Grym

Prologue

He pulled his hood up, hiding his face in the shadows. The dark streets and soft soles of his shoes sheltered his movements as he glided along the cobble stone. He quietly drew his sword as he crept closer to the small home. A single candle flicked behind the frosted window pane. It wavered with the shift in the air. He pressed his back firmly against the outer wall of the house by the door, careful to not be seen from the window.

He breathed deeply. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. On the third breath he silently grab the door handle and twisted. The door quietly left it’s station and invited him in. He stepped inside, careful to avoid even the smallest ray of light that the candle was emitting. He became night. He was darkness.

The swoosh of his black cape as it grazed the floor was the only perceptible noise in the house. The man neared the back of the cramped entry room and came upon a wooden door. A golden glow radiated from the crack below, calling the shadow to his target inside.

The man resheathed his sword when he saw no cause for a fight. His hand slipped a vile out from his sleeve and quickly dabbed the contents onto a cloth handkerchief. This was not the most creative way of a kill, nor the fastest, but it will have to do with the lack of time for preparation. The anticipation of death hung heavy in the air. The Reaper was here.

The town was in a frenzy. What had they done to deserve their fate? Was the end horrible? Who would be next? These questions would never be answered, except for one: Who did it? In 1789, they did not have the means to finding out who it was. Or even what it was, but they had a name for it. They called it The Reaper.

Chapter 1

Jack Grym took one last swig from his glass that was brought on by the news of the most recent kill. He stood from his stool and grasped his head as if to keep it on straight. “Damn alcohol,” he muttered to himself. He staggered out the door of the tavern and into the cool night air. He breathed it in deep to try to wear off it’s affects, trading one vice for another.

Tap. Jack ignored the noise. He was anticipating it. Bile rose in his throat as he swayed again and threw up in the gutters along the edge of the cobble stone street. He spit out the taste and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Tap. The steps were getting closer. He lazily turned around and came face to face with the disgrace of a man that had been following him all evening.

“How ya’ been, Jack?” whispered the man breathily into his ear.

“Dandy.”Jack replied with a sloppy smile. “Well, it’s ’bout time you showed up, Boar. I thought you were going to creep all day and night without trying to bash my brains in.”

“Not with yer luck,” replied Boar with a sneer.

“So, did you have to wait till I was drunk off my arse to find the courage to fight me?”

Boar responded with a swing of his hungry fist. It hit empty air as Jack had already moved behind the man and kicked him behind the knee. Boar fell to the ground with a grunt.

“Come on, old man. I ain’t finished yet,” Jack said with another smile.

Board heaved himself off the ground and threw himself at Jack. Both men fell to the stone street. Jack leaped on top of Boar and threw a right hook to his face. There was a sickening crunch under his hand and the beast let out a yell, clutching his nose and cheek. More fits flew from both sides as they tumbled around, neither winning nor losing. Eventually Jack gained the upper hand and knocked Boar off of himself. He shook off his fake, drunken stupor and landed a roundhouse kick into the side of Boar’s head. Boar crumpled to the ground and did not move.

Jack dusted himself off and felt his face for any serious damage. Only a slightly swollen eye, but that was all. He laughed to himself. It was so easy to trick those town folk fools. Just down some drinks and they think they’ve already won. Boar obviously did not catch the two fingers Jack slid down his throat to make his performance believable.

He walked the rest of the way home with no other incident. It was pretty common for him to get into one or two brawls before the night was through; it was Jack’s hobby to cause trouble where there was none.

When he reached his secluded estate on the edge of town he carefully disabled all of the traps that he had set up before going out. Just for safe keeping. Adolia was known for it’s crooked citizens and ambitious rich folk. People would do anything for any selfish reason they could come up with in those empty heads of theirs. That is why Jack was here. So much potential for redemption, but also for condemnation.

He stepped inside and was immediately surrounded in darkness. He embraced it with open arms. In the absence of light, of life, you feel you too are nothing. You can just stop existing. Laying down in the dark and letting everything go, your whole being completely ridden of will. He often thought of his reasons for carrying on and not doing just that.

