Chapter 14: Chapter 14

S Ø R E N

HE HOPED THAT Hermes would not mind a takeaway BLT sub as an offering. He also hoped that the god would not mind the fact that the Reapers were in the Ancient Greece exhibit storage room of the Natural History Museum, attempting to light a fire at one of the fake altars —which was thankfully, made of heat resistant concrete.

Savannah had been baffled at Søren’s proposition. She saw no reason for a god to respond to their summoning —especially the Winged Messenger. She thought that Hermes would not care; that he had no time for the petty requests of Grim Reapers. They were barely better than mortals.

However, Søren argued that if any of the gods were to aid them, it would be the ever lawful neutral god of the cunning.

“Have you ever actually done this before?” the trainee whispered, keeping an unnecessary watchful eye on the door.

Although perhaps she was being cautious about the Reapers Organisation Security and not the museum’s.

“Can’t say that I have,” Søren sighed.

“How do you know what you’re doing is right?”

The Trainer clicked his tongue. “I looked it up on the internet.”

“Right —because that’s always reliable.”

She was hitting his last nerve. “It’s all we have to go on here,” Søren snapped, shooting her a glare. “Maybe if you had given me early notice of your intended homicide, I could have better prepared.”

She shut up at that, sulking at the wall. The Trainer wondered if she felt anything at all for what she had done; for the life which she had stolen.

The fire then finally lit on the seventh try, illuminating the dark confined space and allowing Søren to free up his hands as he tossed the sandwich into the open flames. Then he began to pray.

He had never prayed to a Greek god before, but it was likely similar to how he had been taught as a young boy: hands together; be respectful; and follow the sequence of worship, then the request and then gratitude. The offering was worship in itself, so he omitted that step.

‘Hermes, lord of travellers, please accept this offering. We are Grim Reapers Søren and Savannah, and we are seeking your presence in order to request your assistance regarding a matter of utmost importance. We desperately need to change an event in the past, but knowing that the gods do not interfere with time, we ask that you point us in the right direction of someone who might be able to help us do it. Thank you in advance for your time. P.S., if we could keep this between ourselves, that would be greatly appreciated. Um…Amen.’

Søren was not trying to tell him what to do or anything —it was just a friendly suggestion. He also had a shrewd suspicion that Hermes was not one to take kindly to constructive advice.

It was quiet and still for a few moments; the only sound being the crackling fire on wood, which only amplified the Trainer’s frustration and impatience. Security could be close behind and they would not know how to deal with them. The two Reapers needed a response and they needed it now.

“Isn’t something supposed to happen now?” Savannah then hissed into the silence, as anxious as Søren was.

They looked at the altar. The BLT sub was black ashes.

“We have to give him a little bit more time,” Søren clipped. “He’s a busy guy.” He was doing a pretty bad job of convincing himself of that.

There was a beat of silence, before a male voice suddenly quipped from behind them, “I most certainly am.”

Søren and Savannah whipped around and comically gasped as a lanky teenager in a blue hooded jersey and early 2000’s denim jeans hovered in the doorway —the little wings on his white high top sneakers flapping incessantly before he touched down on the floor. His body radiated a warm golden glow —a godly halo. It then dissipated after a few seconds, rendering him fairly ordinary and mortal if one could look past the silver Caduceus strapped to his back. His arms were folded, his expression amused. “Though I have to be honest; answering a Grim Reaper’s call seemed far more interesting than meddling in yet another delivery of a letter to Ares from Aphrodite,” he chuckled.

“…Hermes?” Savannah blurted in disbelief. The god nodded, evidently used to her reaction. He could not really blame her —he barely passed for Søren’s physical age. Understandably, he did not look exactly like his statues and paintings in the exhibit. His mien had altered with time and adjusted to his preference now that he was in the twenty-first century. His short curly hair was still the colour of golden wheat; his skin was evenly tanned; and his eyes were polished star white sapphires.

“You actually responded,” the redheaded Reaper spluttered once she accepted that this…boy, was in fact, Hermes.

“I heard that entrances are supposed to be more dramatic than that,” Søren remarked, narrowing his eyes at the god.

“Well, you see, I just happened to be in the neighbourhood, so…” he drawled sarcastically. “Look kids, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but stealth is kind of my thing,” he smirked. “I can’t afford to be bursting forth in a shimmering shower of light to the sound of trumpets every time that someone offers me their leftovers.”

