Reaper's Novice (Soul Collector #1) (9 page)

***

After school, Lea, Reiner, and I stroll out of the school gates. We part ways as Lea and Reiner cross the street to Reiner’s murky green Vespa— an instrument of death. With a wave from Lea, I watch, shuddering as he pulls away from the curb and speeds down the street. I wouldn’t be caught sitting on
that.

I turn around and start walking towards the tram stop, then pause mid-step. Rolf stands a few feet away, his hands tucked deep inside his pockets, watching me. My pulse picks up a beat. My eyes rove over his face to his toned stomach and chest hidden beneath the tight navy blue T-shirt, down his long jean-clad legs to his booted feet, and back to his face. Other than the haunted look in his eyes, he looks fine. More than fine, actually.

I breathe out, my heart propelling me forwards but my mind restraining my arms. “Rolf, are you okay? I was worried. You weren’t in class, and I thought something happened or you were sick or… something in that direction.” I mumble the last words in a weak voice. What’s wrong with me?

He closes the twenty centimetres of space between us, and suddenly I’m staring at his chest. His scent—sandalwood and all Rolf—hugs me, but at the same time slams into me, leaving me drunk and giddy. My toes curl in my shoes. “I had some errands to run,” he says.

Errands? The frequency of those errands is rapidly rising. Just last month he’d been gone about five times, and the month before as well. I know it’s not my business, but still, errands? I’m curious.

He slides his right hand from his pocket, runs it through his hair, and settles it on his neck, rubbing it. “Listen, can we go somewhere and talk?” His throat moves up and down as he swallows. His eyes flit from my violin then back to mine. “You have your teaching class today. I could drop you.”

I nod. There’s no time like the present. Besides, carrying all that resentment the whole day was so exhausting. I need to let it out. Let everything out. Or I’ll drive myself crazy. “All right.”

He extends his hand towards my violin. “May I?” I relinquish it to him. “My car’s this way.” As soon as his hand comes in contact with the small of my back, shivers connected like an intricately designed web race all over my body. Even through the light cotton blouse, I feel his fingers as though nothing separates his skin from mine, and I find myself leaning into his touch. As if he can sense my reaction, his hand lifts an inch off my back and his fingertips trace circles on my back, searing yet chilling.
Pure bliss
. I try my best to keep walking straight as he herds me down the street, past a Chinese restaurant. He turns right to where his Peugeot RC Hybrid waits in all its sleekness and silver glory.

Once he makes sure I’m comfortably seated, he rounds the car, slides into the driver’s seat, and straps himself as well.

After a few minutes of driving in silence with a weird kind of tension choking the air, he clears his throat. “You have a right to be mad at me. I’m mad at myself for hurting you, and I wish I could take those words back.” He keeps his hands gripped on the steering wheel.

I study my hands, my fingers “I can’t make you trust me if you’re not ready to, Ro. I can’t tiptoe around half-expecting you to be mad because someone spoke to me.” I pause, curl my hands into fists, lean my head back on the headrest, and look at him. “What you said hurt.”

“I’m so sorry,” he says softly. “I need to sleep tonight knowing you’ve forgiven me,
Engel
.”

We drive in silence. It feels as if we’ve been driving for ages when he veers off the main road. Gravel crunches as he slows down, turns right, and parks the car in a small deserted parking lot.

“I’ll be right back.” He smiles and exits the car. I check the time on the dashboard. Twenty minutes to four.

I glance out the window at the wide stretch of flat green land with rows and rows of low growth and the occasional house in the distance. Rolf must’ve taken the longer route from the school, but why?

Moments later he slips back inside the car. I turn and squeal—literally—when I see the bouquet of dark red tulips.
Dark red, fresh tulips.
The shade of my favourite lipstick.

I peek over his shoulder. A white sign at a flower garden’s entrance swings lazily. Beyond that are rows of tulips.

Without a word, he hands them to me.

