The crowd slowly thinned until the only sounds in the hall were those of wine glasses being toppled over, the chinks of cutlery, the eerie giggles of Ethereals peeking into the windows.

Cairo seemed to be muttering something to his father.

Running to tell Daddy now, isn't he?

If it was just me involved, being in the death row might be a bit simpler to accept. But it wasn't that easy. Vincent and the rest of the cabal, I had unknowingly put them in danger. All because of sheer stupidity. Hatred got the best of me.

Just before the party ended, Pilgrim Reaper removed his red cloak. He threw it to Sharifa before storming out the hall with his first son. The cloak hit the girl's face but she caught it with both arms. He held it close to her heart as though it was her father she was embracing.

Pity welled inside me.

Something about her reminded me of my former self. Ignored. Unappreciated. Longing for the love of her father.

Still with the cloak tucked underneath her arm, the barefooted familiar approached us bowing.

"Masters. Your rooms are prepared. I... shall lead you now if you wish," she addressed Vince and Vlad in a croaky voice like she was about to cry but trying not to.

Exchanging glances, we followed Sharifa out the grand hall through the long dark hallways of the castle. She silently ushered us to a grand winding staircase with crystal balusters, leading four levels up. I noticed there were circular holes at middle of the upper levels, so that when I stood at the ground floor, I could see the tinted glass ceiling that rose hundreds of feet over our heads. Colorful lights bathed us as we passed, making a projection of Death's triad of symbols on the sparkling white marble floor.

To someone else, it would be a sight to look at, stunning even. But to me, the symbols were cursed omens.

Soon, we reached the top of the stairs. The second floor seemed to be more welcoming. White lilies and red roses were everywhere, tastefully arranged in crystal vases of different shapes and sizes. Portraits of Roselle Sinclair in heavy gilded frames hung on the black Cherry wood walls. Fireflies came and went in small swarms, providing the corridors with flickering swirly glow so there wasn't any need for candles or torches.

We reached a spacious common room. Crimson leather couches faced the gilded fireplace. Fire was crackling in it. A chessboard made of gold and ivory sat on a crystal table. There were no flowers here, but still the fragrant smell lingered with us.

At the back of the drawing area were several doors leading to our rooms.

Amyr and Archie hurriedly tossed my master onto the king-size bed. They didn't bother being careful. Vincent was too drunk to feel anything after all.

When Sharifa offered to show me to my room, Vincent caught my hand and placed it on his chest. He was still asleep, murmuring something I didn't get.

"I guess that means I'm stuck here," I said to Sharifa, giving her a halfhearted smile. "I'm used to sleeping on a chair anyway."

Sharifa smiled back weakly. "It's a great pleasure to be wanted." There was a hidden sadness to her eyes as she turned away and headed for the door.

I noticed that she had a bit of a limp. To think that Pilgrim was hurting her...

"Sharifa," I called.

She paused to look over her shoulder. "Yes?"

"If you want someone to talk to, I'll be here."

All I got for a reply was a timid nod. And then, she was gone.

I waited until Vince was fast asleep before I gently pried his fingers from my wrist. He tossed and turned as I took off his jacket, waistcoat and loafers.

I was relieved to find some change of clothes in the wardrobe—a cotton long-sleeved nightgown, one your average grandma would wear. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I tweaked Vincent's hair from his eyes. In the flickering dim light, his face was both peaceful and troubled. For some reason, I felt excited and terrified, happy yet so lost at the same time.

I woke up curled beside Vincent. It was warm. Safe. But it frightened me. I changed a lot. I learned to trust him, depend on him, be with him; perhaps a bit too much. Sometimes, it got me thinking if I was still me.

Soft knocks interrupted my thoughts. Hurriedly, I shuffled toward the door and opened it to see Sharifa. Her dainty feet were still bare against the cold floor. She was carrying a neatly folded dress in her petite arms.

"The Grandmaster wishes to see you..." she said, peeking through the gap to see Vincent still sound asleep. "Alone." She handed me the blue-black frock.

"I..." I glanced back at Vincent. He showed no signs of waking up. "I understand."

Sharifa stood aside, facing the wall near the doorframe. "I shall wait."

