Yesterday's Reaper

Chapter 3

MISHA TUCKED A STRAND of her dark hair behind her ear as she stared at the menu, trying to decide between a simple cheese Danish or an apple fritter. She already had her coffee from Hell’s Brew, but she preferred the pastries at an actual bakery, like Magical Delights, rather than the warmed up versions at the coffeehouse. Of course, King would probably deny he microwaved his pastries, but Misha could tell they weren’t as fresh as those the unicorn, Brandyn, made.

Or Starburst, who stood there behind the counter, waiting for her to place her order, seeming as if he needed more coffee that morning. “There is a line behind you,” the unicorn said tersely, his green hair clashing with his purple hide. “Sooner or later, you need to make up your mind, or let me serve these other people.”

Misha glanced over her shoulder at the others waiting their turn. They all smiled at her, but their impatience showed in their eyes. She turned back around to the unicorn behind the counter, not really caring about those behind her. Not this weekend. This weekend, all she wanted to do was forget the path her life took seven centuries ago.

She placed her order, choosing the apple fritter, and headed back outside the eclectic bakery and into the bright morning sun. Friday. Usually, she loved Fridays, but not this week. Not this Friday. She hated this Friday, not because of the day, but because of the date. It was the day that changed the course of her life forever.

“I don’t like it,” Vasily said as he glanced through the open doorway to where their mother laid on the thin mattress. “She should be getting better, but she’s not.”

Misha crossed her arms over her chest, rubbing her biceps as if trying to ward off a freeze. However, the cold remained, seeping into her bones. “And father still looks sick, though he denies being ill.” Luckily, their baby sister was away at their aunt’s when the sickness struck Stelinova. Vasily and she remained behind to help their father take care of the farm, but then the sickness creeped into their village and soon it caused more people to be sick than were well enough to tend to them.

“You should go,” Vasily told her in a whisper. “I can take care of this. It’s Anya’s birthday, and you only have a small window to, um, celebrate with her.”

Misha rolled her eyes at her brother. “I can go to her later. Mother needs me now.”

“Misha! Misha!” Anya’s voice came from the front of the house.

Misha tore her eyes from her mother as she turned just as Anya burst through the front door, her blond hair matted to her scalp and left cheek. Sweat glistened from her skin, at least the parts that weren’t smeared with dirt from where Misha knew she had been working in the fields all day. Yet, even though she looked disheveled and exhausted, Anya’s eyes were wide with panic, a panic that suddenly wrapped its icy grip around Misha’s heart. “What’s wrong?” she asked, racing across the dirt floor toward the other woman. “Are your parents all right? Your brother? Sister?”

Anya reached out, gripping Misha’s upper arms with fingers that dug into her skin. “She’s here, Misha. I didn’t think she was real, but there’s no denying it’s her. She’s at the edge of the village.”

Misha felt her brows furrow with her confusion, just as Vasily stepped up beside her. “Who’s here? Who are you talking about?”

Anya sucked in a frantic breath, digging her nails deeper into Misha’s skin. “Pesta, the Bringer of Death. And Misha, she carries the broom.”

Misha stared at the other woman, her heart thrumming so hard she could hear it in her ears. Jerking her gaze out the front door, she stared toward the edge of Stelinova for only a second before turning back to her parents. If she carried a broom, then the Old Hag was here to collect every soul in the village.

She glanced back at Anya, dear, sweet Anya, whom she had grown to love and who loved her back, even though the world forbid it. There was no way she could allow Pesta to take Anya’s soul.

Taking a deep breath to fortify her nerves, she ordered Anya to remain with her parents and then stepped out onto the dirt walkway in front of her small home. She wasn’t sure how, but she would make Pesta see reason. There had to be something the woman wanted. Misha merely had to figure out what that something was.

As she walked away, Anya called out her name, but Misha didn’t turn around. She couldn’t. She needed every ounce of courage to face the woman known as the Bringer of Death.

A scuffle beside her told her someone had caught up with her, and she turned, ready to scold Anya and send her back to the house. However, Vasily walked beside her, his gaze fixed on the hunched old woman who stood at the edge of town. At first, she wanted to tell her twin brother to go back with Anya and their parents, but she knew he wouldn’t listen. Instead, she tightened her hands into fists and continued toward the scraggly woman who watched them approach.

“What do you intend to do?” Vasily asked. He didn’t look at her, didn’t even tell her how he thought she was crazy and they should simply grab their parents and try to run. All he did was walk beside her.

“I don’t know, to be honest, but I have to do something.”

He nodded. “We’ll figure it out.”

She said nothing. What was there to say? They were about to ask the woman responsible for the plague not to bring it to Stelinova.

The woman stared at them as they approached, her head tilted to the side as wisps of her ashen hair whispered around her head. Leathery skin cocooned her slight frame, and she possessed hunched shoulders and a crooked nose. Her eyes were as dark as ink, and when she snarled, her curling, cracked lips revealed yellowish and black teeth, black like her darkened soul. She was death, and she looked like death to Misha.

Once Misha stood in front of the ancient woman, she realized she had no idea how to even address the crone. She rubbed her hands together, her ragged breathing echoing in her ears.

The lady cackled, sensing Misha’s trepidation. She glanced at her broom, lifting it slightly in the air. “Are you volunteering to be first? Afraid of watching the others die?” She cackled some more. “It doesn’t matter. Everyone dies together. You should go to be with your family. They take it better when surrounded by people they love.”

Misha glanced over at her brother and then sucked in a deep breath. Turning back to Pesta, she said, “Actually, I hoped I could convince you to change your mind and not kill anyone.”

“Not kill anyone? But, my dear, I have already decreed it. I will wipe Stelinova out. I’m merely here to let you know so you can spend the last remaining hours with your loved ones.”

Misha glanced over her shoulder at the people behind her, saw Anya standing in the doorway, her hands rubbing her upper arms in her fear. She couldn’t permit anything to happen to Anya, no matter what.

She turned back to the Old Hag. “Surely, there has to be something that will keep you from using your broom. Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

“We’ll do it,” Vasily corrected her.

She jerked her gaze to her brother, ready to tell him he needed to remain behind to take care of their parents, but he held a hand up before she could say the first word.

“We’re doing this together,” he told her. “Whatever this is.”

She stared at him for another moment and then gave a curt nod before turning back to Pesta. “Well?” she asked as she crossed her arms over her chest, hoping to hide the trembling in her body. “What do you want to spare our village?”

The Old Hag slowly shifted her gaze between the twins, studying them through narrow eyes. “You said whatever it is, you’ll do it.”

Misha merely nodded.

“Both of you?” the crone asked, glancing over at Vasily.

“Both of us,” he assured her with a curt nod.

A crooked grin creeped over the ancient woman’s face. “Well then, now that you mention it, I could use a couple more reapers. You’ll serve me for, say, six and a half centuries, then I’ll release you. Do we have a deal?”

Misha didn’t hesitate. “Agreed.”

“Agreed,” Vasily echoed.

The old crone cackled again as she lifted her broom. “Then we shall leave.”

“Wait!” Panic pressed against Misha’s chest as she feared the woman had tricked them, but instead, she passed the broom over the two of them, and Misha felt her body changing as a scream filled the air behind her.

Pesta had not even permitted her to say goodbye to Anya or her parents. The old crone waved her broom, turning them into her grim reapers and then before Misha even knew what happened, they were gone, transported to some dark underworld that reeked of sulfur and burned the breath in her lungs. The last thing she remembered before their transformation was complete was how Anya looked in that doorway, and then she repeated the date in her mind. She would not allow herself to forget it, no matter what. It was the last day she had been happy.