“You’re spoiling me, Ro. Thank you.” I hold them gingerly in my hands. Quickly I angle my head away from him and look out my window. I blink several times to clear my sight and smile at the same time.

“Spoiling you is my hobby,” Rolf says in his usual quiet but deep voice. He sounds so serious. He runs his fingers up and down my arm, then squeezes my hand. “Ana.”

I turn to face him, watching as his hand traces the tattoo daisy chains along my wrist, a frown on his face. He’s never seen the scars. The thought of his face clouding with confusion or an emotion entirely different isn’t one I’m ready to see. Maybe one day I’ll reveal them to him. In the meantime…

His eyes track his fingers closely and intensely as they trace my arm, as they skim my jaw line, and finally they focus on my lips. My breath catches in my throat. “I am sorry.” His hands fall away and leave me feeling bare, out of breath, and wanting. More than anything, I want to throw myself in his lap, forget the event that caused this weirdness between us, and just make out. .

I have kids waiting for me and a concert to prepare for.

Exactly five minutes later, he drops me at the school’s entrance on the third district a few blocks from the Landstrasse U-Bahn and leaves. Without a kiss. I’ll strangle him for that.

As soon as I’ve emerged from my cloud of lust, I walk inside the auditorium on wobbly knees, swerve around, and groan. I have my violin but not my tulips. I must have left them on the dashboard or my seat.

I smile. I just might get my kiss after all.

R
IGHT AFTER MY TEACHING CLASS,
I step away from the escalator at the underground train U1 in the Schwedenplatz U-Bahn station. The time display indicates two minutes until the next train arrives. Two minutes consuming the stale air drenched in oil, perfume on sweaty bodies, and pizza someone’s lugging inside a paper bag. Aiming for my favourite lean-on white pillar, I skirt the crowd and plant myself beside it. The underground commuters are a strange bunch of people. Like now, most heads are tilted to the two information screens that display all kinds of news: events in Vienna, international news, advertisements, weather. If the eyes aren’t mesmerized by the screen, they skitter from one commuter to the other with usual polite disinterest. No one looks or talks to the other. Unless they know each other.

I tune out the sound of the departing train on the opposite track, the donkey laugh from a man in front of me, and the rustle of newspaper from the midget dressed in a dark suit really close by.

The class went well, if the excited kids’ chatter is any indication. It ended quite well, too: a hug from Dominik and his twin sister Aggie, two of the most hyperactive of the group, but also the sharpest. Constantly arguing who will do what better. Dominik plays the drums and Aggie the keyboard. Lovely, exhausting, talented bunch of ten, eleven, and twelve-year-olds. I’m looking forward to the concert in two weeks, and so are the kids. According to the school’s principal, the parents would like to retain me for the next term’s lessons.

I pull my mobile from the back pocket of my jeans and text Lea to let her know I’ll meet her in their restaurant in the second district in ten minutes. Then I tuck it back and wait for her reply. I adjust my rucksack straps and shift my violin on the other hand and look around.

My gaze clashes with the tiny man dressed in a dark suit and white shirt. When he realises my eyes are on him, his lips stretch slowly. Why is he smiling at me? U-Bahn commuters don’t smile at other people without a reason. His smile widens, displaying shark-like teeth. His face scrunches up, and his dark eyes glitter like a snake’s.

I swallow, turning away, my heart thudding in my chest. When I lift my head again, Shark Teeth is still grinning at me, getting creepier by the second. The commuters go about their usual business: talking on telephones, reading newspapers or a book, slouching on walls, or completely ignoring one another.

Shuddering, I wipe my hands on my jeans. My mind is exhausted after missing so many hours of sleep while soul collecting. Yes, that’s it.

Something flutters at the corner of my eyes. Morbid curiosity propels my body around. I blink, then blink again. Yep. Tired is the word. My brain is messing with my eyesight. If it’s not, what would someone be doing swaggering along the train rails a minute before the train’s arrival?