Jack walked down a narrow hallway that branched off of his grand foyer, the old, wooden floorboards groaned under his careful steps. He did not need light to guide him as he made his way through the mansion. He stopped at a door on the left. It was an office of sorts. The floor was littered with stacks of books and there was no such thing as organization in here, as he preferred it. The new leather creaked as he sat down behind his rather huge mahogany desk that must have cost three times Boar’s weight in gold. It was situated right by the large bay window at the back of the room so he could keep an eye on things. He lit an oil lamp and looked around, checking for any sign of disturbance.

Papers littered the surface, but he easily found the one he wanted and picked it out of a stack. After reading it carefully he shook his head and leaned back in his chair. His fingers found their way to the bridge of his nose and pinched. The numbers were always rising. The mortality rate of Adolia’s citizens was appalling. It was also not the first town to experience such high numbers. Jack had been following these kinds of death tolls for quite some time, but the Reaper, as the town called him, was always on the run. He was beginning to think the chase was futile.

The thought caused a sigh to escape him. He could not stop now; not when he was so close. Tomorrow he would need to talk to some of the town’s citizens and try to gain another lead on the Reaper. With a plan in mind, he blew out the candle and was once again surrounded by nothing.

Chapter 2

The following morning was hectic. Talk of a new murder could be heard all the way to Jack’s lonesome estate. When he made the long trek into town he could see why. People were crowded outside a bakery in the center of town and he had to push past their grimy, pungent bodies just to catch a glimpse of what everyone was panicking over. Jack stopped fighting the crowd and paused when he finally saw it. Written in blood on the front window were the words: I am always around, but often avoided. You cannot beat me, for I will come when you are aged and grey, or I will visit the very next day. I thrive on irony and hate; I am everyone’s concluding fate. Feel my cold embrace.

The man who graciously supplied the medium of choice was propped up against the window pane, the final punctuation point to the question. His wrist were slit open and his pale, lifeless eyes gazed right into Jack’s. Why? Who would… was all he could think as he gazed back into the empty pits that must have once held such life. The skin surrounding those eyes was sunken and grey. His face was tilted towards the sky and his palms face up as if asking God a question. A dark cloud was cast over the town’s people. Everyone had an subconscious knowledge of what this meant, but no one wanted to say it out loud. Death was here and it could not be stopped. Defeat was a weight in Jack’s stomach.

Later the man would be identified as a very wealthy land owner that was visiting from the next town over. He was buried in his family cemetery as his wife shamelessly wailed for her husband’s death. The affair was all very morbid, emphasised by the ever grey skies and cooling temperatures.

Nothing could get the image of the man lying there out of Jack’s head. Not the gin, or the fights, or the busy work. At the age of twenty-two, Jack was quite the old man. He had never felt what it was like to be young and reckless, though he supposed his need for a good brawl every now and then could be categorized as such. Ever since the death of his dad four years ago, his main priority and mission was to catch The Reaper. He had abandoned his life at home and set off on the road. He was now used to always being on the run. How could he just give up now? And the answer was that he couldn’t.

He ran his hands through his hair for the hundredth time in the past hour. He checked his pocket watch. 12:38. Damn, it had been a long day. Between questioning citizens and raiding the local library he had not found time to eat, much less blink. He scraped his papers together and headed out the door of the pub.

The streets were constantly muddy on this side of town, which he liked. Order is not always necessary and sometimes you have to get a little bit dirty. He sloshed up ahead a few blocks, heading south to his temporary home.

The roads were void of life, except a few late workers rushing to get home to their families. The small, quaint village homes were getting fewer, and further between. The moon graced Jack with minimal light to make his journey and the rare, flickering street lamps did not do much to help. The wind picked up and a chill crawled up his spine. He tried to wrap his coat tighter around himself, but it did little to help the hollow ache that was growing inside his chest. A single lamp post was stationed up ahead, separated far from all the others. It seemed to have a dark aura despite the glow it was emitting. Weird.

He thought about all the murders he had witnessed and read about in the past four years, None had been as gruesome as the one from yesterday. Why the change habit? There had to be a reason. These kinds of mass killings were not done without reason; no matter how insane. The question was: what is that reason? This thing that he was chasing could just be the usually, insane killer, but this felt different. How, he did not know.

۝۝۝

Jack came too early in the morning; the rising sunlight pushing against his eyelids. He was laying by the side of the road, covered in it’s dust. The morning sun was cresting the hills that surrounded the small village. The brilliant oranges and soft pinks that painted the sky were in great contrast to the clouded thoughts he was holding inside. Extreme exhaustion gripped him and all he could think about was sleep, so he trudged up the path to his home.

