Soul To Keep: Department Of Soul Acquisitions, #1

By Rachel Rawlings

Reapers always play for keeps.
Reap what you sow. That's been Angelica Wright's motto since joining the Department of Soul Acquisitions as a Reaper. It's served her well over the years, a reminder the mortals who end up in her case files sealed their fate when they signed their deal with the Devil. Reapers have one job - collecting souls - and Angelica is good at her job.
And then a Necromancer moves into town and takes up collections of his own. Competition is good for business but there's just one problem - the souls are innocents - and that just wont' do.
Thrust into a partnership with Jackson Reed, the silver-tongued seller of salvation who's been on her tail and poaching her collections, Angelica has her hands full.
In order to chase down the Necro, she'll have to work with the Sin Eater who's been chasing after her for months or the Reaper may end up reaped herself....

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rachel Rawlings
• Release date: Aug 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386058540

Rachel Rawlings

Rachel Rawlings was born and raised in the Baltimore Metropolitan area. Her family, originally from Rhode Island, spent summers in New England sparking her fascination with Salem, MA. She has been writing fictional stories and poems since middle school, but it wasn't until 2009 that she found the inspiration to create her heroine Maurin Kincaide and complete her first full length novel, The Morrigna.  When she isn't writing Paranormal Romance, Psychic Romance Suspense or Urban Fantasy, Rachel can often be found with her nose buried in a good book. An avid reader of Paranormal/Urban Fantasy, Horror and Steampunk herself, Rachel founded Hallowread- an interactive convention for both authors and fans of those genres. More information on Hallowread, its schedule of events and participating authors can be found at www.hallowread.blogspot.com and www.facebook.com/Hallowread. She still lives in Maryland with her husband and three children.  Want to find out about new releases, appearances, contests and give-aways? Sign up for her newsletter-https://mailchi.mp/rachelrawlings/newsletter-sign-up-form Be sure to check out Rachel's Facebook page- www.facebook.com/rachelrawlingsauthor

Book preview

Soul To Keep

Reapers always play for keeps.

Reap what you sow. That’s been Angelica Wright’s motto since joining the Department of Soul Acquisitions as a Reaper. It’s served her well over the years, a reminder the mortals who end up in her case files sealed their fate when they signed their deal with the Devil. Reapers have one job - collecting souls - and Angelica is good at her job.

And then a necromancer moves into town and takes up collections of his own. Competition is good for any business but there’s just one problem - the souls in question are innocents and that just won’t do.

Thrust into a partnership with Jackson Reed, the silver-tongued seller of salvation who’s been on her tail and poaching her collections, Angelica has her hands full.

In order to chase down the necro, she’ll have to work with the Sin Eater who’s been chasing after her for months or the Reaper may end up Reaped herself....

Now I lay me down to sleep

Reapers always play for keeps

If I die before I wake

I pray the Reapers my soul don’t take

Chapter One

What are we doing all the way out here, Smithie? Muscles stiff after a long week of sitting in my car stakeout after stakeout, I was about to lean on the headstone to my left for support but thought better of it when I noticed the small row of stones lined up on top of the marker. Dead center, in a dead zone?

Old Saint Paul’s hadn’t seen a freshie in a long time. Too long to be of any interest to a Reaper like me, or someone like Will the Smith for that matter.

Aw, come on, Angel baby. Smithie uncrossed his long, denim-clad legs and pushed off the weather-worn family crypt he’d been using to hold himself up. You and me under the stars on this beautiful night in Baltimore. He motioned from the damp grass overgrowing the tombstones to the darkening sky in one grand, sweeping gesture. There’s no place you’d rather be. Admit it.

There were, in fact, a dozen places I’d rather be. All of them involving a caseload that grew faster than a chia pet on a windowsill.

We’re in a cemetery, and there’s not a star in sight courtesy of the Charm City smog. I pulled another piece of nicotine gum from my pocket, popping it free of its foil wrapper and into my mouth, more convinced than ever the manufacturer was in bed with the cigarette companies because it tasted like shit and I still wanted to smoke. And don’t call me Angel baby. You know I hate that. So, what are we really doing here?

Smog? I thought it was fog. Smithie’s brow furrowed for a moment as he took in the clouds overhead.

When in doubt, it’s usually smog. Those pretty pink and purple sunsets you’ve been trying to sweet-talk me into watching with you? Pollution. My gum snapped between my teeth, not as satisfying as blowing a good old-fashioned bubble with a wad of Hubba Bubba.

You’re a real killjoy, Angelica Wright. Anybody ever tell you that? He turned and headed toward the side of the cemetery abutting the local university.

I have heard that a time or two. Tired of his game already, I held my ground and refused to follow him.

Will the Smith was a legend to most, a bedtime story people used to tell their kids to scare them into leading a good life, but to a Reaper like me he was all too real.

And unfortunately, part of the job.

A blacksmith by trade in his mortal years, Will the Smith hadn’t exactly made an honest living, nor was he an exemplary specimen of mankind, but St. Peter saw fit to give him a second chance when he reached the pearly gates. True to form, he managed to squander that too and wound up in the company of the Devil himself. The single coal he carried for warmth and to lure unsuspecting men to their demise still burned in his pocket.

But Smithie kept his ear to the ground and his thumb on the pulse of the underworld. He knew when a soul was about to cross over. So, when Will the Smith called, Reapers answered.

I’ve got a lead for you. Smithie turned, arms crossed, his right boot tapping the ground as he waited for me to join him.

Here? Trying to hide my disbelief and failing miserably, I scoffed at him. There hasn’t been a lead around here in a century. Maybe two.

It ain’t in Saint Paul’s. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and used the smoldering coal to light up.

