The Keeper of Night (The Keeper of Night #1)(15)

“He knows nothing,” Cromwell said. “We are wasting time here while the Shinigami gets away. Send him back.”

The High Reaper guarding Gray scowled but bent down and unlocked the shackles from around his ankles and then his wrists. Gray fell forward, groaning as his bones collided with the marble floors. Before Cromwell could issue another order, he lurched to his feet and limped from the room, shoving past the High Reapers, who watched him with mild pity as he burst through the door and disappeared into the dark hallways.

“It’s time to take more drastic measures,” Cromwell said, turning to the court aid, who brought forward a massive leather-bound book embossed with gold. He dropped it heavily on Cromwell’s desk, then bowed deeply and backed away.

I had seen this book only once before, on my hundredth birthday, when I’d signed my name on its infinite pages and received my clock. This was Ankou’s register, the book that all new Reapers had to sign to enter into a contract with him.

Death, which made us and guided us, was volatile and ever-hungry. Creatures born of Death could either serve it or be devoured by it. By signing our names in Ankou’s book and beginning our Reaper duties, we agreed to do the work Death asked of us in exchange for its guidance, a long life, and more strength than humans could ever dream of. It was like when humans fed fires in their hearths, keeping them burning for the warmth and light they provided. But fire stayed trapped in a hearth only if it wanted to, if there was nothing else nearby to devour. Fire had no shape or limit, could swallow cities whole if no one stopped it. Death was as endless as fire, and we carried it inside of us. The contract was our agreement with Ankou that kept it contained.

As Cromwell turned the pages, I peered around the bars of the grate and read the names scratched into the ancient surface with deep indigo ink.

Beowulf Hale
Everleigh Lancaster
Synne Churchill
Wren Scarborough
The High Councilor dipped his quill into a well of viscous black ink, then slashed a clean line through my name. I held my breath as the letters began to fade from dark blue to a pale gray, then disappeared into the paper. What would happen now that I was untethered? Would the spirit of Ankou descend and point the Council to my hiding place? Or would great invisible hands drag me to Ankou himself to be torn apart with his scythe?

“There,” Cromwell said. “She has no contract with us now. Death will find her.”

I frowned and looked at Neven, but he still hadn’t opened his eyes. What could Cromwell possibly mean? Death didn’t need to find me because it was always there, in my blood and bones. I was made of Death.

“And the boy?” said another councilor.

“He’ll return,” Ambrose said.

“And when we find the girl,” the High Councilor said, turning sharply to Ambrose, “you will take her to Ankou yourself.”

Ambrose placed his hand over his heart, bowed in Cromwell’s direction, and then promised in the language of Death:

“Yes, Reaper.”



Chapter Four


We made it to the surface just before daylight broke over the cemetery. The rabbits and birds had gone into hiding and the snowstorm held its breath, as if even the snowflakes were too scared to fall down to earth in this dark hour.

I replaced the grate and bricks from the mouth of the tunnel, sealing away the yawning chasm that led back to Death’s home. We were far enough from the Door that Reapers probably wouldn’t be lurking around here, but I didn’t want to stay long enough to find out. Neven scooped up Oliver and tucked him into his coat, then stared out at the blaze of new sunlight filtering through the fingerlike branches of the trees, his expression pale.

“Don’t think about him,” I said, because it was too easy to read Neven’s face.

“But Gray—”

“There was nothing you could have done,” I said. “If you’d tried to stop them, we all would have died.”

Neven’s eyes looked wet, but he nodded and turned away. I wished I could take all of his guilt for myself. Unlike Neven, I was good at tucking it away somewhere deep inside myself and pretending it wasn’t there, at least until I fell asleep and my dreams reminded me of the long list of things I would one day have to atone for.

As I set the last brick in place and picked up my suitcase, something black flashed along the tree line.

A church grim was watching us.

From a distance, it could be mistaken for a black dog, but the closer you looked, the more contorted it became—the black fur that seemed soft from a distance grew needle-sharp, the golden eyes turned sickly yellow, and the hunched legs resembled the muscled calves of a human.

A warning growl hummed through the grim’s body, cracking the thin sheet of ice below us and rippling the dead winter grass.

Church grims were meant to protect the parishioners of London, which was all well and fine, except they saw Reapers as the greatest threat of all. Never mind that death was necessary and technically not our doing; they tried to destroy us all the same.

The grim turned and vanished into the twilight.

“Have your clock ready,” I said. “He’ll be back.”

Neven fished his clock out of his pocket, the jostling causing Oliver to squirm with disapproval. He clenched his clock in a tight fist, ready to stop time if the grim jumped out of the shadows.

We followed the footpath to the main gates, past headstones shaped like Celtic crosses and concrete angels gazing forlornly at the earth. I had never walked through the cemetery in the soft light of daybreak before, when I could clearly see the stony eyes of the frozen angels and the names of the souls I’d taken carved forever into marble—a glaring accusation that night had always blurred away.