There were rare rays of sunlight that made it through the pulled curtains in his room. They spotlighted the rich furniture and dark, burgundy wallpaper. It reminded Jack of his old man’s own room back in his home town. It was all very comforting to feel so close. A massive four-poster bed was set in the middle of it like the show piece of the room. It called deeply to him and he immediately fell asleep upon it.

Chapter 3

Jack woke with a start. He rubbed the sleep away from his face and groaned. This felt like the worst hangover he had ever experienced. How much did he drink last night? His mind felt clouded and his eyes were foggy. After getting up, he realized that he was still wearing his clothes, and even his shoes, from last night. What the bloody hell happened? Memories were a loss to him. When he tried to grasp an image from the night before it slipped out of his grasp, leaving him frustrated.

He changed into new clothes that were not so rumpled. This consisted of buckskin breeches, a clawhammer coat, riding boots, and a top hat for good measure. He wanted to make a good impression on the town people to make up for how he might've acted last night. He looked in the mirror to check his appearance. Dark circles ringed his deep green eyes that he inherited from his now deceased father. His wavy, chestnut hair, though, had been given to him by his mother. His olive skin reminded him of her’s before she had become ill, when she was still filled with the essence of life. She used to glow with it.

There was a shallow cut along his left temple and dried blood smeared his pasty skin. He quickly washed it off in the basin. What had happened? He decided to ignore it for now; he probably just passed out at some point. He decided that he looked decent enough. With that, he left.

On the early journey into town he passed an ostracized lamp post. It’s pole was curved over the street as if straining towards him. It made him strangely ancy and algid, causing him to pick up his speed. Making great time, he reached town before the morning rush. His first priority was to find out if there had been any recent deaths since yesterday. A newsboy handed him the daily newspaper and greedily accepted the copper coins he was given in return. None. Not a single death. At the end of the headline news there was a date stamped on the bottom. November 30? But it had been the 26th of November just yesterday! Jack pinched his nose; it had been worse than he thought.

Where to start? No one would have seen him since he spent most of his time at the empty tavern on 5th until nightfall. That should be the first place to check. His feet fell rapidly against the worn stone and people gave him strange looks to be in such a rush. There was not so much as a single care in Jack for what they thought. Some folks even tried to offer him their mysterious goods, but were quickly rejected by a wave of his hand.

“No time,” he would mutter at them to try to not seem to impolite. It was ironic to him that he had come with the intentions of making a better impression, not worsen the one that currently stood.

The tavern was secluded in a sector of town notorious for it’s violence and drunkards. Probably not the best place to waste his time at, but it did him well for staying trained. It had an unthreatening facade, but the inside was less so. Jack walked swiftly inside and up to the bar, not wasting his time in exchanging the familiar obscenities with the other regulars. The bartender gave him an odd look, noticing his tense stance. The worker had graying, brown hair, but appeared to only be around 40, with a short beard and bulky form. He had worn eyes and a lined face. Wisdom was written there, shocking Jack when he noticed it. He also did not remember ever seeing him working here before.

Jack laid his hand on the well-worn, wooden table top to get his attention. “Were you working here a few nights ago?” he questioned.

“You’ll have ta be more specific. The days kind of blend together around here,” he retorted with a snort and began wiping down the countertop again.

“The night of the 26th,” Jack hastily replied.

“Hm, I suppose I was. I recon I also saw you leave here around one o’clock,” he said cautiously. He had a strong Cockney accent. Strange for him to be so far north.

“Yes! Do you know where I was headed? Or notice anything out of the ordinary after that?”

“Oi man, it is none of me business wot yer fellas do after ’ours. It is just me business ter sell yer beer until yor drunk off yor arses and 'ave ter leave.”

Jack chuckled at this, suddenly enjoying his candid humor. “Was there anything? Any little bit of information would surely help.”

“I’m bloody well not sure…” The man said, trailing off at the end as if lost in thought.

“Well, if anything comes to mind…” Jack mentioned quietly in disappointment. He turned away from the bar, the floorboards creaking obnoxiously under his steps as he made his way to the door. It was unusually quiet since it was only 9 in the morning.

