The Basins served as receptacles to which Flora and I delivered souls.
None of us knew where or what any of them led to. But then, it wasn’t our job to know.
After leaving my scythe to stand on its own in wait for my return, I marched toward the stone Basin with the white iridescent waters.
The hue of summertime clouds, the fluffy, pillowy kind that produced uncanny shapes, the hazy liquid within rotated at a languid pace.
Hovering over the White Basin, I unscrewed the silver raven-shaped lid of the hourglass and tipped the topmost contents into the liquid.
The mixture of sparkling souls, each a different pastel hue—powder blue, pale pink, seafoam green—flowed out, blending easily with the cloudy essence.
Next, I approached the Blue Basin, which radiated a strange coldness. Within this Basin, the liquid stood utterly still, rippling only when I added what was due—three deep sapphire-blue souls. Again, I spared a glance to Johann, who, paying me no mind, continued scribbling along—checking off the names the Basins whispered to him in tones only he could hear.
So far, so good. Meaning he seemed none the wiser that I didn’t have one of the night’s souls with me—the librarian.
Resisting the urge to cross bony fingers, I moved on to the Green Basin, which always maintained a steady swirl, like a slow-moving hurricane. In went the Basin’s matching deep emerald souls, a smaller stream that the vortex sucked up and swallowed.
From there, I moved on to the Red Basin, the murky, blood-hued contents of which flickered with silent bursts of lightning. The deep ruby souls I tipped into this vat never wanted to go in. They wentanyway, yanked by a magnetic pull. Brighter bursts of lightning accompanied the influx.
Finally, I arrived at the Black Basin, my least favorite. Not that I had a preference. More like I simply held an aversion to this one. But only because it seemed to hold an affinity for me.
I didn’t always have souls for this Basin. But tonight, I had one.
The souls for the Black Basin always sank to the bottom of the hourglass, heavy with burdens and, I suspected, deeds that weighed them down and darkened their essence to the hue of ink.
After rolling back my sleeve, revealing nearly the whole of one bony arm, I extended the canister over the Black Basin.
The vat presented as a smooth onyx mirror, and like any reflective surface, it showed my alternate form—a muscle-corded flesh-and-blood arm riddled with black tattoos.
That form, I never took it anymore. Not unless I absolutely had to. A rare event since I’d become so efficient at what I did. At who—what—I was.
Again, I tipped the hourglass, slowly this time. Out rolled the lone onyx soul, which pierced the center of the black liquid like a marble.
Up splashed the murk, which, like whips of tar, wrapped and lashed my bones.
They tugged at me as if wanting to haul me in.
With a muttered curse, I yanked up, breaking the tendrils, which slurped back into the Basin, the contents of which at once went smooth again.
I backed away from the Black Basin, glaring at it while screwing the lid of the now-empty hourglass back into place.
“Well,thathasn’t happened for a while.”
I jumped—actually jumped—and, swinging around, glared down at four-foot-nothing Flora, who had appeared at my side from out of nowhere. She peered up at me, blinking vast green eyes, her red hair done up today in lilies.
An eight-hundred-year-old Scottish fairy, Flora presented astwelvish in human years, with enormous pointed ears, iridescent wings, a sprightly face dusted with freckles, and a gap-toothed smile that evenIfound adorable. Not that I would ever admit as much.
Today, she wore a knee-length forest-green dress cinched at the waist with a leather belt that had a gold leaf latch. Matching bracers cuffed her wrists. Hands on her hips, she wiggled the toes of her bare feet—next to which sat her golden lantern, filled with the glowing firefly- and bumblebee-sized souls of the young.
Never once had I seen her in shoes.
Flora tilted her head at me, batting those large eyes. “Have you thought about asking one of The Few why that Basin does that with you?” Her gossamer wings flickered behind her—a sign of interest.
“No.” I latched the empty hourglass to my belt. Then, turning, I marched to my scythe, grabbing it on my way to my look-alike statue, one of the three—one for each of us—that stood sentinel around the perimeter of the room, between open archways leading to other sections of the citadel.
“It never does that with me,” Flora called after me in her too-sweet voice. “Look here. Grim, look!”
With a growl, I whirled toward her again. She stopped at the Black Basin and held a small arm out over the reflective void. Keeping eye contact with me, she wiggled her little fingers. “See? Nothin’.”