I closed the door and took a deep breath. Should I wake Vincent up?

My whole body shook as I splashed lukewarm water onto my face. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. The unconquerable look in my eyes was gone. I took all the time in the world changing my clothes and brushing my hair until I couldn't bear prolonging my agony anymore.

Whispering a silent prayer, I stepped out of the room.

"I'm ready," I said to Sharifa, quietly closing the door behind me after seeing that my master still hadn't come to.

Without a word, she ushered me back to the corridors, heading to another flight of stairs. As we moved along, I gazed through the series of arched windows. The sky hadn't changed its midnight hue though I was sure several hours had passed.

Glitches came and passed, drifting like red lanterns over the lake, across the maze-like landscape, through the windows and inside the castle. Some of them were so close I could almost reach them. Fireflies flitted around us, illuminating our path.

When Sharifa saw me looking at the sky, she halted. "It's always night in this realm; without the moon or the stars. Flowers bloom everywhere without being tended to. The forest lives on its own. Except for the grand hall, the only source of light here is the fireflies—just like Lady Roselle envisioned," Sharifa said wistfully.

"She must have been very happy to see this," I replied. "I know I would."

Gently, she shook her head. "The Halo was created after the Mistress' death. The Grandmaster did this to honor her. This entire place is a fantasy turned into reality. Many centuries had past but her memory lingers here timelessly."

"That's sad," I mumbled absently as I followed her to a narrow hallway toward a wrought bronze spiral staircase.

"Perhaps," Sharifa replied sourly. "But rules are rules. Though he loved them all so... your master's mother, my own mother—all of the women who bore his children. The Grand Master could not make them immortal, like us."

"Why not?"

As if startled, the Indian lady fumbled with her colorfully printed skirt. Her tanned face turned pale all of a sudden.

"I have said more than I should, Aramis," she muttered in a hushed tone. "Come. Father—I mean, the Grand Master is in a good mood. It's not wise to anger him."

I couldn't quite decide what to think of Pilgrim Reaper. If he could love someone as much as he loved Mistress Roselle, how could he torture and worse, consider killing his own children? It didn't make much sense.

As soon as we arrived at the top of the stairs, Sharifa pushed open the French doors, wincing at the weight of it against her frail-looking shoulders. Under her loose sleeves, the evidence of abuse was almost visible—raw, swollen, bruised. Sharifa immediately hid it when she saw me looking. Her beautiful face spoke of acceptance, of self-blame, of fear.

Alone, I treaded across the tinted-glass floor. It led me to what looked like an open-air veranda on top of one of the castle's towers. With a light breeze blowing my hair, I took one cautious step after the other, holding my breath, afraid that the glass under my boots would shatter.

"Don't be afraid," said a man's voice.

I looked up to see Pilgrim Reaper. The Grim Reaper saying don't be afraid. How ironic.

He was in a blue button-up shirt, khaki Dockers and polished black loafers. Even in normal human clothes, his silvery crystal-like eyes sold him out. They glinted like those of a hungry animal in a cold night.

He sat in a garden chair made of wrought metal. In front of him were a coffee table and three other seats. He gave me a welcoming smile as he patted the seat next to him.

"The glass won't break," he added, taking a sip from his teacup. "You can try to smash it with a sledgehammer. Won't even leave a scratch."

I sat on the chair across the small table. Not on the one beside him. I made no effort to engage in small talk. Instead I tapped into Vincent's mind, making sure that he was still in bed.

When Pilgrim realized that I had no intention of humoring him, he gently put down the teacup on a matching saucer with pink roses painted on them.

"Roselle was a wonderful, wonderful woman," he began, looking away as if to admire the scenery. "Free-spirited, tenuous," his eyes lingered on me for a moment. "...opinionated."

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, lowering my voice so my teeth wouldn't rattle.

He pushed a half-filled teacup in front of me. "Patience," he said lightly. "By now, I suppose you already know why you're here."

I was about to take the cup but thought better of it. My hands were trembling. "I have tons of theories about it. But nothing makes sense."

Pilgrim Reaper raised an eyebrow. "Let me enlighten you then. First of all, your soul is mine before you were even born."