“Wait! I ‘ave seen sumfink. There was a wee man that left just after yer had. Creepy little bugger; always hanging around these parts of town. Not right the place I would want ter be if I ’ad a choice,” he remarked with a hearty laugh and his face grew red.

Jack felt some recognition at the mention of the curious man. He began to remember.

Jack was passing by a shadowed alley way when he heard a scuffle from within. He slowed to investigate. He inched his head around the grimy brick corner of the shop and peered into it’s depths. A flash of light from the street lamp glinting and a whiff of something truly foul and a ragged man appeared in front of the lonesome boy. His unruly hair and patched clothes were soaked in gutter sewage and despair. His rotten teeth sneered at Jack as he crept closer and closer. He was so close now that Jack could see the rotten stubs of the man’s teeth and his bloody, cracked lips.

“Go home, Jack. You shouldn’t be here,” the thing taunted.

“What makes you think that?” inquired Jack. He refused to be fazed by this small, vestige of a man.

“The Reaper will come for you too,” he whispered, as if afraid to say the words for fear of The Reaper listening.

Jack edged past the man and continued on his way. He did not have time to deal with driveling fools. He wished he had listened.

The man did not bother following Jack. He did not want to be around when It came.

He had reached the post, almost home, when he saw a similar flash to that of the one he witnessed earlier in his trek. It was the last thing he saw before he was on the wet ground, a sack over his head. He heard a crack before he was knocked unconscious.

Jack shook himself out of the memory. Strange. Truly strange. Suddenly the smell of alcohol and piss that coated the pub became overwhelming for him. He ran out the door and began heaving in the same gutters that he had the night of his fight with Boar, but this felt so much more real. The frigid air helped to empty his head of whatever plagued him and he stood up straight. The walkways were beginning to get busier, which was Jack’s cue to pull it together. If he wanted to figure out what had happened he would need to find that man. He must have been the last to see Jack before he went home. It would be near impossible to find the man.

“Damn it!” Jack swore quietly to himself. What was happening to him? His abnormal life, which he had accepted a long time ago, was about to get that much more so. He did not even know where to start.

Jack walked up the road, heading further into town. He was heckled by shopkeepers and arabbers, trying to get him to come and purchase anything they could offer. Even some less respectable men approached, asking if he would want a certain mind-numbing diversion their girls could offer. All were declined, except one. She was lively; not the persistent drab that inhabited the town’s people.

He saw her from outside a baker shop's window, working vigorously on scrubbing a counter top. Her slender face was scrunched in concentration, a red blush colored her otherwise alabaster skin. So fragile and innocent. A flare of light in the oppressive darkness.

He entered the shop, intending to make a brilliant impression, but all words were lost. She lifted her heart-shaped face to meet his and raised a delicate eyebrow in inquiry. Jack stood dumbfounded. Her navy blue dress made her metallic grey eyes look radiant.

“Are you going to buy something or just stare? I do not get paid nearly enough for you to just look at me like I’ve got three heads.” She muttered the last bit, as if unable to stop herself.

He breathed out a laugh. She rose her eyebrow again in question. Damn, he needed to focus. He skimmed the menu hung on the wall and tried not to stare at the captivating creature before him.

“I’ll take a rhubarb pie,” he said slowly.

Both her eyebrows rose this time. She began readying his order and he unsuccessfully tried not to watch her. Why was she having this affect on him? And why pies? Pies aren’t for men. He suddenly felt an itch crawl up his spine and with that came a compulsion to leave. Quick. He grabbed the bag from her outstretched hand and placed his money in it. The door had not even closed before he was halfway down the next street and hunched over in a nearby alley.

The first thing he noticed when he came to was the smell of damp soil. The scent held a trace of spring time renewal, causing Jack to smile. It reminded him of when he was a boy and would run around his grandfather’s tulip fields in early April, before he would head off to Ireland for business. With all the violence in Jack’s life, it was important to remember the times before the blood stains and funerals. To remember why humanity was worth it. These were all strange thoughts to be having considering his situation, but he had a coping method that never failed.

Click. A lock unlatched and a door creaked open. This was the moment that Jack realized he was lying on cold cement. He could feel the heat leaching from his body as he curled tighter into a ball; not the most gallant position, but between life and death, Jack always chose life. His attention was brought back to the door when he heard the sound of women’s heels clicking on the ground, coming closer. He could not lift his head to gain a better view. A pain so astoundingly fierce kept him internally whimpering on the floor. So this is how he would meet his death. Not a question, but a statement. He would not be a sniveling halfwit, bargaining his life away for what would most likely end in torture. With the devil himself breathing agony into his body he could not do much of that now even if he felt inclined to.

