Season's Reapings (A Lana Harvey, Reapers Inc. Holiday Short Story) Read online

  Saul filled my lap and pressed his muzzle into my neck, whimpering out a heartfelt greeting. I ran my numb fingers through his fur and lay my head against his shoulder, trying to soak in his warmth as I panted to catch my breath. My wet clothes were freezing to my body, and my heart felt like an icepick trying to dig its way out of my chest.

  “Quite a show,” a silky voice purred.

  “God dammit.” I glared at the newcomer. “Did someone send out a memo? Why can’t we catch a break today?”

  The woman the voice belonged to sat atop a horse—but not the eight-legged gray one standing near the giant-ass hole in the road. This one only had four legs… that hovered a foot off the icy terrain. Its rider wore a Valkyrie helmet and flowing white robes. A spear was gripped in one hand, but its point was directed away from us, following Michael’s path through the air until he landed, completing our little party. The angel looked about as banged up as Gabriel. His eyes blinked fiercely, as if he’d recently come to.

  “This one belongs to me,” he said, waving his sword at Nick.

  “Afraid not, cupid.” The woman smirked, crossing her spear over her lap. “Reveal yourself, Long Beard.”

  Nick harrumphed, and the green glimmer of his soul returned as his form shifted. His beard grew longer as his height rose taller, and a merry laugh spilled from his lips.

  “Two hundred names, and that’s the one you chose to greet me with? Why Gná, you haven’t changed a bit.” He grinned at the rider and then turned to us. “You can imagine why I wander in disguise so frequently.”

  “You’re not Santa Claus, are you?” A sinking sensation filled my chest, and I imagined this was what many a mortal child felt like when they discovered the truth.

  Nick’s new face softened. “Many have known me as the Yule Father—or Father Christmas, to the new age folk. Though I am not the only one who contributes to the cloak of this... Santa figure. Nikolas the Wonderworker, for instance, lent a great deal of himself.”

  “Then who the hell are you?” Tasha snapped, finally able to speak past her chattering teeth.

  Nick gave her an annoyed frown. “Do you really expect me to list off all two hundred names?”

  “The first will do,” Michael injected, looking rather perturbed himself.

  “Odin,” Gná said, answering the question for us all. “We should be on our way. Frigg’s foresight curtails her patience.”

  “Ah.” Nick—I mean Odin—glanced across the road at the wolves, ravens, and leggy horse watching us. “Come along,” he called, waving to the creatures. They crossed the distance eagerly, ready to bathe their master in the same affections Saul had bestowed on me.

  Odin mounted the strange steed, and the two ravens perched on his shoulders, while the wolves flanked him on the ground. How the storytellers got reindeer out of this mess was beyond me.

  “That’s just great.” Tasha slapped her hands on the ground, peppering me with snow. “I wasted my last coin on this godforsaken harvest.”

  “Why are you harvesting souls in the first place?” I asked, leaning away from her and closer to Saul. “It’s not like anyone’s going to pay you. You’d be arrested on the spot if you showed your face at any one of the gates.”

  Tasha snorted. “They don’t exactly check your credentials when you sell shit on the Ghost Market.” Her eyes lit snidely at my surprise. “Such an innocent little thing, aren’t you precious?” She snatched the coin out of my hand and rolled it, disappearing before I could blink.

  Gabriel stared wide-eyed at me. “That was the only coin I had on me. Where’s yours?”

  Heat crawled up my neck. “I dropped it off the roof of the truck a couple miles back.”

  When we glanced back across the ice, Gná, Odin, and the misfit lot of creatures were gone.

  Michael threw his golden shield down and kicked it across the ice. “Just perfect.”

  Gabriel’s wounded wing twitched as he cleared his throat. “Think you could spot us a coin, brother?”

  “Ha!” Michael made a disgusted face. “Now I’m your brother?”

  “It’s well known that brothers are prone to fighting,” Gabriel said in his defense.

  Michael snatched up his shield and took flight, hovering over us with an angry scowl. “Find your own way home. Pigeon,” he spat. Then he was gone.