“That sandwich was fresh from the store,” Savannah snapped in defence.

“Yes, I suppose it was a satisfying change in snack,” Hermes huffed.

Søren coughed, feeling the need to remind the two of them why they were even interacting in the first place. “Hermes, we really need your advice. Do you know anyone who would be willing to warp time?”

“What for?”

“Someone made an irreversible mistake,” the Trainer hinted, shooting his trainee a glare. “And she could get reaped for it.” Savannah glanced elsewhere again —more stubborn and betrayed than guilty.

“Reaped? That’s extreme. Mistakes can be quite catastrophic in your line of work, I see,” mused the god. Søren was thankful for his indulgence, something unlike no one had ever given him before in his life.

“Exactly. Which is why we are trying to change the perception of the future; make it seem like the incident never happened.”

“I am glad to hear at least that you understand that you cannot actually eradicate the past,” Hermes acknowledged. “And you were wise to seek my aid. I take it you know of my adventurous history.”

“The god of practical jokes,” Savannah scoffed.

Søren elbowed her sharply. “Forgive her,” he said through gritted teeth, “this is our first time summoning a deity.”

“Well, she is not entirely wrong,” Hermes admitted. “I do enjoy a good prank every now and then.” The petty Reaper grinned triumphantly at her Trainer. “…But,” the Winged Messenger then spoke again, this time his eyes glinting with a sinister shine, “what’s in it for me?”

The two Reapers paused. They had not thought of that. They dithered helplessly. Would the god really turn them down now, even though they had come halfway? Their panic must have shown on their faces, because Hermes then slowly nodded in understanding.

“In exchange for information, you must give me information,” Hermes said, his voice low and eerie. “If the knowledge you seek is to save an existence, then you have to provide me with something that can destroy one. So, tell me why you desperately need to alter this timeline.”

The teenage god leaned against steel scaffolding, deadly serious. The Trainer glanced at Savannah. She met his gaze, her eyes shimmering with defeat. She knew as well as he did that they did not really have a choice. Against better judgement and their will, they had to trust Hermes. Even Søren’s additional plea to keep the matter private might mean nothing to him.

“I swear upon the River Styx,” then said Winged Messenger; his bright, terrifying eyes unblinking. “I will not tell a soul. Not a mortal, not a monster, and not an immortal. Not now, anyway. Perhaps we will see if the information proves useful at another time.”

“You can’t —” Savannah started, darting forward.

“—I can,” Hermes cut her off, “and I will. You summoned me. I don’t know you two. I need some sort of collateral.”

She glared at him —she really stared the herald of the gods down, her stance irreverent and unapologetic. And he met her challenge, wordlessly and intangibly wrestling with her very soul. Both immortals’ irises flickered to life, burning wildly. For a second, it almost seemed as though Savannah might be a match for the god. But Søren’s trainee then growled, buckling beneath the pressure and angrily turning away and hissing something impolite under her breath. Hermes retorted with the quietness of a spy; his form almost melted into the shadows, but those luminous eyes anchored him.

“I killed someone,” Savannah then huffed, refusing to damper her pride a little by directly addressing the deity. “I reaped a soul ahead of its time, because I let my emotions get the better of me.”

Søren drew a breath, impressed and nervous all at once.

Hermes sucked on his teeth. “That is quite destructive. Interesting.” His expression then brightened, and he abruptly reverted to the laid back, mischievous god of the cunning he had been when he arrived.

“Well, we’ve held up our end of the bargain,” Søren promptly reminded him. “Now what lead do you have for us?”

“Right,” he coughed, stretching out his hands. “I actually know a guy.”

Silver glowing misted sheets of paper materialised from thin air between his hands, like those from a binder. He then began flicking rapidly through the seemingly endless pages, the spine and covers either invisible or non-existent. After about a minute the god paused, his crystalline eyes gleaming in the light of the dying fire. “…Finnigan Michael Magik,” he announced. “I know he sounds like a children’s party magician-for-hire but I think you’ll find that this guy is surprisingly close to the real deal.”

“How so?” asked Savannah, finally glancing over.

“Is he an immortal?” Søren followed up.

“Well…” said Hermes. “He wasn’t always. He is only immortal now because of an accident —something with which you might be familiar. And at least, he was born and raised human.”

