How annoying, thought Mckenna as he stood in front of Mary's door without entering. The cold night wind tousled his hair, sweeping his long coat, but the pale-looking man had a frown etched on his face.
He hadn't intended to come here, yet something had pulled him toward this door, and now that he stood this close, he felt the willow of the wind louder than before. He felt a pulse, as if something inside that room was calling to him.
Whatever are you, Mary, he murmured internally, for only ever did she come to his house that he found himself in the semblance of dreams—something completely mortal, something entirely human.
But most surprising of all was the fact that the dream had felt so real—and he had seen the one person he'd been searching for, for hundreds of years. His soul.
She had stood at the end of the bridge, barefoot and wearing a white drawer, while her dark hair whisked around her face. She didn't have on the smile she wore when he had first come to take her. Now, she looked at him like she needed to be saved.
"Don't let them take me," she had pleaded—her voice trembling, a crack of desperation laced in every word.
It had surprised him at first, but later he understood why she begged. Her soul was corrupted. She wouldn't be allowed to cross to the other side. She would roam the afterlife as a lost soul.
McKenna gritted his teeth. There was nothing more he could say to her—except that she return to him. But she suddenly took a step back and said no, just as she had done before.
"Don't you understand?" her voice broke, shattering like glass. "They will eat my soul. If I return, they'll make sure I don't exist anymore. Please, McKenna, don't let them take me."
She called his name. His breath turned ragged. How dare she call his name? How had she known it?
"You called my name," he asked darkly. "Tell me—do you know who I am?"
She shook her head. "I know nothing about you. But your name—I do."
His brow creased. "Tell me where I can find you. Tell me where my scythe is."
But she said nothing. Her head kept shaking, her eyes widening like she had no clue.
"This is madness," McKenna hissed, frustrated, and just like that, he had woken up. The sweat had been real, but the girl and the bridge was gone.
How much time did he have left? It seemed his time was running out, and time was of the essence. There wasn't much he could do. He would have to seek the help of someone more powerful—someone who could actually use their power. Because at this point, he was utterly useless.
But that wasn't what he felt as he stood at this door.
It was a surge he knew too well—the feel of cold rain on his feet, the scent of wooden coffins and muddy ground.
He felt death all over again.
A black bird flew from the courtyard and hit the wall close to him. First came the thud, then the bird fell to the ground, lifeless. McKenna stared at it for a long time, his lips twitching.
He turned to walk away, but suddenly halted beside the bird. He crouched down and drew his hand closer. A surge of dark smoke seeped out, and suddenly the bird stirred—flapping its wings and tilting its head at McKenna before flying away.
With a stunned expression, he walked through the corridors leading to the parlor.
Damn it all. What was happening?
The room was dimly lit, the hearth crackling low. Candlelight flickered not only by his presence, but many others dressed in darkness.
McKenna stood near the door, frowning at a tall, silver-haired man with a cold expression who now stood before the fire, sipping wine from his favorite goblet.
Nearby, a blonde-haired reaper sat with his legs crossed on McKenna's favorite mahogany chair, grinning at him. McKenna spared him a glance, then looked back at Maxwell. His presence felt wrong. Even the room seemed to bend around it.
"You shouldn't be here," McKenna said. "And get your hands off my favorite cup."
Maxwell's expression remained calm, and despite what McKenna said, he sipped the wine slowly—suddenly finding the taste not so sour on his tongue. But his eyes burned blue.
"Something stirs in your house," he said evenly. "McKenna, would you rather I wait until it swallows you whole?"
McKenna walked toward the nearest seat, the one closest to Anthony, but not without glaring at him first.
Silence dragged after that. It was the kind of silence where everyone seemed to understand without speaking.
"I felt my powers," McKenna said, settling into the chair, head tilted, eyes boring into Maxwell. "I even used it. What are you doing?"
"If it was me," Maxwell replied coolly, "I certainly wouldn't be here."
"Certain?" McKenna's voice sharpened. "Because I'm sure you'd take it back if you knew."
Maxwell glanced over his shoulder. He raised the goblet, and the object vanished in dark flames—reappearing seconds later on the table beside Anthony.
"Something doesn't feel right," Maxwell said as he turned around, one hand tucked into his pocket while he leaned against the square walls of the hearth. "And I'd like to make an inspection before I leave."
McKenna scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "You can't just intrude into my house. Your authority stop at Death's realm."
Anthony gave McKenna a look. Could the grim reaper stop being so stubborn with the judge? This was the only man who could redeem him enough to go back. But of course, this was McKenna as stubborn as ever. Blast it! To the void with it all.
Maxwell looked as calm as ever, as if McKenna's words hadn't even grazed his skin. He moved across the room, and every candle flickered with his steps.
"Death's realm is becoming a war ground," he said.
McKenna shot him a questioning look, then turned to Anthony, who explained.
"Eugene is protesting, along with other reapers. They believe you've likely failed to fetch a corrupted soul and since…" He gulped. "Not my words—this comes from the elders—they're saying the Ninth Elder should be given to someone more fit."
McKenna pinched the bridge of his nose. It was most likely Eugene's doing; the reaper had never liked him from the start anyways.
"So Eugene wants my seat now?"
In a single whoosh, with black smoke trailing behind him, Maxwell now sat on the armrest of a chair opposite McKenna. He stared intently at his light pink polished nails, inspecting them for any speck of dirt.
"Time is of the essence, and it doesn't wait for you."
"Damnation," McKenna snapped, rising from his chair and glaring at Maxwell. "Blast it."
Maxwell looked at McKenna, unbothered. Then his gaze shifted to the door, eyes narrowed and waited.
And then the doorknob turned, every conversation stopped, every candle stilled.
A girl walked in, wearing a pink shawl over white nightdress. Her red hair tangled, eyes swollen from sleep, and she looked like a ghost standing there, staring at them.