The Reaper's Heart. Michele Hauf

Snow fell on the man’s obsidian wings, bent out behind him in wicked darkness. The wings appeared fashioned from metal, yet resembled feathers as they tested the air with a shudder, unfurling outward in an impressive span.

He rose from the squatted position in which he had landed within Ananda’s consecrated circle of ash. His broad, bare chest glistened with snowflakes as the chill hit his skin and steam rose in the wake of the melting flakes. He wore articulated silver armor, pauldrons and bracers, but only along his arms. Curious. Had he no need to protect that handsome chest?

Ananda did not step back from the imposing sight, nor did she cry out when his red eyes arrowed on her. When he spoke, a shiver trickled down her neck and coiled in her belly—in a good way.

“Why have you summoned me, witch?”

Gripping her hematite wand at her side, she stepped forward, proudly lifting her head, and declared, “I want your heart, reaper. Give it to me, and I will release you from the circle.”

The reaper’s smile touched evil even as it curved into charm.

Ananda’s heart raced—curse the thing. She’d always been prone to romanticizing every little moment, person or object. Even the curve of a man’s smile. And oh, but he was a beautiful specimen any woman would love to—

“I have reason to keep my heart,” the reaper stated with a touch of mirth.

Churlish man. Whenever she had needed a heart in the past, she had only to ask; the man would relent, and that was all the permission she required.

“You don’t need it,” she argued, because she knew he was demon. “It is adamant and unfeeling. Incapable of experiencing love. Whether or not it resides within your body, you will continue to live.”

“You’ve done your research.” He tapped the air before him, testing the circle’s magical boundaries. His fist hit upon the barrier Ananda had conjured with a sweep of her wand. “But I must keep my heart if I’m ever to know love.”

“Love? No, that’s—” The last thing Ananda wanted to hear about was love. Something she’d wanted desperately but had given up on. Thus, her need for this specific heart. “You can’t know love.”

“I could if I reaped the soul of one who has taken hundreds of hearts—a white witch’s soul.”

“But I’m…” She gasped to avoid finishing with a white witch.

“Yes, and rare. I know. I’ve done my research on you, too, Ananda.” He winked at her. Actually winked! “Because of the hearts you have taken over the years, your own has accumulated untold quantities of love. That’s why I have come to you.”

“No, you didn’t. I summoned you!”

“Right. Do you think your magical chanting got me here all on its own?” His bold laughter rippled through her chest and tickled at her foolishly tender heart. “White witches require a new heart once a year to stay alive. You’ve three days left, Ananda. The full moon is your deadline.” Moonlight glittering in his red eyes, he looked down his nose at her. “You think you can convince me to hand over my heart before I reap your soul?”

Ananda swallowed. Her fingers tightened about the wand. She hadn’t expected the reaper to be so rude and downright challenging. Though neither had she expected this would be easy. If he reaped her soul she would die. She didn’t want death; she wanted to stop feeling. Because with every heart she took upon each winter solstice, she only pined more desperately for a love of her own.

She’d tried to fall in love. It never seemed to stick when she dated men. Fickle? She was not, just…lacking somehow. Her last affair had damaged her to the very marrow.

Three days to get the man to hand over his soul? She could do that. She’d tamed rabid werewolves and brought vampires to their knees, begging for mercy. She could summon demons to her bidding and make faeries flee in fear.

This arrogant reaper was no match to her cunning magic.

The only obstacle she feared encountering was interference from her wanting heart.

“I can,” she replied boldly. “Your heart will be mine before the solstice passes, reaper.”

He cocked a grin and winked as he drew a toe across the ash circle, opening it with ease. “We’ll see about that.”

* * *

Vashon, the Reaper of Lost Souls, followed the white witch down a snowy path through a forest of white-papered birch trees. Leagues away from the nearest city, here in the peaceful woods, it felt as if he’d entered a time long forgotten. Ananda’s long red skirts billowed over the snow, and her unbound hair fluttered and danced with snowflakes.

A pretty woman. With dark intentions.

She wanted his heart? He preferred to keep hold of that hard, non-beating organ. It was necessary to his goal. If he could reap the white witch’s soul, then his heart would turn soft and begin to beat, and he could then finally know love.

Love was the ultimate emotion. It must be, for humans lived and died in the name of it. They bonded for life because of it. Some committed grave crimes for it. And it had coaxed a human woman to have a demon’s child.

His mother had loved the demon Pernicore, and Vashon would never forget her tales of true love. Or her love for him—she’d often sweep his bangs aside, kiss him on the forehead and say, “I am part of you.”

He’d never been able to understand what she meant. He had the stone heart of a demon, yet he pined for the elusive emotion. Reaping day in and day out—while that was his job—left him with an ache in his core. For his mother’s sake, and for himself, Vashon wanted love.

“Why are you following me?” the witch called. The skitter of ice crystals across the snowy ground tinkled in harmony to her dulcet voice.

“I’ve set aside my duties for three days. If there’s a lost soul in the vicinity, another reaper will tend it. That allows me the freedom to stay with you.”

He didn’t say “and wait for your death.” Wisely, he thought.

“You’re not invited.”

“Difficult for you to convince me to hand over my heart if I’m not around to listen to your coaxing, eh?”

She huffed and marched onward toward a pink cottage that stood out on the white-on-white landscape. Her tight little fists beat the air furiously.

Vashon chuckled. Just because he did not know love didn’t mean he wasn’t familiar

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