  I sighed and fell back against the snow mound, throwing my arm over my face. “I think there’s an extra coin in my robe.”

  “And where might your robe be?” Gabriel asked.

  I gave him an apologetic look and stood, moving slowly as my stiff clothes protested. Then we began the long walk up the ice road, carefully avoiding the sinking truck and trailer.

  Gabriel pulled his ear flaps down tighter and blew into his hands. “I guess it could be worse.”

  “Yeah, you could be soaked to the bone and without a robe,” I said through chattering teeth. I hugged myself and scowled at him.

  Every few feet, one of us would stop to inspect a dip in the snow, fingering around for the lost coin. The wind howled, sculpting my hair into icicles and chapping my lips, and the sun reflected off the white scenery with painful intensity. Saul ran laps around us to keep warm. If I hadn’t been so exhausted, I would have done the same.

  We were no better off half an hour later, when Gabriel decided he couldn’t handle the silent search any longer.

  “Hark the herald angels si-ing—”

  “Shut. Up.” I pressed my hands more tightly into my armpits.

  “Angels we have heaaard on high—”

  “Don’t push me.”

  Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “The angel Gabriel from heaaaven came—”

  “I will kill you,” I said, stopping to pierce him with my death glare.

  Gabriel huffed. “What happened to your Christmas spirit?”

  “I lost it to frostbite, probably with most of my toes,” I grumbled. I turned and began stomping back up the road. Gabriel hurried to catch up.

  “Yoooou’re a mean one—ooph!”

  My fist connected with Gabe’s stomach. It felt pretty good at first. The guilt that followed, not so much.

  “Sorry. Reflex,” I mumbled, patting his shoulder.

  He coughed and gave me a hurt look. “You’re getting coal in your stocking.”

  “I’ll take that over hypothermia any day.” I sighed and squinted up the road.

  Saul had continued his laps ahead of us. He paused suddenly and poked his nose down in the snow. When his muzzle lifted, he had my robe in his mouth. His tail wagged proudly.

  * * * * *

  Muffled Christmas music seeped through the front door of the condo as Saul and I sloshed our way down the hall. I was slowly thawing out, all over the place. Holly wasn’t going to be happy.

  Gabriel had agreed to report to Jenni on my behalf, partly because I needed dry clothes, but mostly because my shitty mood was infectious and he’d had enough. I was ready to redirect my animosity anyway.

  I entered the condo, stepping carefully to minimize drippage, and glanced over the dining table to spot Bub in the living room, tangled in a heap of string lights. The helljack puppies ran circles around the coffee table, occasionally bumping an artificial tree that stood cockeyed in front of the center window, branches skewed and mashed in all directions.

  Bub’s attention was focused on the television. The end of A Wonderful Life was playing, and I’d walked in just in time to catch the famous line, “Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings.”

  “That’s a load of rubbish,” Bub scoffed. “And every time a priest beats the bishop, a devil gets its horns,” he sing-songed mockingly as he went back to untangling the string lights.

  My shoes squeaked, cueing surprised yips from the hounds, and Bub’s head snapped around.

  “Lana! What happened to you?”

  “I… I don’t even know where to begin.” Tears welled in my eyes as I took in the stockings and decorations lying over the couches.

  Bu
b freed himself from the nest of lights and limped over to me, wrapping his arms around my back despite my soaked clothes. “Let’s get you in the bath, and I’ll put on some soup.”

  After a lengthy soak and two bowls of chicken noodle, I could finally appreciate all the effort Bub had gone to. Sure, the tree was a bit mangled, but it just needed a little fine-tuning. I was extra amused that he had even tried to put himself in the mood by watching classic Christmas movies.

  “Are bishops beaten by priests often?” I asked, still puzzling over his earlier comment.

  “Hmmm?” Bub looked over his shoulder at me as he circled the tree, sprinkling bits of tinsel in the boughs. “What’s that?”

  “Bishops. I heard you say something about priests beating them.”

  Bub blushed and looked back at the tree with a grin. “That’s just an expression, love.”

