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Chapter 17: A Glimpse of Fate
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The Reaper's Pet Chapter 18: Homeschool Hell
“Good evening,” I greet, walking on my hocked hind legs into Death’s office. Septimus utters a stream of obscenities in classical Latin and ancient Greek. If sentences could consist entirely of abuse, he’s producing exactly those. I can tell even if the ubiquitous skeletons (My Helter-Skeltals, as Septimus fondly calls them) hadn’t erupted in braying laughter. I feel like an exorcist about to face the biggest demon-possession case of all time, but then it’s probably no more than what inner-city school teachers face every day, I try to reassure myself. As soon as I think this, Septimus generates a ball of fire and flings it straight at me. I scream and escape incineration by the skin of my teeth. Probably not. I’m hissing and spitting like only an actual threatened feline can. Then I notice my backside has been charred and there’s this small matter of a flame on the small tip past my ball tail. A hyperactive skeleton races to put the tremulous fire out. It runs screaming and dragging
The Reaper's Pet Chapter 19: Infernal Affairs
First, a short history lesson from the Lachesis monitors: {In the beginning was darkness. From it, light and life were born. Light was varied, free and unpredictable as embodied by the Spirits of Creation, the Storks. On the other hand, darkness was clean, still and barren as embodied by the Spirits of Destruction, the Ravens. {Between these two camps, a pact was made to govern the comings and goings of life into the mortal realm. The Fates, or the Wyrd Ones, arose upon the principle of three counter-balancing forces: {First was Clotho, who spun the thread of life, the Umballicus, to grant entry into the world by birth or reincarnation. {Second was Lachesis, who calculated and measured that which was duly apportioned and owed. {Third was Atropos, also called the Grim One, who inflexibly cut the thread of life to bring forth death.} I recognize the three characters from Greek mythology and again marvel at how close the ancient Greeks got to actual fact. I assume Septimus is Atro
The Reaper's Pet Chapter 20: Dark Horse
Once in your life you’ll find the perfect love and it’ll be everything you imagined, whether or not you stayed a believer. You’ll find it at the most unexpected time and in the most unassuming place. It masquerades as something commonplace, neither remarkable nor memorable. It just happens. This is the beauty of the whole thing because later when you look back, there’s no landmark by which you can say, “Here it is. This is where love started.” Just this faint recognition of a dream you forgot you ever had and an inescapable, almost frightening sense of rightness, like the softest scrape of tumblers shifting into place as the key fits the lock. This is what Sol and I had. We WERE soulmates, and it pains me now to think I had to lose her for good before I would start believing. Worse, this is the same effect Septimus and I aim to recreate and trap Oriana Conti with. I don’t intend to teach Septimus any of those reverse-psychology seduction techniques that are peddled by pick-up artists
The Reaper's Pet Chapter 21: The Proposition
In the middle of our training, as the deadline draws inexorably closer but Septimus seems to be getting farther and farther away from readiness, he makes a proposition. As per usual, he’s sitting on his throne of bones atop a pedestal minus the ebony desk, and I’m kneeling in front of him in my half-human half-reaper form. {Wampus, hasn’t it occurred to you that there’s a faster and more certain way for me to get what I want?} My furry forehead knits. “There is?” {It is only a possibility, mind you. My need for love may well be a one-off deal, an… urge that I need to get out of my system. In such a case, any human female would suffice. A single experience of human coitus could return me to the very equilibrium we seek. A quick in-and-out operation, so to speak.} As he says this, Septimus isn’t ordering or scheming as is his wont. He isn’t the slightest bit malicious. If anything, he’s embarrassed and nervous. This is the impression that I sense from him and glimpse through
The Reaper's Pet Chapter 22: Above Ground
With a light, reverent touch, the man’s fingers catch and rub the oscillating crucifix of the rosary hanging from the rear-view mirror. This cabbie should be both a religious and superstitious man; in other words, your typical Filipino. Apart from the steadiness of his hands and the deftness with which they weave the taxi in and out of traffic, his aura tells me he’s seen a lot of crazy accidents on the road but never once felt anything because of them – at least nothing weird enough to freak him out and stop him from delivering a fare to their destination. But years of driving a cab sharpens a man’s intuition of people, of the different strangers he picks up on the road. Plus he’s listened enough times to stories of that “psychic” feeling that forebodes a really bad accident or a violent holdup, what the veteran cabbies are fond of sharing. The cabbie (Ray, as introduced by his ID hanging with the rosary) has had his own psychic moment tonight for the first time ever. It came with th
The Reaper's Pet Chapter 23: Picking Up Rina
At closing time, after 1 botched Blended Crème Frap, 1 weak espresso, 1 forgotten order, 5 irate customers and countless pleas from his shift buddies to go home and rest, Chester – that is, Septimus – finally takes off his green apron with the Brew Bear logo now stained with coffee from the malfunctioning ICB-Twin Infusion Brewer. He’s been demoted to dishwashing duties for most of the night, not that it helped because as soon as he was he promptly broke a stack of saucers and one really fancy, incredibly expensive cup. It’s strange but watching Septimus go through the whole thing I start to see him in a different light. He’s like someone raised apart from other people all his life so he has ideas of how things should be but they’re a little off from how they are in the real world. One time the head reaper looks at my Wampus form floating by like many tiny particles in the air (just like our otherworldly carriage parked at the back), and his meek Chester eyes behind the Coke-bottle g
The Reaper's Pet Chapter 24: The Model
Models are simultaneously both the catalyst and the product of the world they live in. The fashion industry which has been arousing, feeding off and slaking the illusions of billions and billions on the planet is a double-edged sword that wounds even the select few who wield it. Rina has seen it all: fellow models OD’ing on coke and heroin, an anorexic friend starving herself to death, another jumping from the infinity pool of a high-rise and landing smack dab on the hood of a classic silver ’51 Jaguar. The press called it “the most beautiful suicide of the twenty-first century” and three more fashion models followed suit by jumping from the exact same infinity pool all through the following week. Countless others blindly chasing the glitter but left in the end with lives as fake as moissanite. She has stood shoulder to shoulder with them on the same razor-edged cliff, drunk and stoned out of their minds from all their desperate attempts to plug that insidious, indelible hole inside t
The Reaper's Pet Chapter 25: The Change
“Yes, I think…” he starts. “What?” she prompts. Dazzling. Disarming. “Everybody should have bucket list. Age isn’t matter. Anyone can disappear tomorrow.” She looks at him, deep in thought. But her face won’t betray her feelings. “What you thinking?” he asks. “Well, all this talk about bucket lists. It’s too morbid for a first date, don’t you think?” “Oh so sorry. I didn’t know this is date. If I know, I talk about my pet cat.” “You have a pet cat? What kind? Or was that just a joke?” “Is true. I have pet cat. She a rescue cactus cat.” “A cactus cat? I don’t think I’ve heard of that one before.” “Cactus cat? Wild and spiky. She no let nobody inside.” Rina smiles uncertainly because she isn’t sure if Chester is describing a cat or her. He in turn studies her as though trying to tell if he can push the envelope of the touchy topic further. “Death. Life. Same thing,” he says empathically. “Like van Gogh last painting. Wheatfield with Crows. Paths not go nowhere. But bir
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