Reapers - Thirteen Brothers

XXXXIII - Punishment

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."