A Shadow In The Reaping
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Brynne Weaver
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Copyright © 2021 by Brynne Weaver
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For all the writers out there.
Keep writing. Keep dreaming. I see you.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Brynne Weaver
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Chapter 1
Vlad the Impaler had a beautiful singing voice.
I bet you didn't know that. Most people think of him for his penchant for putting bodies on sticks. That and for being a vampire. Which he was, by the way. The whole staking thing was more of a prop. But nobody seems to really talk about how he captured so many people to impale in the first place. Just by sheer might? By the strength of his army?
No.
He subdued them with his song.
And he was exceptional with a melody. His voice was as bright as sunlight on steel. When he sang, it was like being swept up in the terror and allure of a god. He was fearsome and intimidating, but his voice was warm and inviting. You wanted to stand in his presence, even though you were terrified of his gaze lingering on your skin. You wanted his attention, for him to sing to you, despite the nefarious gleam in his dark eyes. He might be romancing you, or he might be about to kill you. There was lust, and danger, and fury. Vlad was adept at balancing horror with desire.
But one thing Vlad was shit at was flying undercover.
The ego. Holy fuck. The ego on that man. It was a time in history when there was room to spare for the narcissism of madmen. Eventually, however, even the Reapers couldn't turn a blind eye. They caught up with Vlad. They ambushed him with silver arrows, their points alight with hellfire. And then they left him to the terrified survivors of his years of rampage. The humans burned his body and scattered his ashes in water and earth so that they would never be whole again.
I mean, the lengths they went to... it was all a bit much. Humans back then were very dramatic. Their superstitions were ridiculous. Garlic, crosses, holy water, incantations. The only thing they got right was silver. I mean, honestly. Vlad was dead. He was beheaded and burned. Spreading his ashes here, there and everywhere was unnecessary. And they didn't even leave something for me to keep. Me, his maker.
Frankly, it was super uncool. So, I felt the need to kill most of them for being such dicks. And they never expected some sweet-faced, unassuming, quiet young woman would be the true epicenter of all the chaos and destruction. It could never be a woman. They always underestimate us. They always overlook us. Always.
Just like Jessie Bates.
Men like Jessie Bates are all the same. They've been this way for millennia, and they will be like this for centuries to come. Jessie assumed he could demean my boss, because Jessie is a man who has enjoyed pushing the boundaries of consequence. An athletic, preppy, Hilfiger-wearing, college frat boy? He loves getting away with things. A little quip here about Bian's Vietnamese accent. A laugh there about her stature. And trust me, Bian can look after herself. She can fight her own battles, and I promised myself I wouldn't fight them for her.
But that all changed when Mr. Bates assumed he could disrespect me.
All right, so maybe I made myself seem extra vulnerable when I saw him in the foyer or when I passed him walking alone to the dining room. I wanted him to cross the line. I guess in terms of your human semi-moralities that would be entrapment. But honestly, I don't think I even needed to do anything at all. Jessie Bates would have been a misogynistic douchebag to me without any help from me pretending to be weak.
At first it was just a sneer or his lingering stare at my tits. Which, by the way, aren't anything more than average. But eventually, predictably, he went too far.
I still remember the smell of cheap scotch and cologne as he stumbled down the hallway after the bachelor party and caged me between his arms as he pressed his palms to the wall.
"Why don't we go to my room... Lu?.." he had asked, tapping a wobbling finger to my name tag. His voice was thick, like it was stuck in rancid syrup. I remember shaking my head and looking down at the carpet, wondering how anyone had come up with the unfortunate design of purple and orange circles and dreamed up the absurd idea to put it on a floor. The 1970s were the worst.
Jessie pulled me out of my thoughts of interior design. Literally. He tugged my ponytail over my shoulder in a gesture that he must have thought was a little seductive, a little aggressive. "What, you got nothing to say? I'll be real sweet, I promise."
I had met Jessie's bloodshot, watery gaze, swallowing down my desires. Not those desires. Gross. I meant my desire to tear out his throat and lick his blood off the hideous carpet.
When I shook my head again, he rolled his eyes and laughed. I felt the gleam of the red light grow behind my pupils and closed my eyes.
Not here. I can't do it here.
It felt like I swallowed flame. Every breath of Jessie's scent had made it burn hotter in my throat. I tried to steady the thunder of my heart. I felt his finger trace a line down the column of my throat, past my collarbones, down the center of my chest. I wanted to tear that finger right off and stick it up his butthole. But I didn't. He seemed to take that as permission to go a step further. He placed a hot palm over my breast and squeezed.
A sudden whack jolted his hand off my body. Jessie had yelped in surprise and another whack quickly followed.
"You let her go!" Bian yelled. I heard her shoeless footfalls thudding on the carpet as she ran to come and save me.
"Did you just throw a shoe at me?"