I refer back to my earlier question—what are we doing here? Without realizing it, I’d stepped closer to Smithie, breathing in the second-hand smoke. Old habits die hard, but I managed to resist the urge to bum a smoke.

I like it here. Smoke rings hovered above his head as he took another drag.

Will. The use of his given name was my first warning.

All right, all right. Smithie stubbed the cigarette out on a crumbling tombstone before flicking the butt into the grass. I heard some stories, stories about children who’ve had the blood sucked out of them.

I think you have me confused with a vampire hunter. I turned, ready to head back to my car and the stack of case files piled on the front seat. I don’t have time for horror stories, Smithie. Catch you later. Thanks for wasting my night. Muttering the last, I put three graves between us before he caught up to me.

I’m not telling stories about creatures that don’t exist. I’m talking about a fi-follet. Smithie’s meaty paw clamped down on my shoulder; the smell of burnt coal clung to him.

A fi, fo what? Shrugging his hand off my shoulder, I stopped walking and turned to face him.

I thought you were a Reaper. He chuckled, his broad shoulders shaking with amusement. A fi-follet. Seeing my confused expression, he sighed. A fi-follet, you know, a spirit sent back to do God’s penance?

Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m assigned to the other team. There’s nothing holy about the bargain my quarry strike. Pointing down toward the ground, I gave him a little wink. The souls I’m after have a one-way ticket. Straight down.

They don’t teach you guys anything, do they? A fi-follet may have been sent back on a higher purpose, but once they get here? Seems they’ve had a change of heart. Will smiled, teeth stained yellow from years of nicotine and caffeine peeked through his mustache and beard. He knew I was interested.

How do you know it’s a fi-follet and not something else? Sparing a quick glance over my shoulder to where my car and roughly twenty files waited for me, I focused my attention on Smithie and the vengeful spirit.

I needed another case like a hole in the head, but it had been so long since I had something new. Something different. My palms itched with anticipation.

They say the spirit feeds off children, drinks their blood. Know anything else that can do that? Smithie pulled another cigarette out.

Maybe it was a nicotine fit and not anticipation that had my palms itching. My pride was spared from the moment of weakness when we were interrupted.

The stories also say they’re the souls of unbaptized babies. Our uninvited guest needed no introduction.

Jackson Reed. The Sin Eater had become an unwelcome thorn in my side as of late. What are you doing here?

Following a lead. Jackson gave a wink, his blue eyes catching enough of what little light there was to sparkle.

Following me is more like it.

On the surface, Jackson had everything going for him. Dazzling blue eyes, brown hair, perfect skin and a body with just the right amount of muscle. The problems started when he opened his mouth. Arrogant and in the wrong line of work, he’d taken to upping his soul count by moving into my territory and poaching my collections.

Reapers worked for the Morningstar. Not directly of course. We were low man on the totem pole going by rank, but our services were critical to the operation. We collected souls the Morningstar, a.k.a. Dark Prince, Apollyon or the Devil, convinced some unwitting humans to barter away for a better deal than the one they’d been given by the Almighty. Sin Eaters worked the system with an entirely different barter: consuming sins for cash and offering loopholes into heaven. They liked to think they were a neutral party. The rest of us just thought they were full of shit.

Needless to say, we weren’t working on the same side, and I was tired of him being underfoot.

Just think, somewhere out there is a sin you haven’t sampled, and you’re here in a dead zone trailing after me. Making eye contact with Smithie, an unspoken agreement passed between us to pick up our conversation another time.

Smithie was even less impressed with Jackson than I was.

I’m out of here. Will the Smith trudged off toward the cemetery gate. You know where to find me. We’ll talk later.

Not many people knew how to get ahold of Smithie. Appointment requests usually came from him, and Reapers never refused. Only a handful of us knew where to find him, myself included. Never having had the need to use it, I’d filed the information away in the recesses of my brain, the details a bit fuzzy. Still, I was pretty sure I could find him when I was ready. We’d finish our little chat and I’d walk away with the information I needed to catch the fi-follet. And I would catch it.

As soon as I ditched the Sin Eater.

Do you ever stop working? Jackson hitched his backpack up on his shoulder.

Tailing me getting too tough for you? Arms crossed over my chest, hip cocked to one side, I didn’t bother to hide my annoyance with his presence.

Just an observation. Jackson pulled a small flask out of his inside coat pocket and took a swig. It’ll warm you up. He held out the flask, offering me a drink.

I’ll pass. Alcohol lowers your body temperature. Pulling a pair of fingerless gloves out of my pockets, I jammed my fingers inside and zipped my leather coat.

Temperatures in the city averaged ten degrees warmer than the outlying counties, but here in the cemetery, without the protection of high rises and standing on a damp burial ground, the chill sank all the way to your bones.

Suit yourself. Jackson tucked the flask away before flipping up the collar of his trench coat. I gotta say, I agree with Smithie. You’re a real killjoy.

My initial response came in the form of a one-fingered salute.

Reaper rules 101. There really is no rest for the wicked. Or for those who chase them. And if you want to play, you’re going to have to pay. I dug my keys out of my front jeans pocket and headed toward my car. If I was lucky, I could salvage part of my night and close a couple case files.

Something tells me I couldn’t afford to play. He smiled, and for a second, I lost myself in his handsome features, almost forgetting my desire to ditch him.

Almost.

You can’t. At least not with me. Moving a few steps closer to my car, I gave a little wave over my shoulder.

Oh, I don’t know. I might have something you need. True to form, Jackson followed me out of the cemetery. Some information on a particular vengeful spirit running loose.

You know something about the fi-follet? Cursing myself for being so quick to take the bait, I tried to feign disinterest by charging ahead. Go talk to Will the Smith. I never said I was taking the case. The wrought iron gate groaned its reluctance as I