Reapers - Thirteen Brothers

I - Moving

We moved a lot. When I said a lot, it means it was the twelfth time that we moved since I was eight; since Mom died.

Dad said it was necessary to move. As a novelist, he needed inspiration. At least that was what he had always told me.

Marcel Rayne, also known under the pen name Locke Mort, wasn't really that much famous of a writer. Four of his works had already been published. He sold about more than five hundred copies of his latest book but I guess he was still waiting for his big break, which I doubted would ever come.

Dad wrote science fiction and mystery. Not many liked those genres. People liked vampires and werewolves more. And overcomplicated love triangles.

Who could blame them? The world had become so hopelessly boring everyone would literally gobble up anything that's new. Besides, no one seemed to read books anymore even if the book was any good. Reasonable people would just wait for the movie to come out. If it ever would.

Honestly, Dad got turned down more times than all my fingers combined. They said his works were too morbid. So, to pay the bills, he worked as a ghost-writer for a politician in Boston while being a freelance copywriter for a local tabloid.

It wasn't enough, though.

Most of the time loan sharks would come by our apartment at night. I would hear Dad beg over and over for them to give him more time. They would beat him up and tell him that if he didn't pay his debts, they would take me instead. Dad always promised that he would pay them on his next salary day but he never did. There was never enough money for the bills. From then on, I had always kept a kitchen knife under my pillow.

"Your room is upstairs," Dad muttered without even glancing back at me as he lugged our bags into the living room. "There's a private bathroom like you wanted."

I nodded mechanically even if he wasn't looking. There was no need to say anything-a skill I had mastered after living for too long with him.

Most people don't really see the resemblance between me and my dad, except that he has wavy dark brown hair like mine. His skin is so pale since he spent most of his time indoors in front of his laptop. Dad isn't exceptionally tall but somehow manages to appear lanky. At thirty-nine, he looked older than his age, perhaps owing to the constant crease on his forehead. He rarely smiled after Mom died.

Sniffing, Dad looked around our new house, but as soon as he turned to my direction, he dropped his gaze and started to his truck to get the rest of our meager belongings.

With a deep sigh, my eyes swept through the whole of our new home.

The living room was spacious, with dark mahogany walls and flooring. A wooden framed sofa with burgundy padding was set near the window facing the brick fireplace. The set was the center of the room. In the middle of it was a wooden coffee table where an empty porcelain vase was placed. Most of the other furniture were dusty while the others were still swathed with white sheets of cloth.

To the right of the living room was the kitchen. Pale yellow curtains hung from the grimy panels of its windows. Like the first one, most of the fixtures were made of wood, though lighter in color. In there were a two-burner stove, a conventional oven, the microwave we brought from Boston, and an old single-door fridge with rust on its edges. Not like we could afford more. The mere fact that he was able to afford a house this big was already suspicious.

Just before I was starting to head for my room, one of the cupboard doors creaked open. I stifled a cry and looked around.

There was no wind. The windows were all closed. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, a shudder shooting down my spine. There was an eerie chill in the air. Suddenly, I felt like running but it was like my feet were impaled in the floor.