“What changed?” Søren frowned.

“About twenty years ago he was…permanently employed,” the god put carefully. “I think you’ll understand what I mean when you meet him. But be warned: his boss does not take kindly to those who side with the gods, mind you. She may question your motives.”

“I wouldn’t say that we particularly side with the gods,” Savannah sneered. “We are bound to one against our will.”

“Well then, let us simply hope that she understands that,” Hermes quipped, shrugging.

“Where can we find this Mr Magik, anyway?” Søren asked, frowning.

“Here is his business card,” Hermes said, offering him a small rectangle of shimmering purple card. “Feel free to knock on his front door. He’s usually home these days. And he can never resist using a spell.”

And with that, the god of the cunning erupted into a puff of storm cloud; the image of his crafty grin lingering. The musty darkness of the storage room was now somehow menacing. Savannah shuddered.

“I feel like we just bought drugs off of a dealer.”

“I can understand why,” Søren snorted. “But he did potentially give us what we wanted. Which means, I was right. You owe me.”

“I told him the reason for my potential death sentence. I’d say that we’re even,” she said as a matter of fact. “Anyway, we should get going. We don’t know how unpredictable Mr Magik might be.”

✠

Finding the address was surprisingly easy. Finnigan Michael Magik lived on an obscure street in a back alley behind an old rundown restaurant. Ordinarily, it would be difficult to tell that someone was living in the neglected apartment, but there were flashes of light and bursts of colourful mist which could have been mistaken for a wild rave. If one looked closely, one would notice the things hanging in the windows —hacked legs of small animals, shed reptile skins, an assortment of exotic plants and drying fruit.

Savannah offered Søren a look, not knowing what to expect. “Ten bucks says he’s just a madman,” she bet.

Søren decided to give Hermes the benefit of the doubt. “You’re on.”

With the Trainer leading the way, they then cautiously approached the kiwi green front door, before he hesitantly rapped upon it.

At first, the two thought that the owner might not have heard. But the light show suddenly fizzled out, and a loud crash of metal echoed through the detached apartment. Then there was a pause, supressed quickened breathing, and a strange overhanging uncertainty.

“Hello?” the redhead called.

“There’s…no one home,” a raspy voice responded from behind the door. “The resident is unable to pay his rent at the moment, as he…he’s in Hawaii. He left this morning. And if this is Terry, stay away from my fruit.”

Søren and his trainee shared a look of pure bewilderment.

“Nice try, Mr Magik,” Savannah quipped. “Open up.”

“More like pathetic attempt. Your first mistake was responding to the knocking,” Søren informed the voice.

They were answered with grumbling, and a frustrated kick on the door. “Fine. You got me…Are you the police?” Finnigan asked.

“No.”

“Are you positive?”

“The police are not immortal, Mr Magik,” Søren smirked.

That seemed to convince him. Several chains were then unhinged, and locks were opened. The door opened just a fraction, to reveal part of a stubbled square jaw and a tired russet eye. He had not gotten much sleep in weeks. The eye widened as its gaze travelled the length of Søren and Savannah.

“Grim Reapers?” he breathed.

Savannah raised her brows, impressed. “Hermes didn’t lie.”

“You owe me again,” Søren quipped.

“Nope,” she smiled. “He hasn’t done anything yet.”

“Wait, Hermes sent you?” Mr Magik then blurted, opening the door a little further. The extent of his condition was even more evident: he did not look all that old, but his hair was peppered and he had deep rings of purple around his eyes; not well hidden underneath comically large round glasses. And his skin…it appeared normal from some angles, but at others, it was a burning and angry red. The kind of stark crimson that Demons were. Bits of his form almost seemed to mist and disappear, as if he was not entirely there.

Like a Shadow Man.

“Why would Hermes recommend me to a couple of Reapers?” he asked.

“This isn’t a regular occurrence for you?” Søren frowned.

“No,” he admitted. “I am used to divine beings inquiring about my services, but it has been quite some time. I was told not to —” he began and then did not finish, his gaze falling downwards in guilt.

“This is sort of an emergency,” the Trainer urged.

Finnigan’s eyes narrowed as he looked back up, studying him. “An emergency? That’s why you needed Hermes to back you up. What for?”

“The thing is, we need your help. We need you to warp time.”

He hesitated for a moment, before inviting them inside.