Free The Golden Age of Death (A CALLIOPE REAPER-JONES NOVEL) by Amber Benson Page A

palm tree, so I’m just gonna have to believe you on that one.”
    I blocked his next attack with my scythe handle, his diamond blade skittering off it—and that’s when I saw my opening: Marcel’s forward momentum had left his lower extremities totally vulnerable. I didn’t hesitate to take my shot. I struck out at him with my left knee, catching him right in the balls. I heard a guttural
croak
come from deep inside of him, and then he dropped to the ground, a look of unimaginable pain washing across his face. I slid the edge of my scythe under his chin,pressing the sharp part of the diamond blade into his throat, drawing a necklet of blood just above his Adam’s apple.
    He stared up at me, eyes bloodshot—and I thought I saw a spark of amusement in his gaze.
    “Stop!” I heard someone shout behind me.
    I turned in the direction the voice had come from, still careful to keep my blade firmly pressed against Marcel’s throat.
    “Do not kill him, Mistress Death!”
    It was Marcel’s second, running across the ice toward us. Not one to be left out of the action, Jarvis was jogging back to us from the opposite direction. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he must be worried this was some kind of ploy to distract me and give Marcel the upper hand.
    “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill him,” I yelled back at Marcel’s second, whose identity was still obscured by the parka. “Give me one good reason!”
    “Because your very existence might ride on this man’s life,” the second said as she threw back the hood of her parka.
    I gasped, shock filling my gut as I realized Marcel’s second was none other than Anjea, the Vice-President in Charge of Death for the Australian Continent—and an employee of Death, Inc.
    My
employee.
    “Anjea? What is the meaning of this?” Jarvis cried as he reached us, his own shock as palpable as mine. He put a protective hand on my shoulder, but did nothing to encourage me to release Marcel.
    “Jarvis De Poupsey,” Anjea said, nodding her head at Jarvis, her long, unkempt hair bouncing in approval. “You have the voice of reason within you. You will understand.”
    She was a commanding presence, though her papery mocha complexion and thick Aboriginal features looked bizarre set against the icy backdrop of the Antarctic tundra. The tiny brown owlet on her shoulder, her familiar, I supposed you called it, nuzzled against her neck.
    “I shall try to understand,” Jarvis said, but he looked uncertain, confused by this surreal turn of events.
    Anjea bowed her head, the soft folds of skin below her eyes and at her neck the only indication of her true age.
    “You may release him now,” she said, gesturing I should let Marcel go.
    “Why should I do that?” I asked, knowing Marcel wouldn’t have hesitated to take my head off my shoulders, were the situation reversed.
    “What does your heart tell you to do?” she asked, looking deep into my eyes, almost as if she were trying to read my mind.
    I’d only had limited dealings with the Goddess, but even in the little time I’d spent with her, she’d proved herself to be wise and selfless. I tried to do as she asked, tried to listen to what my heart was telling me, but it was so hard to hear its voice when my brain was screaming at me that this was the man who’d murdered my father.
    I drew a shaky breath.
    What
did
my heart say?
    My heart said I just wanted to be left alone to do my job in peace.
    I hesitated a moment longer, feeling the power of the blade as it sang to me, begging me to take Marcel’s lifeblood, but then I did as Anjea asked, lifting the blade from Marcel’s throat.
    He scuttled away from me on all fours like a retreating crab. When he was clear of my reach, he lifted his hand to probe his wounded neck, his fingers coming away bloodied. I expected him to shoot me a nasty, hate-filled look, but, instead, I was surprised to find him appraising me, a newfound respect in his eyes.
    “You were right, after all,” he