Chapter 132 - Killer Session

Her hoodie jerked as the creature living in her flesh thrashed, clawing at its seal like a beast rattling the bars of its cage. Fear and rage boiled inside her, and she wasn’t sure she could contain it.

“Control yourself, Morrigan,” Noir warned.

“How can I?” she hissed through her teeth. “He’s the one who… who…”

She remembered being run down in the graveyard—how scared she’d been—how she’d been dragged back, completely helpless. Hopeless. She recalled the moment she knew she was going to die, and then being hauled into the crypt, where she thought she’d lie on that cold stone floor forever.

Two weeks later, that very spot was where she first met the changeling. It came into this world through her blood, after all, and now it was part of her. All because of him—that boy.

He would have left her to rot in that crypt, never to be seen again. He wouldn’t have cared. If nobody ever found her, if she dissolved into nothing but a forgotten pile of bones, he still wouldn’t have cared.

Morrigan’s hands curled into fists, her nails digging into her palms.

No.
No, no, NO!

The changeling bucked harder, pressing against the thin, magic-infused fabric that separated it from the outside world. Her gaze locked on the boy who had stolen everything from her. She hated him. Yet she could almost pity him for how weak he sounded, crying over whatever curse Arietta must have placed on him. That flicker of pity only made her hate him more—the idea that her life was changed because of someone like him.

For the first time since becoming a reaper, Morrigan wanted to use her power for a selfish reason. Or maybe she would just unleash the seal and let the changeling have its way. After all, it was because of him that the changeling was part of her in the first place—it would only be fitting.

Frank slammed his fist onto the table. “Don’t—DON’T sit there and talk to me like I’m some stupid, broken freak!” His voice cracked; his breathing turned shallow as his eyes darted wildly around the room. “You think this is all in my head? You think I just imagined the way she—” He stopped abruptly, his entire body tensing as if the words burned his tongue.

Morrigan stayed still, though her mind was racing.
He has no idea I’m standing right here, listening to every word. Imagine following him back to whatever cell they’re keeping him in, letting him see my face, and then…

The changeling seemed to like that idea. It calmed somewhat, as if they had just reached a business agreement and were ready to shake hands.

Morrigan’s gaze darted downward as Frank adjusted his posture. His left hand, shaking, slid toward the underside of the table. He was reaching for something.

Morrigan’s breath hitched as she tilted lower and saw it—a knife. There was a knife taped to the bottom of the table.

Oh shit. How did that even get there?

Dr. Larson must have noticed Frank’s sudden stillness, because he leaned back slightly, his pen tapping softly against his notepad. “Frank, let’s take a breath. I know you’re frustrated, but we can work through this.”

Frank didn’t move. His fingers curled beneath the table, brushing over the handle of the blade.

Morrigan felt like time had slowed.

I already know how this ends. I have no idea why there would be a knife there, but my list told me exactly what happens next. That doctor’s fate is already decided.

She didn’t know anything about the doctor, but she knew this boy had at least one victim—maybe more—and maybe if he was ever free, he would have a lot more.

Dr. Larson exhaled, his brow furrowing. “Alright, Frank. I’ll call for an orderly to take you back to your room. You’re getting too worked up. I think you need a break.”

Then Frank made his move. He yanked the knife from beneath the table and lunged at the doctor, swinging without hesitation—his movements wild, desperate.

Dr. Larson shoved back in his chair, his eyes going wide with horror as he scrambled to stand, the legs of the chair screeching against the tile. “FRANK—!”

Frank tackled him, the momentum sending them both crashing to the floor.

“FRANK, NO! NO! HELP!” Larson screamed. “ORDERLY!”

Morrigan saw the knife go up and then descend—like a scythe, she thought. Except when the knife came back up, it was red. Her scythe never once had a drop of blood touch it, despite all the bodies and spirits it had passed through.

Larson was still screaming, blood spraying through the room. The austere environment was completely shattered by toppled chairs and a mess of gore splattered across the pristine white floors. But Frank wasn’t done. The knife went down again and again, each thrust eliciting another scream, but each scream became weaker until it was nothing more than a pained gurgle.

Morrigan had seen people die before—plenty of times. She’d seen car accidents, suicides, shootings, and murders. She’d watched a little boy pushed under a truck, where his body was mangled and torn to pieces—instantly unrecognizable as human.

Now, Morrigan just stared, watching him—her killer—stab this man over and over again, red all over his face, greasy black hair falling past his pointy nose, and there was that crazed look in his eyes.

Blood spurted—thick and dark—leaking from the doctor’s mouth and pooling around his body, soaking right through the pale fabric of his once-pristine lab coat. A final strangled, wet gasp escaped him as his hands clawed uselessly at Frank’s arm. Then he went limp—no more gurgling, no more breathing. Frank laughed softly, both hands gripping the knife lodged in the doctor’s chest.

