Chapter 9 · The Last Reaping

The reaping mark burned on Aiden's wrist the second Leah walked into the shop.

He was elbow-deep in espresso grounds, cleaning the grinder before close. Two a.m. The kind of hour where the living went home and the dead came out to gossip. Ink was perched on the back counter, beak-deep in a croissant he'd stolen from the display case. Again.

"We're closed," Aiden said without looking up.

"No you're not." Leah's voice cut through the hum of the refrigerator. "Your sign says twenty-four hours."

He kept scrubbing. "I lied."

"You're good at that."

Aiden's hands stilled. He turned.

Leah stood in the doorway, and for half a second he saw her mother. Same bone structure. Same way of holding her chin up like she was daring the world to take a swing. The reaping mark on his wrist flared hot—the old one, the one that shouldn't exist anymore. Three hundred years and it still remembered.

"What do you want, Leah."

She stepped inside and locked the door behind her. Click. The sound echoed.

"I want to know why you killed my mother."

Ink stopped chewing. The croissant fell from his beak and hit the floor.