The Reaper's Muse

by Frills and Quills

Just when he thought saving the Skidmore kids was the hardest job of his life, JB meets Samantha Cretney, an historian who, unbeknownst to her, has lived thirteen different lives throughout history as a test subject for one of Interchronological Rescue's experiments. Now, her very existence is a threat to the universe. Why must saving the world always require sacrifice?

16. We Are Prey

"They hate me," Sam groaned for what she knew was likely the third time today. She and JB were on their way back to the village the following afternoon, scanning the misty horizon for any sign of Lucie and Pierre Rochelle. A swarm of clouds that had been looming from afar in the early morning now unfurled across the sky. It sprinkled hints of rain that chilled Sam's exposed neck. She should have worn a scarf over her light blue damask gown and gone with a wool petticoat instead of the breezy white linen that fluttered around her stockings. Of course, she hadn't expected to spend her afternoon seeking out their no-show guests. "I must have done something to offend them, some subconscious twenty-first century mannerism that I didn't even notice must have made its way into our conversation and now they've probably told the whole village I'm a terrible person!" Sam realized this was almost certainly an exaggeration, but she knew the only way to soothe her anxiety was to jump to the worst conclusion ahead of time so the reality wouldn't seem so bad.

JB bit his bottom lip and shook his head. "It was probably me that did something stupid. I'm so used to depending on invisibility, I've hardly polished up my pre-1960s social skills."

Sam stuffed her fidgety hands through the slits at the sides of her petticoat and into the hanging pockets tied underneath. Her fingers grazed the brass thimble inside and she breathed a tiny sigh. Of course the thimble was still there—she'd felt for it at least five times since they left the house. Where else would it be? Chill out, Sam.

She was used to other people telling her to calm down, that she was being dramatic. JB was not one of those people. Part of her wished he'd tell her everything was fine, but she also felt a refreshing comfort, knowing she wasn't the only one whose anxiety flared when faced with uncertainty.

The village was unsettlingly still when they reached the other side of the bridge. The only movement was the scurry of a rat, scavenging between the cobblestones before disappearing into a small crack at the base of one of the houses. Sam shivered. None of this was right.

"Maybe they're all in the square," JB suggested.

He wasn't wrong. When they reached the square, it was so full of people, that Sam—being no taller than five feet—could see only the backs of men's coats and ladies' fischus. But she could feel the panicked buzz of energy that emanated from each horrified gasp, each agonized cry that streamed through the square. JB slinked through the chaos toward the center, where everyone's attention seemed to be focused, and Sam followed close behind. There, with all eyes on him, stood Pierre Rochelle. He leaned over a wooden cart, red-faced and disheveled. Sprigs of damp hair sprung out from his queue. In the cart was what appeared to be a mound of some sort, covered by a large sheet.

"This is a disgrace!" Rochelle bellowed at no one in particular. "Nearly three years of horror and still this monster continues to terrorize us all. We have failed to protect our wives and children. We are prey. Curse the king and his hunting party full of cowards and cheats!" His arms trembled and he gripped the edge of the cart tighter for support. Behind him, a young boy covered his ears and buried his face in his mother's skirts. Some of the onlookers closed their eyes and whispered words of prayer, while others clenched their fists or wept silently. All succumbed to the grip of fear. All but one man, who lurked amidst the frenzied mass. Sam glimpsed him for only a second when they locked eyes—his a frigid shade of grey under thick black eyebrows—before he ducked out of sight. Something about his emotionless gaze made the hairs on the back of Sam's neck prickle. She squeezed JB's arm and opened her mouth to tell him about the man, but their attention was drawn back to the booming voice of Monsieur Rochelle, who now reached for the cloth on the cart and cried, "See for yourselves what my wife endured!"

The crowd surged, blocking Sam's view of the cart, but the wails and shrieks that erupted around her told her everything she needed to know. Lucie was dead.