Then, his head snapped toward the door, eyes darting wildly between the two orderlies who rushed into the room.

Morrigan pressed herself deeper into the shadows.

“Frank,” the lead orderly said, voice controlled but firm as he inched forward slowly. “Drop it. Right now.”

Frank sucked in a sharp breath, his gaze flicking from the bloodied doctor to the door, then to the table, as if searching for an escape route. The knife trembled in his fist. “You don’t get it,” he muttered. “You don’t get it. I had to—he wouldn’t listen—he kept saying—”

The second orderly made a lunge at him, but Frank pivoted away, shoving past the table and sending Dr. Larson’s notepad and papers scattering across the floor. He bolted for the door, but the orderlies were ready.

“Got him!”

A thick arm clamped around Frank’s chest, dragging him backward. He thrashed, elbow flying back, but the other orderly caught his arm and twisted the knife free from his grip until it clattered to the floor.

“No! No! Get off me!” Frank roared, jerking violently.

“Sedative—now!”

Frank’s breathing was ragged and desperate. His limbs flailed, but the orderlies were stronger. They forced him to the ground, one pinning his arms while the other reached for something at his belt.

Then, mid-struggle, Frank’s eyes lifted—and landed right on Morrigan.

He froze. His body stiffened; his thrashing halted. Then his face contorted in sheer terror.

“No.” His voice cracked. His pupils shrank. “Look—look! Th-there she is!”

Morrigan didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Frank’s voice turned raw, frantic. “She’s—she’s right there!” He thrashed harder, a desperate, unhinged panic seizing his whole body. “She’s standing right there! The dead girl! The dead girl! She’s right there!”

The orderlies exchanged uneasy glances but didn’t stop restraining him.
“Frank, calm down,” the first one said, pinning him harder. “There’s no one there.”

Frank’s body spasmed as he tried to twist toward Morrigan again, his expression a tangle of disbelief and horror. But the fight was draining from him as the sedative took hold.
“I killed you,” he choked out. His voice fell to a hoarse whisper, eyes locked on hers like he couldn’t look away. “I—I killed you.”

Morrigan just stared. The changeling didn’t stir. She could barely breathe, feeling lightheaded—everything buzzing—like this was a dream.
“Frank, that’s enough,” the second orderly said quietly.

“No—no!” His body sagged. “She’s right there! She’s… she’s… just… loo—”

His words slurred as he collapsed. His panicked eyes fixed on Morrigan until his lashes fluttered, and his body went limp in the orderlies’ arms.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then one of them sighed, adjusting his grip under Frank’s shoulders. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Where the hell did he get a knife?”

The other orderly was checking Dr. Larson. “Oh my God. He’s dead. What do we do?”

“Police and medical staff are on the way. For now, we need to get Frank restrained.”

They dragged Frank through the door, and as soon as they were gone, Morrigan’s knees buckled. She sank to the floor, hands clamping around her temples.

Noir’s voice slithered through her mind. “Morrigan, control yourself.”

She couldn’t—no, there was no way.

There was another slithering in her mind, and she released the seal, letting it burst from the back of her hoodie and be free. Tendrils lashed at the air, but they knew there was no enemy in front of her anymore. He wasn’t a threat. No, he was never really a threat, she realized. In fact, he seemed almost pathetic. Granted, Dr. Larson might not feel the same way about the whole thing but… something was different.

She wasn’t afraid. So what was she feeling? She had no idea, but somehow a smile crept onto her lips.

“Morrigan?” Noir asked.

She blinked, noticing the black cat sitting on his haunches right in front of her, peering up through the veil of white hair that fell around her face. She chuckled softly. “Noir… that person… he’s the one who killed me.”

“Yes… It’s an unfortunate coincidence you crossed paths with him while on duty.”

“Yeah, but it makes sense. If someone is near death more than once—causes death more than once—it’s only natural I’d cross paths with them.”

She stared at the back of her hand, then turned it over, studying her gloved palm. A tendril snaked around her side and coiled once over her arm, its thinner end nearly brushing her wrist. She looked around and noticed how calm the tendrils were—one slid over her shoulder, while the others wiggled freely around her, almost floating.

Slowly, she exhaled, closing her eyes and forcing her breath to slow. She willed the tendrils to be still and they obeyed at once, freezing in place. Then, one by one—, they retracted, curling inward, slithering back through the seal and beneath her skin. The last of them tucked itself in beside her spine like an animal curling into a den.

She re-engaged the seal.

The room fell silent.

Noir watched her with measured calm, his golden eyes unreadable. “Are you alright, Morrigan? You’re…”

Her hand clenched into a fist, then loosened again. She stood slowly and tossed her hair back. “Yeah. I’m alright,” she finally said.

Yeah, I am alright, she confirmed silently to herself.

Then her eyes settled on a ghostly presence, the only other entity accompanying her in the room besides Noir.
That’s right. I still have a job to do.