"Old news," I replied, not demurring to interrupt him. "I know all about your curse, the deal with Alessandra Clandestine. I know that you tricked her into believing that the curse would end with me."

There was a faint flicker in his glassy eyes—something between curiosity and amusement.

"Well, your theories are fairly accurate, Aramis Rayne. However, tricked may be too strong a word to describe the past circumstances. I did my part of the bargain—lent dear Alessandra two souls as she had wanted. What was borrowed must be returned."

"Vincent's my master now. I'm bound to him," I replied heavily, furtively measuring his reaction.

Pilgrim didn't appear anywhere near fazed. He just looked at me with evident amusement.

I added, "I belong to him now."

A musical laughter came in a low rumble from his throat. To me, it sounded like fingers on a chalkboard, stirring my insides. And with that simple laugh, the sky seemed to waver infinitesimally, threatening to fall and crush me. On the surface of the lake, it was as if I could see countless of hollow faces moving and wailing without a sound.  Souls trapped in a glass cage. The air reeked of wilting flowers, of burning candles.

Nausea rose in my throat. All of these were a reminder that he controlled the very land where I now stood. He was all-powerful here.

"There's always a way," Pilgrim said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Vincent is too stubborn and rebellious. Reminds me so much of Roselle. As much I hated to punish him for deliberately defying me, a Dad's got to do what a Dad's got to do," he said, sounding for all the world like a really concerned father.

My throat felt like it was being twisted. "D-don't kill him," I forced my mouth to speak out.

Smiling, Pilgrim hoisted himself in his seat to drop a cube of sugar into my cup. His brows knotted a bit as if to say Are you for real? Ceremoniously, he poured himself another cup of tea, blowing it before he took another slow sip.

I held my breath as I watched him perform his delusive impression of a regular Dad. It took a lot to force my face to stay expressionless.

"You know, your soul is Alessandra's," he pointed out nonchalantly. "Your mother's was Adrianna's. Took her soul myself. You were so small back then but look at you now."

I gritted my teeth, my fingers clutching hard on the cold armrests, they almost went numb. How could I not remember that day?

He seemed a bit more pleased to see me unnerved.

"Alessandra's soul is vital to me," he explained. "Her ability to open Doors and crossover to Nirvana without acquiring any damage to be exact.  She's what I need to get back to my home—to the immortals who'd thrown me into this realm. I want to go back, even just for one more time. It's just fitting that I give them the same courtesy they showed me, isn't it?"

There was a hint of anger and bitterness in his voice masked by the benign smile playing on his timeless face. Then he gave me a look that called for a little sympathy.

As if.

"Then why me?" I mumbled. "I can't do anything like that." My voice quivered slightly. If he had seen through my lie, he didn't let on.

Gazing up thoughtfully, Pilgrim paused to consider it for a while. "I don't need you. I need Alessandra's soul. Once I extract that soul from you, her abilities will come flooding back along with the rest of the memories of all her past lives.  And to do that, there are two possible ways," he answered, looking straight into my eyes as he rested his chin on the back of his hand. Very much like Vlad. "One would be to end Vincent's existence." He said it like it was no big deal.

The pounding in my head grew louder, joined by the quiet moans of torment that seemed to be coming from the lake. If it was just my imagination, I couldn't tell.

"No," I objected, sounding more desperate than demanding. "If you do that, my soul will perish along with his."

"Of course," he agreed almost enthusiastically.

Then, suddenly, he took an unexpected pause. He was just staring blankly at me.

"You can't take Alessandra's soul if I die." I hoped my voice would be more threatening, but it wasn't.

He didn't answer. In fact, he still wasn't moving. At first, I thought he was just perplexed with the way I talked back. But something was off about him. His index and middle fingers were still wrapped around the teacup's handle like he was about to lift the cup, but got frozen. His eyes were vacant and lifeless for about ten seconds as though he was having an episode of some sort. Or turned into a statue.

I waved a hand in front of his face but there was no reaction. "A-are you okay?"

Suddenly, like a robot that had been turned on, he blinked.

"Pardon me," Pilgrim smiled. He pressed his fingers on his temples and shook his head. "Absence seizures. I seemed to be having those more often these past few months. There's this new drug I'm trying, thanks to my son's recommendation. Maybe I really am getting old," he chuckled heartily.