  “Oh.” I thought on it a moment, letting my thawing mind wander. “Oh!”

  Bub snickered and joined me on the couch. He pulled my legs into his lap and glanced down in my empty soup bowl. “Would you like another?”

  “Maybe later.” I smiled and set the dish on the table so I could snuggle into him.

  Saul, Coreen, and the puppies had already finished their dinner kibble, and I could hear them snoring in our bedroom down the hall. Kevin and Jenni were both working late, trying to get ahead of the holiday rush so they could enjoy a day off. It was nice having the condo to ourselves.

  Bub leaned in for a kiss and sighed. “I have something for you, but you’ll have to brave the cold long enough to reach the travel booth across the street.”

  I crinkled my nose. “Can it wait? Like, until next summer?”

  “I’ll keep you warm.” He grinned and squeezed my hands.

  I grudgingly bundled up in a coat, taking the time to add a hat, scarf, and mittens. Then I stuffed my feet down in a pair of fur boots. Bub watched without a word. He waited for me by the door in a thin leather jacket, leaning gently on his puppy-mauled cane.

  We left Holly House and ran across the street, ducking inside the travel booth before the cold had a chance to touch us. When we arrived at the harbor, Bub coined us off to Tartarus, where the ruins of his previous manor had been bulldozed and the ground was being prepped for the new build.

  The dock where he kept his boats had been destroyed too, as a result of his undercover job among the rebels, but I noticed a new one had already replaced it. A houseboat was moored there, with a giant red bow tied around the deck railing.

  Bub’s old houseboat had been my favorite place in the world. The nights we spent drifting down the Styx, forgetting everything but each other, made every shitty moment more tolerable. Seeing the manor in ruins had been hard, but the loss of the houseboat was the most devastating for me.

  “Do you like it?” Bub slipped his free arm around my waist and rested his chin on my shoulder.

  “It’s perfect,” I whispered around the lump in my throat.

  The year had been a rollercoaster. I’d lost so much. So much that I was sure I’d never get back. Having this small bit of happiness restored seemed trivial in the grand scheme of things, but it made me feel like everything was going to be okay. All was not lost.

  Bub’s warm breath grazed my cheek as he laid a kiss on my temple. “Merry Christmas.”

  Acknowledgements

  You guys… have been so amazing! I am sincerely overwhelmed by all the messages and emails that I’ve received from readers expressing their love for Lana and the gang, and asking when the next book will be out. I know the wait for Ghost Market seems like a million years away (even though in actuality, it’s like five months) so I decided to add a holiday short this year. I hope you all enjoy it and have a very Merry Christmas! Or Happy Hanukkah, or Joyous Kwanza, Blessed Winter Solstice, Peaceful Bodhi Day, Fabulous Feast of Saturn… whatever your faith, happy holidays!

  Special shout out to Andrea Cook, whose contagious excitement and Twitter release day countdowns make me squee with delight. : )

  A great big thanks to my critique group, the Four Horsemen of the Bookocalypse, Professor George Shelley, my brainy sister, my fart smeller of a husband, and everyone else who has ever lent their eyes and wits to early drafts of my work and helped clean up the typos and such. I am so grateful for you all!

  All remaining errors are my own… and probably intentional.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ANGELA ROQUET is a great big weirdo.

  She collects Danger Girl comic books, owls, skulls, random craft supplies, and all things Joss Whedon. She's a fan of renewable energy, marriage equality, and religious tolerance. As long as whatever you're doing isn't hurting anyone, she's a fan of you, too.

  Angela lives in Missouri with her husband and son. She's a member of SFWA and HWA, as well as the Four Horsemen of the Bookocalypse, her epic book critique group, where she's known as Death. When she's not swearing at the keyboard, she enjoys painting, goofing off with her family and friends, and reading books that raise eyebrows. You can find Angela online at www.angelaroquet.com

  If you enjoyed this short story, please leave a review wherever possible. Your support and feedback are greatly appreciated. : )

  Book 6, Ghost Market, coming May 2016