Reaping Shadows

He moved like the darkness itself. His shadow moved behind him of its own accord, stretching out along walls and peeking into windows. It did love to play, and it had been in a frisky mood all night.

He knew how it felt. He gave his shadow a sharp, impatient tug and it fell into line behind him to slink along the brickwork that formed the walls on either side of him. He made his way toward a pool of light from a street lamp.

"We don't have time for play right now." Darion Muerte didn't have time for anything anymore. That was the problem. He sighed again. "I gotta get a new job," he whispered. Darion whistled. Well trained, the Shadow was at attention immediately.

Darion motioned with his hand and let out another soft whistle that told his Shadow to seek and find.

Darion hoped that tonight's search would be a short one. He was dead on his feet; that was pretty bad, considering what he did for a living. He looked at his watch and wondered if it was too early for a cigarette break.

While his Shadow crept along the walls, sensing the heat of those inside the buildings, Darion walked farther into the pool of light and took out a pack of cigarettes. I really should quit, he thought. But it wouldn't make any difference now. There weren't that many job opportunities for immortals.

He snapped his fingers, and a tongue of flame danced on the ball of his thumb. Darion watched it for a moment. The lick of fire danced, turning blue, then red. He put his cigarette to the tip of the flame, took a drag, and let the smoke out slowly. Fuck, I'm tired, he thought. "I need a vacation," he said out loud. "I'd even settle for a night off."

His skin tensed when he heard the Shadow's call. It was loud and high-pitched. To mortals it would sound like the screech of cats in heat, but to him, it was a signal. His Shadow had found a soul.

Walking with quick steps out of the light, he let the darkness claim him. Darion flicked his cigarette to the pavement, where it landed with a shatter of sparks. There was no need to pay attention to where he was going. His feet would lead him to his Shadow.

He'd been working the streets looking for lost souls for over a thousand years. Seeing so much death had almost erased the memories of passion he'd experienced years ago in his mortal life. Bringers of death didn't deserve joy, only penance.

The shrill call of his Shadow pulled him out of his thoughts. He quickened his pace and entered a better area of his district, but not by much. It was his area to reap now; they were assigned automatically upon death.

The Shadow squealed, the sound like nails on a chalkboard, and this call was different. Darion ran toward his Shadow. He could see it slink under the window. It was quivering in fear, flickering like a candle flame caught in a breeze.

Once he saw the man that stood in the window, Darion understood the Shadow's distress immediately. Mortals couldn't see Shadows, but the man at the window was looking right at it.

A moment later the man shifted his gaze and looked straight at Darion. His blood froze. Fear filled his body. It was an emotion he hadn't experienced in many centuries.

The mortal didn't have an aura of death about him. Instead, he was something else altogether.