE AT dawn, surprised I’d slept at all. Sadly, I wasn’t surprised to awake alone. Disappointed, but not surprised. The door to the guest room—the one I’d never actually slept in—was closed for the first time since I’d moved in.

I checked my hellivision—for the first time since someone said “Let there be light,” it was the same date both in Hell and on the Coil. The news said we could expect a few more glitches, but that pretty soon, it would all be worked out.

So I could safely say that today was my graduation from the Reaper Academy. It was also my twenty-sixth birthday, the anniversary of my accidental reapage and the anniversary of Conrad’s original soul Deal. Today Conrad Iver would try to get my beloved Aunt Carey to trade her soul for his by lying to her and telling her it was to save me. Clever bastard. I was his bargaining chocolate chip, and Aunt Carey loved chocolate.

And me.

I was cutting it close. As soon as I got my scythe I would go AWOL, run down to the ferry and get Charon to take me over along with the souls who were being reincarnated today. I couldn’t teleport because I existed simultaneously on both planes, so I’d have to travel backward up the slippery slope, over the GIs and make my way past the gee-gnomes and through the void. But I could still arrive minutes too late. It would all depend on the graduation ceremony. But that bastard Conrad was goin’ down! And I meant that very literally.

I hadn’t told a soul. Or a demon. Or anyone for that matter. I tried hard to not even think about it in case one of the psychics read my mind and turned me in. I’d avoided both Claire Voyant and Sue Sayer. I’d apologize later—in this afterlife or the next.

But here’s a fun factoid I’d stumbled upon when I’d been researching scythes between semesters: you can’t be scythed twice. Apparently I wasn’t the first person to be reaped prematurely after all; it had just happened so long ago, nobody remembered. But I’d read the dustiest old tomes and scrolls I could find. According to a couple of obscure references, if I could get back into my body, then I couldn’t be scythed out of it again until I decided to go.

If things went according to plan, then I’d rescue my aunt, see Conrad punished and get my life back. I couldn’t wait. In fact, I really couldn’t wait. I might have lost a year of my life, but I wasn’t losing another minute. I had to get going.

The fact that Dante was obviously done with me only made the decision easier.

I dressed carefully. I wanted to look my best to receive my scythe, but I needed to wear something that didn’t interfere with my escape strategy. I decided on stinger-proof black leather pants and low-heeled boots, the better to charge up the slippery slope with. I then selected a wine-colored, scoop-back top that showed off my new tattoo. When I’d been reaped, the tattoo I’d gotten for my twenty-fifth birthday had stayed with my body on the Coil. Finally deciding to replace it, I’d gone out after the bash last night and gotten a pair of wings tattooed across my shoulder blades. Not feathery angel wings like Ira’s, but bat-like wings with a ton of intricate detail. I was a bad-ass Reaper now. And once I’d finished being Kirsty d’Arc on Earth—say fifty, sixty years from now—I was coming back to Hell and making the most of my afterlife. I’d drag evil skeggers like Conrad to Hell. I’d be the best Reaper ever!

But I was living out my life on the Coil first. Hell would just have to limp along without me till I was good and ready to go. All those things I’d resolved since finding out I was just dead weight, I was going to do. I’d save the whales and recycle. Read to the blind. Get a cat. Tell my aunt I loved her. Tell Dante . . .

I fluffed my hair out. The white took some getting used to. It sparkled even more than Ira’s wings. It was going to look great against my black Reaper robe. I’d paid extra for velvet piping. Oh, sure, I’d only get to wear it for a few minutes today, but it’d be here when I got back. I just hoped my friends would be, too.

And Dante . . .

I went looking for him, hoping to apologize for touching his scythe. Jeez, he usually liked me to touch his . . . never mind. Even though he was mad at me, at least we could walk over to the campus together while I picked up my robe.

But he must have left our apartment while I was in the shower, without even saying goodbye.

That was pretty petty of him. I was starting to feel righteously indignant. So what if I’d touched his skegging tool? Well, he had to be at the ceremony. I’d catch him there. We could fight it out and then make up like we usually did. I couldn’t help smile when I thought about how we liked to make up.

But that wouldn’t happen. I’d be breaking the few rules we had down here and Dante wasn’t likely to forgive me this time. I sniffled back tears, trying hard not to ruin my mascara. If it was over with Dante, then I didn’t have anything to stay for. I’d bring Conrad’s soul in. One look at Charon and some of the other denizens of Hell and he’d sing like a canary. Once he’d confessed, they’d grant my life back and I would probably never see Dante again.

I ended up redoing my makeup from scratch.

I still managed to arrive at school early. I picked up my robe, hung out in the caf with some of the other Reaper grads then finally wandered into the area set aside for the graduation ceremony. I took my place among my classmates in the seats marked “Reserved” in the front row. I felt like a big bundle of nerves as I checked my death watch. Time may not have been out of sync anymore, but the minutes crawled by as I waited to go up onstage.

There were interminable speeches and commencement exorcises and finally, finally, Professor Schotz strode onto the stage.

He retold the story of our “daring rescue” (his words) and managed to make us all sound very brave and noble. Even Rod. Especially Rod.

The engineers, who couldn’t be there due to time commitments, had endowed a chair in the name of Raul Manjay, the worker who’d been lost to the vortex first. A moment of silence was observed in memory of Rod and Raul, followed by a moment of screaming and yelling. It was a time-honored Hellish tradition and I, for one, felt it was much more cathartic than silent prayer.

Even while I appreciated the sentiment, I was anxious to get on with the ceremony. I had a lying, cheating, Deal-welching ex-boss to confront.

Dude, where’s my scythe?

“And now . . .” The voice of the Emcee (Evil Creature) boomed out over the assembled masses. And the rest of us, too. “It gives me indefinable pleasure to welcome this year’s graduates. Six bright personages who are being inducted into the Reaper Corps here today. Cadets, due to your bravery above and beyond the call, you are all graduating magna cum laude!”

“With noisy melted rock?” I teased, feigning ignorance. I’d taken a semester of Latin in high school.

“With great honor,” Ira translated. Kali flicked the back of my head.

“Ow.”

“And to present your scythes to you today, we are honored to have our great Dark Underlord—make that Underlady. None other than Her Satanic Majesty herself. Everyone, please join me in welcoming Lucy Phurr.”

There was a smattering of polite applause. I craned my neck, anxious to finally see the ruler of Hell in person. Preceding Lucy, a mousy-looking woman with a bad haircut and an ill-fitting suit ambled onto the stage. I peered closer. Oh, wait. That wasn’t some lady-in-waiting or other attendant; that was the great queen herself. Huh. She seemed . . . ordinary.

Lucy accepted the microphone from the Emcee. Her pale lips moved but even in the front row I heard nothing.

Some underling trotted out and showed her how to turn the mic on.

“Thank you,” she said to him, nearly deafening us. He showed her how to adjust the volume. She thanked him again, this time at a manageable volume level and faced us. “And thank you all for inviting me to be part of your commencement ceremonies today. Before I hand out the scythes, there are just a few words I want to say.” The mic clunked on the podium and the crinkle of paper grated across the sound system and my eardrums. “Sometimes we forget, here in Hell . . .”

After five minutes of boring drivel badly delivered, I tuned her out. Even feeling smug about how much better a speech I could have written for her got old fast. This gal could use a good makeover and a huge PR campaign. I felt sorry for her. “Sympathy for the Devil”—now the campaign in my head had a theme song.