Wielding His Scythe

By Alledria Hurt

Becoming Death's Replacement isn't easy.

Melina Camp never expected to be wearing the ring of Death, but with the sudden disappearance of her mentor the Immortal Death, she now has his powers and his responsibilities. Add to that a stranger whose future is wrapped up in hers and a fight that has yet to end and she's in for a hell of a ride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alledria Hurt
• Release date: Jun 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463147887

Alledria Hurt

Born in Waynesboro, Pennsylvania, Alledria Hurt has traveled Europe and the United States. She received her Bachelor of Arts degree in English Literature and her Master of Arts in Liberal and Professional Studies degree from Armstrong Atlantic State University. When she’s not writing, she prefers video games, reading, and long walks with her dog, Xerxes. She currently lives in Savannah, GA with her family.

Book preview

WIELDING HIS SCYTHE

Alledria Hurt

Smashwords Edition.

Copyright 2019 Alledria Hurt

All Rights Reserved

ISBN-13:

Table of Contents

The Man Called Grimm Disappears

Bearer of the Ring of Love

Back to School

The Sisters and Cassandra

Lester’s New Life

Where There is Smoke and Fire

The Man Called Grimm is Lost

The Sisters Evil

Christina Tries to Steal the Ring

Brewing Trouble

Sleepover

Crossing the Sea

Phoebe’s Lament

The Storm at Sea and the Leviathan

Ring of Life

The Belly of the Beast

On the Island

Returning Home

Other Books by Alledria Hurt

Contact Me!

The Man Called Grimm Disappears.

The clock was striking 2 am when Grimm's phone began to ring. He rolled over sleepily and picked up the object before sliding out of bed. Phoebe murmured and turned, but didn't rise. The front porch was chilly when he stepped out, but he already knew he couldn't take this call in the house.

What do you want?

Hello would have been too friendly. Instead, he settled for slightly demanding on the edge of petulant at the interruption. The voice which responded was cold like the late night air.

You owe us.

I don't owe you anything else, he responded immediately. His voice rose for a moment. He looked back at the house, none of the windows were lit on the first floor, everyone had already gone to bed. At least so it seemed. I have given you everything you asked. The Book of Curses I traded for was the last thing.

It's only the last thing when we say its the last thing, Grimm, dear, she purred. So you are going to come meet us and we'll talk about maybe letting you out of your debt. Maybe.

Maybe. His whole world hinged on one word. Taking a deep breath, he let it out as smoke and tried not to imagine his life, his family, everything he had never known and truly cared about, going up in a cloud of nearly colorless smoke.

When?

Tomorrow evening at the Mausoleum, bring what you know we want.

Sunset found Grimm leaning against the wall of a crumbling mausoleum, looking at the yellowed and sparsely growing grass around the edge. The gray cement wept white from the years of rain and grew green from the moss attaching. Grimm had chosen not to rub up against the moss. He'd probably still find some of it on his jacket after this.

He'd slipped out of the house just after lunch, knowing it left him with plenty of time to make it to the cemetery. Mostly he just didn't want to have to explain to either Melina or Phoebe where he was going. If they asked, he wasn't sure he would have the strength to lie. His arrival before sunset gave him time to look around. A scan of the immediate area told him they weren't there yet. That was a blessing. He wasn't quite ready to face them.

In the seat next to him was a package, the brown wrapped piece of the Kumon he and Melina had liberated from the strange temple in the book the Melesan had shown them. Perhaps they never would have been able to get that if the pair of them hadn't gone there and gotten it. Maybe the twins would have still been looking for it. Picking up the package, he stepped out of the car and found himself a place to wait. They would be along soon enough. Far, far sooner than he truly wanted to deal with them.

As he stood waiting, a veil of sweat beading on his forehead, Grimm opened the package. The pages were luminescent with a soft purple glow and felt like safety under his hands. The pages weren't attached to one another, but simply all held together by the package wrapping. Selecting a page from near the center, he folded it up and put it in the pocket of his jacket. Treachery was no new companion, no reason to behave as if he didn't already have some idea of the score.