He cracked open an eyelid and gazed upon small, crimson shoes, pale legs extending from them and into a not so conservative, red dress. It was fitted mid-calf and was quite scandalous considering recent fashions. Jack could not see much of anything else from his position. He groaned, longing to be home and away from this witch.

“Well, I dare say you do not appear to have been worth all the trouble,” she said lazily.

“Sorry, looks can be deceiving,” Jack riposte with mild confusion.

A short, low laugh came from above. It was strangely seductive and Jack knew he had gotten himself into something truly rotten. He closed his eyes and grimaced at the return of the pounding in his head and his mind went blank, not allowing any further attention to the subject.

“I enjoy a quick wit, but that will only bring you trouble here,” she responded with a teasing, but possibly warning, undernote.

“Where, exactly, is here?” he asked, trying to not lose too much pride by asking questions. At least he was not begging, right?

She tapped her foot. Once. Twice.“Why, darling, you’ve found yourself among the Torva Messor,”

“That is honestly not helpful,” Jack stated tersely.

“Let me give it to you straight. This is the city of reapers. We are not one, as you mundanes thought. There are many of us alike, all over the globe. We originated in Torva Messor and eventually were assigned to your dimension to… handle things,” she said with a sudden authoritative tone. “The reapers have become aware of the threat you hold to Torva Messor. You persistence is admirable, but deadly. We are not the bad guys, the majority of humanity is. We killed those men for a reason. The rich landowner everyone was mourning had come into town to cheat on his loyal wife. The meeting went badly when the mistress found out about his marriage and he killed the poor whore. If his wife knew, I doubt he would be missed so much. This is your one and final warning. Don’t fight us.” With that the crimson shoes stepped away and out the door. The room spun again and fell away.

۝۝۝

He ran harder and harder with every memory, or possibly dream, that filled his head. This is truly insane. Reapers? He could not fit the idea into his mind. It all seemed too supernatural. Calling a serial killer by The Reaper is fine when you believe he is just a man, but introduce a new race into it? Madness. Jack desperately wanted to go to the pub and get a drink, but feared the bartender would ask questions about things he did not want to remember.

Was that girl connected? Her voice was strangely familiar, but he could not be certain. The only thing now was to learn more about the reapers. If he wanted to take them down it is imperative to know exactly what they are. He needed to find out if what the lady in red had said was true. Jack turned in the direction of the town’s library and slowed his pace. No need to draw suspicion from possible reaper spies. Now began the offense.

Chapter 4

The boy walked in with a certain swagger that demanded attention and it was willingly given. A glutinous smirk settled on his face as he gazed around at the questioning eyes that tracked him. The pub smelled of vomit and despair; not a good combination, he noticed with a grimace. His boots fell lightly on the worn floorboards as he slithered towards the bar. His rich attire and groomed features placed him as an outcast among the grimy folk that hung around these parts. This was in spite of his fair complexion that was brought forth by lounging around all day.

He rapped his knuckles on the greasy counter to get the bartender's attention. The worker glanced up from his scrubbing and shook his head in a dismissing gesture. The boy cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, but I believe I was trying to get your attention,” remarked the agitated child.

“We use us words 'ere, boy,” replied the man behind the counter without stopping his work. “Woss yor name, any a way?”

“Sebastian,” commented the boy with a sniff. He glanced behind himself, as if expecting someone to jump at him.

“Where are yer from? I 'ave never 'eard of such a name.”

“The Spanish provinces,” he said with a blasé tone.

“Ah, that explains a bit,” the bartender said with an understanding wag of his head. “Them Spanish always fink of themselves as the big dogs. But right they are just wee ones with loud barks.”

The boy gawked at the worker. His pulled his hand away from the counter and placed his fist on his protruding hip. Not the most menacing gesture, but he hoped it conveyed the right message.

“Boy, yer better put the mockers on standing' like that before yer hit.”

Another sniff. He removed his hand and sat down on the nearest stool, but not before he gave it a thorough once over. “I’ve come on business. There is some information I must obtain before leaving about a boy name Jack.”