Going back, I passed down that old trick to all my sons. If the master dies, the familiar's soul would also be destroyed and be sent to Oblivion. That's what we all say. My dear, that's not really the case. It's our little family secret to prevent familiars from turning against their own masters. If Vincent dies, your soul will be free from the Bind. I'd have preferred you as a human familiar but I can settle with your soul—an Elemental or better yet, an Ethereal. Whatever suits you best," he went on with that noble smile.

My scalp prickled, my breathing abruptly turning ragged. "And the other option?"

"I knew you'd ask," he exclaimed, seemingly pleased. "I'm beginning to like your bravery." Pilgrim leaned closer to me, resting his elbows on the table.

Before he could say more, the French double doors flung open.

Vincent trudged heavily to us, his face smooth and void of any emotion. He grabbed my hand. As he began to drag me back in, his fingers tightened around mine to the point of pain.

When I looked back, Pilgrim Reaper gave me an exaggerated expression of surprise. Then he said barely a whisper that it was almost lost in the breeze, "Swear fealty to me."

"Never," Vincent growled through clenched teeth, his shoulders shaking with rage.

We half-ran down the winding staircase, an ominous silence prevailing between us. As we reached the bottom, I was already lightheaded and out of breath.

Vincent suddenly stopped and harshly yanked me to a dark corner just before making a turn for the main hallway. I was about to complain when he pressed his finger over my lips to keep me quiet. Then, he warily took a peek to the next corridor.

I heard smothered whimpers then a distinct thwack, like the sound of flesh being hit.

Stifling a sob, I looked at Vincent searchingly. There was a pained look about his eyes.

It wasn't long before I saw the slumped figure on the floor. It was Sharifa, fumbling on the wound on her left cheek, shivering. Horror filled her metallic eyes when she saw the blood smeared on her fingers.

"Please," she begged in a wavering small voice. "I-it will never happen again."

Another figure stepped from the shadows. "Father was displeased, Sharifa." That cold monotonous voice could only belong to Cairo. "We've been through this for centuries. It is getting tiresome, you know. It appears to me that you never learn."

Cairo's fragile white fingers closed around the familiar's throat. He hauled her off the floor then slammed her on the rough stone wall. Despite his slight appearance, the boy was astonishingly strong.

All Sharifa could manage was a croak as tears and blood streamed down her cheeks.

Mist started to form at the sides of my eyes. I shifted on the balls of my feet, overwhelmed by the urge to help her. I couldn't just stand there and watch the girl get beaten.

Vincent, with his sharp reflexes firmly coiled his arms around me. He clamped a hand over my mouth to keep me from making a sound.

I tried to squirm and wriggle out from his grip though it was useless. In the end, I gave up. My hands fell limp on my sides as tears started to well from my eyes. I forced them back by chewing on the inside of my cheek.

Despite Cairo's grip around her neck, I saw Sharifa open her quivering mouth and whisper words of repentance.

Still, the boy looked unsatisfied. His grip tightened. Then, tilting his head closer to the pleading girl's ears, he said in a taunting voice, "Come again? You know I hate it when you mumble."

His metallic eyes were mercilessly cold. But I noticed something else. As Cairo kept tightening his left hand around Sharifa's throat, a serous liquid was slowly seeping out the sleeve of his shirt. The liquid trickled down, staining the floor with thick red dots. And I thought, blood.

"F-forgive me," Sharifa rasped with her eyes wide, her delicate face turning ashen blue with the lack of oxygen.

With a contented nod, the boy disinterestedly dropped Sharifa.

She was gasping for air, feverishly muttering "I've wronged Father. Broke his heart. It's my fault," repeatedly while touching the reddened mark around her throat. On the cold floor, she quietly wept in the shadows, slapping her face over and over again.

My blood boiled with blind fury. What was more painful was the fact that I couldn't do anything about it. They were too powerful. Too enormous to budge.

I just watched Cairo leave, watched Sharifa suffer from the safety of the darkness.

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Hi! It's me, Shim! Did you like this installment? If you do, please visit Reapers page or drop by my twitter account @Simply_shim  

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