Harpers rage extinguished the elation she might have felt at taking to the sky in full flight for the first time. She had known for a while that she could fly if she really meant to, so she wasn't at all surprised.
She had one mission, get to Vermont, find the Consignor Nicholas had uncovered, and make him talk.
She thought about Nicholas, then thought better of it, she didn't need the distraction. Maisie wouldn't leave him. They'd both be alright.
She flew well above the clouds to avoid detection from eyes on the ground. She noticed her body temperature rose the higher she soared. Her eyesight sharpened to match her needs, adjusting so she could see through the thick veil of clouds. She knew this wasn't just a quirk of flight—it was something more. She could now see through matter at will.
Recalling the address and description Nicholas had pulled from her parents' memories, she veered east and increased her speed. The sheer velocity shocked her—but she was too furious to practice the virtue of cautionary flight.
Suddenly, something sharp slashed her face and crashed into her shoulder. She yelped, spinning midair to spot a raven spiraling, its feathers in chaos, struggling to reestablish its glide. A migrating flight. She surged higher to avoid further collisions, her body suddenly glowing green.
She grew concerned, realizing that it could expose her to aircraft and radar detectors. She took deep breaths trying to reestablish the normal color tone of her skin, to no avail. Then she knew it was her body heating up, adjusting to the cold of a higher altitude, she would have to fly lower, both carried risk of detection and through the clouds, there was the existential threat of being pilloried by migrating birds. She maintained her altitude. She trusted the government to scream hoax if anyone made a fuss. It wouldn't be the first time.
Now, she hovered a thousand feet above the Consignor's house—a stately triplex on two acres in a quiet corner of South Burlington. Zooming her vision in, she scanned the compound. It looked empty, save for a pair of Rottweilers caged in a kennel tucked in the south garden.
Maisie's warning about the Consignors fanaticism toward the GrandKeeper echoed in her mind. Harper swept her gaze inside the house. She sensed a strong, unique supernatural presence. Not new exactly—but uncommon. She spotted the Consignor: a portly log of a man sitting by a fire in his bedroom, flipping through papers.
It was time to land.
She scanned the nearby streets, alleys, rooftops. Then scanned again. Satisfied, she began her descent.
Flying low over the Rottweilers' kennel, she placed a hand on its roof and muttered an incantation, easing the dogs into a deep, spellbound slumber. She touched down in the courtyard and decided would first investigate the strange signature she'd sensed.
She waved a lazy hand at the lock on the back door. It clicked open. She slipped inside quietly, into the kitchen. The signature grew stronger—tenfold—as she stepped in. It was coming from below.
The basement.
She followed the pull toward a door leading to a flight of stairs. A sharp wave of anxiety struck her as it creaked open. Every fiber of her being screamed for her to turn back. She ignored it.
Moving carefully down the steps, she squinted into the pitch-dark room, trying to pick out shapes or figures. The stairs creaked creepily and the metallic tang that hung in the air became almost nauseating as she descended.
The second her foot landed at the bottom, she heard a crack—and screamed, blinding pain around her lower calf, she looked in horror to find that she had been caught in a beartrap, her jeans bloodied and ripped at the site of its grip. Panicking, and in the throes of pain, she didn't hear the reaper's footsteps behind her until the bludgeon cracked across her skull, leaving her unconscious.
''Now, tie her up with the special rope,'' another reaper said. ''Hurry up, Consignor Bartholomew will be down soon.''
Harper came to in a chair, arms and one leg bound tightly. The beartrap still clutched her mangled calf. Its teeth bit into shattered bone. She struggled—the knots tightened. Spelled.
So was the beartrap. It was draining her blood, slowly.
A bronze bowl hung from a beam just above her, suspended on a golden chain that sparkled mockingly in the dim light. Red mist slithered from the bowl, dazing her with every breath. She fought to hold hers in, willing herself not to panic. Breathing deeper meant inhaling more of the fumes.
An image of her daughter flashed in her mind. She held on to it. To strengthen her will.
''You people are animals.'' Harper croaked.
''Says the one caught in a beartrap.'' said Consignor Bartholomew, to a chorus of laughter from the Reapers.
''Show yourself, coward. Or does a badly wounded and tied-up woman frighten you?''
''Woman, she says.'' chuckled an effete voice chuckled from the shadows. ''They all want to grow up so fast. Foolishness—coming to a Consignor's stronghold unaccompanied."
''The way this ends is with you begging me to kill you.'' Harper said, with confident certainty.
The Consignor smiled—diabolically. Eyes locked to hers.
''You spotters are exquisitely easy to bait, easily attracted to like raw energy, you're not a woman, child. You are a little girl. And tonight, we'll learn more about exactly what else you are.''
The Reapers cheered, vile.
''Why don't you come where this little girl can get a proper look at your face then. Don't be shy, I doubt your face will be as ugly as your bleating voice.''
A wicked cackle echoed through the chamber.
"We're clearly in for a fun night, my acolytes."
More Reaper cheering.
Harper heard footsteps slowly approach her from behind. Then felt a hand on her left shoulder.
''We've been expecting you, but I am surprised not to see your demon paramour with you, more surprised that he would leave you to come here all on your own, unless of course, he doesn't yet know you're here. No matter, I am certain he'll figure that out sooner rather than later, then we can truly begin the nights festivities.''
He stepped into the light.
His face was round, with a pointed forehead. His eyes, sunken deep beneath his brow, glittered with a sadistic hunger that made Harper's stomach turn.
"Welcome to your rebirth, Miss Winslow. Let's see what bleeds out first—your power, or your pride."