Blond hair tied back in a ponytail, giving a full view of his side profile, all sharp angles and curves. He’s tall with wide shoulders. He is beautiful as sin, beautiful in the most unfair way that life just thrusts in your face. Is he insane? My eyes dart to the time display. Gone is the time, replaced by a star indicating the train is close. Surely he must be mad. Or drunk. Like the commuter a few months back who had climbed down the platform, and for some reason lay on the tracks. Luckily someone pulled the emergency lever and the train was delayed until the station security arrived and hauled him out.

Maybe this one is just like him and needs help.

Abruptly, he extends his arms to his sides. His body sways from side to side as he places one foot in front of the other, terrifyingly and confidently resembling a tightrope walker. Then, he lifts his head, tilting it to the side. His gaze rakes the crowd as if he has all the time in the world, and when they focus on me, I jerk back, knocked by the pure force in them.

He’s staring straight at me. Eyes as blue as the summer sky, straight nose, perfectly carved by the very hand of God, or Satan given that maddening gleam in his eyes and wide devilish grin directed at me. Why can’t anyone else see him?

By the way he’s smiling—
at me
—like he just won the lottery, he’s a special brand of crazy.

A breeze drifts from the tunnel and lifts strands of his hair, creating a halo-like effect. From a distance, the low rumble of the coming train moves closer. The squeal of steel wheels on steel rails punctures the air.

Hell’s crap! The guy’s still walking on the rails, and the train is coming. Twisting to the side, I manoeuvre my way towards the red emergency lever, but the heaving bodies eager to get on the train block my way.

Stupid crazy. Damn fool.

The gust of air that precedes an oncoming underground train rushes at our faces, moaning as if to welcome the precious life it’s about to embrace. I can see the lever from here. Just a few more steps. I duck under an outstretched arm. It feels like ages before I reach the red lever. Before my fingertips touch it, the train zooms past me, past the commuters, and right through the blond guy.

No!

I slap a hand on my mouth and slam back the scream inside my throat. There’s a roaring in my ears, and in my chest my heart twists.

Why wasn’t I fast enough? Why couldn’t I save him? Am I meant to witness people die all my life?

No one seems to notice the train ran a someone over.

Leaning back on the wall, I slide to the grimy ground, pull my knees up, and drop my head. What’s happening to me? Was the guy even real?

Someone touches my arm. Startled, my head swings up, and I lock eyes with Shark Teeth. The smile is gone, not that it makes him look any prettier up-close. Quickly, I scoot away and leap to my feet. I bite a groan as my rucksack bangs painfully on my lower back. I blink several times to clear my blurred vision while edging away from him.

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” I ask in a high-pitched voice I barely recognise as my own. The backs of my knees hit the bench and I stumble onto it, landing on my butt.

“You are the one. His mark is all over you.” His eyes light up with excitement—or mad glee; I can’t tell. His tiny chest rises and falls in sync with his breathing.

“Whoever you think I am, I-I’m not. I’m just…” My body recoils, and I shoot to my feet as he slinks closer. I get a clear view of his skin: crisscrossed unevenly in fine dark lines to form uneven squares. I squeeze my eyes shut. The image flashes behind my eyelids. Useless effort. My eyes flip open. He’s still there, eyes eerily curious. He takes a tentative step towards me. “Leave me alone!”

He stops, wringing his hands frantically, a look of confusion on his face. He bows so low his forehead touches his knees; then he straightens to his full height of four feet. “Forgive me, my lady. I thought I’d introduce my humble self to Ernest’s new protégée. But I seem to have frightened you. Ernest doesn’t need to know about this.” Now his eyes plead with me.

I nod my head quickly.
Just go. Please, leave me alone.

He bows again, then backs away from me, bowing all the way to the bottom of the escalators where he halts. Eyes still on mine, he twists his torso from the waist up, brings one shoulder forwards and the other back, arms spread elegantly in ballet pose.