Page 9

“I’m an Omagi. A very specific shapeshifter.” A mischievous expression overcomes her. “Do you want to see me turn into a man?”

My gaze slowly trails over her, trying to consider how that would work. “Wait, hold on… You can become a man?” I ask with a half-smile, trying not to look at her groin area. Can she just grow that, too?

“My male name is Margon.”

“Turn into one,” I quietly say, smiling even wider.

Margaret smiles to herself, nodding once, and without any cue, her body starts to transform—bones protrude, skin stretches or shrinks, and her dress enlarges, but remains a dress, as broad shoulders fill it, until a rather fit, handsome man is standing before me.

“That’s incredible,” I say with a deadpan expression.

“It is what it is,” Margaret, or Margon, says in a deep voice, the red eyes enchanting me.

“Turn back,” I say wistfully with a wave of my hand, unable to remove my gaze. “I’m weirdly attracted to you.”

Margon laughs in a warm tone. The smile, perfect and handsome, fades as the features soften, the breasts return, and the pretty face of Margaret is before me once more. “All Docents are shapeshifters. I could turn into your husband, your parents, or even another human. I could become something calming to help. Or your attraction to me could be so powerful that you just stop caring about being afraid or angry. I was very close to using it earlier, but the margarita seemed to do the trick.”

My smile is unabashed, fully fascinated with this aspect of the Underworld. When the cage lurches again, I grip the bar tighter and glance up. My eyes widen as we’re reaching the top.

Gloomy sunlight quickly shrouds us, and the air up here is filled with the scent of… fall? I remember fall and pumpkins. I touch my neck, thinking of a favorite scarf, the memory fading just as quickly as it arrives. Once the floor of the cage reaches a platform, it locks in place, and the door opens.

The first thing I’m truly aware of is how unassuming this environment is. Tall, dense trees with changing leaves surround us, the grass underneath drier and ready for hibernation.

When I turn around, I nearly jump backward.

Incredibly tall creatures stand behind us, at least eight feet in height, with long, bony onyx figures, loose shirts, and a frayed kilt of sorts to cover the fact that their knees bow backward. A mask shrouds their face, and only their very alert, bright blue eyes are visible, horns tightly rounding over their skull.

Margaret places a hand on my shoulder. “Those are called Reapers. One of them brought you here on the boat. They reap poor behavior by finding a wrongdoer. They have an uncanny ability to track someone down. Behave like a good girl, and they’re effectively harmless.” A chariot rolls through the forest, the horse guiding them nearly light consuming in the darkness of it, the driver holding the reins. I swear the beast even has fangs. “We are going to ride to Devotion, then take you where you need to go.” She deeply inhales before clearing her throat. “Devotion is a cathedral, or building, that is dedicated to our Dominus. They are all over the Realm, and there’s one right outside for a novus like you.”

Honestly, I can’t stop staring at the Reaper. They really don’t seem to be doing anything other than staring, their attention moving as another human emerges from the ground. I follow Margaret as close as possible, the juxtaposition of Earthly familiarity in the terrain mixing with the novelty of the medieval carriage I climb into. It smells like old wood and fabric, with a small candle lantern hanging above us.

Part of me feels like I’m betraying survival by just going with the motion, but I really don’t know what else there is to do. The idea of fighting Margaret and being hunted down by one of these Reapers is entirely unappealing.

So far, I don’t seem to be in danger, and I swear there’s something dampening my actual fear, like ice placed over emotion.

The chariot lurches forward with a movement that feels more like sliding than rolling, the Reaper guiding us barely moving, save for a periodic regripping of the reins. The sky above is a bruised dark gray-violet.

The edges of my perception seem sharper than before, but there’s still a great dulling I can’t shake. “So,” I begin, glancing back at her, pointing at my head. “When do I get clarity back? I know I should be in shock by all of this.”

“That will be a curated time, in which you will have forgotten your entire life on Earth. You might remember aspects of it, but it will be vague.”

My shoulders droop with a sigh, not finding a purpose in fighting this right now. Not when it’s clear to me this thing is moving far faster than any horse can carry us. It reminds me of a train ride… a sad smile takes over my face.

I don’t even remember what city I took a train in, let alone how old I was. But I know I used to love my train rides.

The carriage slows down as we approach a street of uneven cobblestones, the trotting of hooves now apparent. The village seems made of dark timber, stone, and many pieces of ornate ironwork. Flames flutter inside lanterns or braziers like the flapping of bird wings. There are a lot of people, most of them in some kind of drab garb. There are even potato sack people, and then a random integration of, well, creatures. Like a woman with bark for skin, and long, stick fingers. Then two children chase each other, but they are far too fast for their supposed age, and possibly have a row of sharp teeth.

Some people shout to sell their produce, like the paw of⁠—

The chariot rounds a corner, and my lips part in awe.

Ahead of us is what has to be a Devotion site. Its grandiosity digs into the fact that I probably am truly irrelevant in this world, unable to do more than accept my meager role. Black stone climbs into elegant watch towers, vast windowless openings revealing an inside lined with wood and dark fuchsia velvet. Half the windows are stained the same color, the light inside casting a bright, colorful glow on the ground as leaves gently roll by in the wind. Gargoyles perch on every ledge, moving in their spots to survey the landscape.

When the carriage comes to a halt, we both get out and are surrounded by many like me, and quite a few docents.

A fog envelops it all, seemingly absorbing sound with it. I step on a few leaves as we walk forward, the air filled with the smell of decaying foliage.

“Katie, why are you still here?” Margaret asks a woman near us, one with long brown hair and wearing the same outfit as me.