The sun was gone from the sky when they finally appeared, the two of them together in the twilight, she fire made flesh and him nothing more than smoke.

At least we know you can still follow directions. Cassandra moved close enough to touch and smiled, her fingers moving to caress the collar of Grimm's jacket. He flinched back, all too aware of the closeness of the mausoleum wall.

I don't owe you anything further. We did business. Our business is long since concluded.

The smoke of Canenda, the silent partner, took on the odor of corpses as the suggestion of a face contorted with a frown.

You're right, we did business, Cassandra mocked. However, our business is certainly not concluded. She pulled back and turned toward her other. His face had returned to its unmarked state. She continued. Who's the brat holding Death's ring?

Brat? Grimm's heart fluttered a little in his chest, threatening to cut off the words.

Yeah, the girl. She's still alive. The ring won't come off.

Melina Camp. She's Death's protégé. That's probably why the ring doesn't want to leave her. It knows her.

Canenda's comment was the slow hiss of escaping vapor.I know he's not telling us everything. There's something else about the girl, and that woman, he's not saying.

What chance have I got of keeping something from you at this point? You've got me by the balls. What do they even matter?

They matter to you. Therefore, they are of interest to us. After all, wouldn't want you to forget where your real loyalty lies, now would we? Besides, Cassandra said as she turned to her brother, turning her back on Grimm. That brat still has the ring.

A wind began to rise, a low moan through the tombstones seemingly in response to way Grimm's heart settled low in his stomach. When Cassandra turned to him again, he stood up straighter, keeping eye contact.

Did you bring us what we asked for, the woman purred.

Yes.

He brought the packet out of his jacket all too aware of the single folded sheet he held back and how sweaty his palms were. Cassandra snatched it from him and held it to her chest as if he would come to take it back.

Good, good, she crowed. Canenda echoed her sentiment in the movement of the smoke making up his face. A suggestion of a cruel smile slipped forward then away. Are you sure you don't want to tell us about the girl? Or her Mother?

Why would I have anything to say about them? You know everything that's important.

You're lying to me, Grimm, and I'm not appreciating it. With a breath, she ignited the air before her face throwing sinister shadows along the bones of her face. Her beauty transformed into something terrible when the only thing he could see were her eyes amongst those moving shadows. Tell the truth now and perhaps things won't go so poorly for you.

I don't have anything further to tell and you've got your damn book. Business over.

The woman grabbed him by his collar. He leaned back hard, his head contacting the concrete of the mausoleum. Her fingers in the fabric felt unnaturally warm, like coals shaped into a hand covered by only the thinnest of cloth. Was his skin starting to burn underneath, he wondered.

You do not get to decide when our business is concluded.

The slow burn of her temper flared up into something like a wildfire, consuming her face starting from her lips and crawling into her hair. Her voice rose and Grimm struggled not to choke on the smoke now coming from between her lips. In her anger, Cassandra was much more like her brother; smoky and noxious. And where was the other? Standing quietly by as his sister attempted to choke Grimm to death on her breath. Roses appeared in his vision, first the color of wine, then black as they swallowed more and more of what he could see. In a fit of coughing desperation, he whispered,

Fire.

His hands lit and he grabbed her wrist, twisting hard. Something beneath her eldritch skin gave way and Cassandra screamed. Still trying to catch his breath, Grimm stumbled away. Only to find himself at the feet of Canenda who looked far less than pleased at Grimm's treatment of his sister.

I should kill you, she sneered.

Trapped between smoke and fire. Grimm turned around once, then again, and finally shook his head.

Just let me go, please. I've done everything you asked.

But we're not done with you yet.

Cassandra started to chant and Grimm stared, disbelieving. Mortal magic. She was using mortal magic. Unthinking, he ran, dodging to one side of Canenda and under a spectral air before he reached open ground. Cassandra didn't move but her voice followed him, slipping in his ears. The graveyard fence was within reach when Grimm collapsed, a deafening ringing in his ears. His shoes dug troughs in the soft ground as he curled into a ball, his hands over his ears, face in the dirt.

Canenda smelled of wood smoke when he breathed out over Grimm's head though the man below could smell none of it. The smoke man looked to his sibling and shook his head.

