Ember X (Death Collectors)

chapter 8

I work as a cashier down at the one and only gas station in town. It’s a tedious job, one I hope I’m not stuck with for the rest of my life.

After I get off work, I go home and head to the computer desk. I stay there for hours until the words on the computer screen are blurry from the hours of searching on the internet. Ghost possession. Demon possession. Cult rituals. Nothing explains what’s going on with Raven. Or what’s going on with me.

I shift my focus to Garrick. A death omen has never been that powerful before. It felt like a thousand deaths, each one a thorn on a dying rose, individualized but connected to the same vine of life. I start to type something on the keyboard when Ian’s head appears over my shoulder and he reads the screen.

“Wow, should I be worried?” he asks, reading my search history on the sidebar as he hovers over my shoulder.

“We’re studying mythology and human nature in English class,” I lie easily.

“Well, if you need any help, let me know,” he says. “I had to study mythology for this oil-based painting class I took my freshman year. The Professor was seriously into that crap.”

“Yep, I sure will.” I wait for him to leave and then type “X tattoo” into the search. Nothing pops out, so I delete “tattoo” and put “symbol.” I scroll through the options and click on a link about execution.

I read through the article: “An X symbol has many representations, one being the elimination of a life.” I slump back in the chair and cross my arms. “Well, look at that. It does have to do with death.”

Still, why does Garrick have an X on his eye? Could Garrick be… could Garrick be causing the disappearances? But why does he have so many death omens?

I stretch my fingers and type: Death Omens. I highlight the search button with the cursor, swiveling in the chair as I hesitate before clicking it. I skim through the search results, until I come across a sketch of an Angel with her head tucked down, tears seeping from her eyes, and black smudges on her cheeks. Her dark wings elongate the page and a lifeless rose crumbles from her hand. A skeletal pattern tattoos her arms and legs and a circle rounds the stone floor beneath her bare feet.

“It’s just like in Asher’s painting of the Angel,” I mutter. Grim Angel is the title of the sketch. “It’s like a mix between the Grim Reaper and an Angel.”

I do a search on Grim Angel and read aloud, “Grim Angels are a unique breed immune to most of the Angel of Deaths’ and the Grim Reapers’ gifts. Grim Angels are believed to be insane due to the curse of their hybrid breeding of an Angel of Death and a Grim Reaper, which plagues them with a constant burden of death. They may suffer from blackouts and lose track of their mind, if not properly taken care of.” I read the note aloud again. “Blackouts and a general burden of constant death.” I shiver and peek over my shoulder, just to make sure I’m not sprouting wings. But the inner voice deep inside me disagrees.

After reading a few more websites, and finding nothing else, I give up for the night. “What are these things, like some kind of hush-hush mythical species no one is supposed to talk about or something?”

I shove the chair back, shut off the computer, and flop down on the couch next to Ian. “Is Mom home yet?”

He surfs through the channels with the remote aimed at the small television screen. “Nah, she called and said she’s going to be late.”

“Did you check on her prescription to see if it was still full?”

“Yeah… and it’s still full. She hasn’t taken them for at least a week.”

“We should talk to her about it,” I say. “She came home last night totally wasted and ranting about Dad being a killer.”

Ian turns down the volume of the TV and sets the remote down on the armrest. “Where was I?”

I point over my shoulder at the staircase. “Upstairs, in the attic, with your ‘muse.’”

He squirms uneasily. “Did you get her upstairs okay?”

I grab a handful of skittles from the candy bowl on the coffee table and pop them into my mouth. “Yeah, I made do.”

He slips off his beanie to ruffle his hair. “Was she nice to you?”

I seal my lips together and force the tears to back down. “She was fine, I guess.”

“I can tell when you’re lying.” Ian pushes the sleeves of his shirt up and kicks his feet up on the table. “What did she say to you?”

Ian knows about my rough relationship with our mother to an extent, but there are pieces I omit from him, like her accusations that I killed Grandma Nelly.

“She was as nice as she always is.” I scoop up another handful of skittles and get up from the couch. “I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Ember…” He struggles for words. “You know you can talk to me about stuff. My meds are helping a lot and I think I can handle things now.”

“I know,” I say, but he can’t. It’s in his eyes—the fear I might open up and he’ll have to deal with it, so I bottle it up. The accident, Raven, death, that I saw Laden’s body hanging from our tree. “And if I do ever feel like talking, you’ll be the first one I come to.”

He releases a breath of relief and turns back to the TV as I trudge up to my room, wondering when I’ll crack.