Dr. Larson stood in the middle of the bloodied room, his spiritual mouth agape and his hands trembling as he touched his own throat, as if expecting to find a wound there.

Slowly, his unfocused gaze lifted, sweeping over the destroyed room—across the blood pooling on the tiles, the overturned table, and the scattered papers. Then, at last, he looked at her. Shock rippled across his features.

“You...” His voice was barely more than a whisper. “Who—what are you?”

Morrigan inhaled, steadying herself. Her voice came out distant, almost hollow. “I’m the dead girl your patient was just talking about.”

Why did I say it like that?

“Morrigan,” Noir said in a chastising tone.

Morrigan sighed. “That’s not why I’m here, though. Sorry. The thing is, you’ve died, and I’m a reaper. Dr. Larson… it’s time for you to move on.” She let out a slow breath, rubbing her temple with two fingers. “Look, I’d normally try to ease you into this,” she continued, her voice still distant, “but I’m kind of… out of it right now, so I’ll give you the short version.”

Dr. Larson just stared at her, his fingers still absently touching his throat.

“You’re dead,” she went on. “I’m the one assigned to make sure your soul gets where it’s supposed to go. The positive news is—you were a good enough person, so you don’t have to worry about what comes next. You’re going to heaven.”

She wasn’t sure if that was reassuring, but it was all she had to offer.

Larson blinked at her, letting the weight of her words settling in. He didn’t respond right away. Maybe he was still trying to process everything; maybe he was too numb to feel anything at all.

Her scythe materialized in her grip with a quiet rush of energy. She looked at it, and looked at Dr. Larson. “So… anyway, I promise you this doesn’t hurt or anything. It’s actually pretty quick.”

Dr. Larson took a step back, eyes widening. “No—this can’t be real.”

“I’m sorry, but it is…”

What is this feeling? I feel like I’m being so cold, but none of this is his fault. I just watched him get brutally murdered, and I’m…

Morrigan began to step towards him, but the scythe felt wrong in her hands. She knew she was supposed to give him a few parting words before sending him on, yet the cool shock that had settled over her was mingled with something else entirely. Her gaze lifted.

“Hey, so you’re a therapist, right? That guy’s therapist?” She nodded toward the door.

“Frank? Yes, he was such a troubled young man,” Larson said, shaking his head. “Abusive upbringing, signs of sociopathy.”

“About the girl he said he killed…” Morrigan ventured.

Larson’s gaze darted back to her suddenly, his eyes widening as he took her in. “Morrigan Livingston. Wait… is that really you? But how is that possible?”

“The thing is, he wasn’t crazy—at least not as far as that goes. He did kill me, but I didn’t pass on. I became a reaper.”

“Morrigan,” Noir said, jumping onto the table and flicking his tail. “It is inappropriate for you to say all of this.”

“It’s not against the rules, is it?” she asked. “He doesn’t look like he’s in distress, and we don’t have anyone else to reap today, do we?”

“Well… no, but… what’s the point of this, exactly?”

Morrigan turned away from the cat and looked back at the doctor, who reached up to adjust his nonexistent glasses as he eyed Noir. Yeah, I guess even with everything else going on, a talking cat is still a weird thing to see.

“Anyway, Dr. Larson, can I ask something about Frank? I hope patient confidentiality doesn’t apply.”

“Well,” he said slowly, “that depends on what you ask.”

Morrigan sighed. “Now that you know he wasn’t just crazy… when he talked about killing me… I need to know—did he seem to feel bad about it?”

Larson put a hand under his chin, thinking. “Well, he said it was an accident and that he didn’t intend for it to happen. He blamed his friend for pushing you into him.”

“So he didn’t take the blame, but did he feel bad at all?” she pressed, her voice growing harder. “Do you know what they did? After Pony-boy—uh, Donny, I guess—ran me down, he dragged me back. I couldn’t even scream for help because he knocked the wind out of me—I couldn’t even breath. I don’t know what they would have done to me, but I fought back, and I died. Then they threw me into a crypt where my body probably would never have been found. Did he tell you any of that?”

She felt the changeling stirring again; her hand trembled slightly. Larson just stared at her, a deep look in his eyes. “Why do you want to know?” he asked.

“Because I just have to know!” Morrigan’s voice shook. “Did he feel so guilty about it that it drove him crazy? Is that why he’s here? Or was it really just because a witch cursed him?”

Larson sighed and gestured to a chair. “Why don’t you have a seat, Morrigan. I think I’d like to speak with you for a moment. And as for Frank… well, I’ll tell you what I can.”

READ NEXT CHAPTER!
Chapter 133 - Therapy

[Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Sorry, it was delayed; I hit a bit of writer's block and took some time to work out some plot points and get a more solid grasp of what direction I wanted to go with the next half of this volume. I'm feeling much more confident now.]