I know. I know. Should have killed him, but you never know when he might be of some use to us even in his current state.

The woman reached down and tugged on Grimm's hair, dragging his face up to see his blasted empty eyes. When she dropped him, his head thudded against the hard ground. When you wake up, you'll disappear. Just like you always do. She stepped across him and kicked dirt back on him as she did. Canenda watched her and then moved to pick him up.

Leave him. He'll be fine and whomever finds him will get a nice little surprise. At a slow saunter, she moved toward the front gate of the cemetery. Both she and her brother faded into the coming night before they reached the high iron arch.

Bearer of the Ring of Love

Mother Skya brushed long silver strands away from her red face. It had been a long day full of the smell of bread and the mending of broken hearts. Her bakery was a tiny place, the kind of place the locals knew that never made it on those shows meant to help tourists figure out what they wanted to do in any particular town. Off the main road by a street or two, she had the usual items: croissants, bagels, and cookies, but that wasn't what she was known for. Mother Skya, her first name long since forgotten by those who lived nearby seeing as she had been there longer than any of them. In fact, she had silver hair already by the time any of those currently living there had been in short pants. Now, she was simply Mother Skya or Mother to those who needed her help. She lived above the bakery so that her house and her always smelled of flour and herbs. When she hung out her sign at dawn, she still used a metal and wood sign which she took down each evening when she closed her formal business and went up the stairs. However, Mother Skya, known as she was for her baked goods was also known for one other very important thing: she could match make like no one's business.

She counseled those whose hearts were failing them. The ones who were turning their eyes from hope and giving up on the idea of a connection with another. They came to her, often skeptical, on the advice of a friend of friend, someone who had gone to see the Mother themselves and wound up in the grandest love affair of their lives.

Twilight was falling across the floor of her living room, leaving strange shadows behind the bodies of the little china animals decorating her coffee table, when her door sounded with that hollow sound of a visitor who had braved old metal stairs to reach it. She levered herself up from the chair and called out.

Just a moment.

Thank you, said the visitor. When she opened the door, a young man stood outside, his coat pulled close to his body and a shiver under his skin. He looked as though he had spent his day wrestling with his conscience and had come out with only a draw. He ran his fingers through his hair and tried to see everything about her at in one long glance. Mother Skya smiled and shook her head.

Come in.

Why he was there was too obvious for words. He followed her into the living room where she beckoned him to have a seat on the far side of the coffee table. The chair he settled into puffed a cloud of flour and cinnamon into the air around him. He smiled and said,

Sorry.

No use in being sorry about something you can't control. What's her name? Mother Skya sat down in her chair again and turned the television off completely. Jeopardy would simply have to wait for another night. A night when more urgent things weren't happening. She didn't offer him coffee or tea. She had neither in the house at the moment. Shopping was a question for tomorrow when the shop below was closed for the day.

Michelle, he said quietly eyes finding one of the figures on the table to stare at. It was easier than looking at this woman who had every reputation of being a witch. Yet as he sat in her living room, he couldn't think of her as a witch. Instead, she was just an old woman with an old woman house who seemed to understand in a way he didn't understand himself. I think I love her. I don't know if she loves me back.

How long have you waited to tell her?

A year.

Why?

She's perfect.

All lovers say things like that, Mother Sky chided him lightly. Once upon a time someone said that about Helen of Troy and the goddess Aphrodite, and yet they were loved by men. Perfection is no bar for love.

The Mother turned a ring on her hand and rose from her seat to take his face in her hands and look into his eyes. He shrank back and then caught in her gaze relaxed. As she looked into him, she saw the threads. They were some thin, nothing more than suggestions, others were like ropes, nearly chains holding him to someone else. Mother Skya followed each in his soul, seeing the people responsible for creating them. His parents, both of them still alive, reclined quietly on a porch somewhere the sun had yet to set. A woman who shared a familial resemblance played on the floor with a little girl who also looked as though she were family. A sister perhaps. Then there was the woman who had the brightest thread, it glittered with emotion suppressed. This woman was surrounded with light as she moved