Destined to Reap (Reaping Fate Book 3) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Destined to Reap

  Reaping Fate - Book Three

  Kinsley Burke

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblances to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons-living or dead-is entirely coincidental.

  Destined to Reap

  Copyright © 2017 by Kinsley Burke

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-0-9985493-5-4

  Created with Vellum

  When it smells like smoke, the rug is charred, and your emergency stash of chocolate has melted… the probability that you own a hellhound is high.

  -Kiara Blake

  Contents

  Also by Kinsley Burke

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Newsletter

  Reach Me At

  Also by Kinsley Burke

  Reaping Havoc

  Reaping Hell

  Destined to Reap

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  Chapter 1

  My life choices were not often declared to be the most intelligent. Bright, clever, rational… unfortunately, those descriptions remained absent from the define-Kiara’s-thought-process equation. No, I was impulsive. That was the word drilled into my head in sixth grade by my history teacher, Mrs. Abbot. She was a hulking woman who towered over me. Cherry-red framed glasses engulfed her face, yet somehow she managed to raise her eyes high enough to glare down at me from over the top of the rims. This occurrence had happened so often, I’d grown concerned her eyeballs would become stuck permanently onto her forehead.

  Mr. Roberts, the school principal, hadn’t shared my alarm when I brought the potential medical emergency to his attention. The cause of the latest eye-raising incident had captured his focus instead. I sat there squirming in my chair. No one liked being seated inside the principal’s office, even when it was on a voluntary basis. It had only been my choice because my feet had moved that direction before Mrs. Abbot could think to direct me. I selflessly mentioned to the principal that my doctor could help with Mrs. Abbot’s eyeball ailment. Glasses with extra-large frames holding lenses raised high enough for forehead-planted eyes to see through were no doubt hard to come by.

  Right as I thought my sincere concern for Mrs. Abbot’s welfare would finally garner me some appreciation, Mr. Roberts crossed his pudgy arms on top of his shiny mahogany desk and leaned forward until he peered at me straight in the eye.

  “Kiara, what do your teacher’s eyeballs have to do with five clogged toilets in the girls’ bathroom?”

  Mouth had soundlessly opened and shut three times as my brain scrambled to formulate an answer. My worry had been about human body parts, not cold, porcelain objects. The latter subject becoming mentioned proved that I had failed miserably with the topic du jour avoidance I’d marched into the room determined to maintain. Explaining that a dead eleven-year-old girl had decided to alleviate her boredom by shooting streams of cold water from the sink faucet into unsuspecting faces wasn’t optional. Finding a solid reason to keep kids out of the restroom until Dead Girl had taken her pranks elsewhere had seemed like an excellent decision at the time. Stuffing five maxi pads down each toilet in order to achieve said goal probably not so much. Handing myself over to faculty on a platter of punishment… Yeah, thinking scenarios through would’ve no doubt saved me plenty of headaches throughout the years. And detentions. Yet that day, seated in the office with Principal Roberts a mere foot away, I opened my mouth to spit out the first non-ghost thing that popped into my head. “Does Mrs. Roberts know you were kissing Mrs. Dunn behind the gym last week?”

  Yup, impulsive. Probably a good thing I’d failed to put my college degree in psychology to good use. Who knew what results my patients would have after a session with me because… here it was fourteen years later, and Brain still took a holiday whenever quick decision-making was required. I was often left trying to figure a way out of a who-knows-what mess. Impulsiveness was my motto. If ever I got a tattoo, that was what it would say in tiny script across the small of my back. Impulsive. First, I’d have to get over the needle thing. Needles were pointy, and I preferred my skin smooth and hole-free.

  However, it wasn’t concern over my skin condition that left me muttering every curse word I’d ever heard—and then some. No, all the bones inside my body held my undivided attention at that precise moment. They were precariously close to becoming shattered into millions of broken pieces.

  That would be the result after I plummeted several feet only to smash against hard concrete. Should I fall, that was. Logic had failed to remind me while scrambling up the ladder that the ghostly mark I’d chased didn’t have to abide by the rules of gravity if he didn’t want—although most ghosts did. Nor did the just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I have to move on—as in toward the light—have to be concerned about climbing the twenty-foot scaffolding left behind inside an old warehouse. Naturally, I was wearing a skirt and heels because dressy work-approved slacks? Those were in high demand. Therefore, I had none. Or rather, close to none. To be honest, the skirt I wore didn’t care one iota that I dangled feet above the ground. Many, many feet to be precise. The obstinate spirit I chased didn’t care either—the one who didn’t have to worry about falling down from where he’d climbed.

  Now I was left clinging onto a beam suspended high in the air for dear life while the inappropriate climbing clothes no doubt gave anyone down below quite the view—not that anyone actually stood gaping up at me with outstretched arms, ready to break the fall I knew to be only seconds away.

  Yet despite the odds—so not being in my favor—somehow, my sword would become drawn and I’d wipe the smirk off that cheeky ghost’s face. I’d even laugh as he was sucked down into the pits of Hell. Somehow that scenario needed to hurry up and figure itself out. I didn’t have all day.

&n
bsp; “A Praedator and a ghost walk into a coffee shop,” the ghost who I’d named Mr. Obnoxious said. “The barista turned to the Praedator and asked, ‘What kind of coffee for a girl like you?’”

  Praedator. That was what I was. Not by choice, mind you. Thanks to my leg accidentally tripping a cambion, aka Red Coat, aka Olivia Bauer—who’d signed a contract with Satan to be his specialized reaper. I was left to fulfill the rest of the agreement after my leg prompted her to stumble into the direct path of an oncoming car. All remaining twenty-nine years of the thirty-year pact.

  Thanks, Leg.

  “The ghost chimed in and said,” Mr. Obnoxious continued, “‘better make it a smoked butterscotch. Why?’ the barista asked. ‘Because she’s smokin’ and sticks it hard to your chest.’ Get it? Smokin’? Fire? Flames? Hell?”

  The seriously insufferable ghost doubled over in laughter at what had to be the lamest joke ever told. I could have at least been impressed that a dead man dressed in a Zoot suit was current on the latest Starbucks offerings if not for the hanging from the rafters thing, and the wishing I had a ball of cotton to stuff into my ears thing. But I wasn’t. Impressed, that was. I still had those two things to resolve.

  “And sticks it hard to the chest?” Mr. Obnoxious asked through gasps of breath—and ghosts didn’t even require oxygen. “Your sword?”

  Yeah, my sword. The same one I was desperate to unhook from my back and use to plunge burning flames into his chest. I’d done the same to many other marks since the sword arrived on my doormat almost six weeks earlier. However, there was something different about this particular ghost in comparison to almost all of the others. I’d been tasked with sending them all to Hell, but the other spirits were dramatic. You will not stop us was more often than not their parting words when the stab of my blade caused them to roll up into balls of flames. But this guy was trying to do his best Seth Meyers on open mic night—of which the ghost was failing miserably. Thanks to his picture in my wherever-I-left-it purse, and the marking on his right cheek, I knew I had the correct man. Otherwise, I’d think Brain had done a major mix-up in today’s ghost hunt. Still, the lame jokes, combined with leading me on a merry chase around the city before settling on an abandoned warehouse, had me questioning if Hell had gotten the assignment wrong. I was used to violence. Anger. Adding fifteen new bruises to my body whenever chasing after Hell’s Most Wanted. Mr. Obnoxious was in way too cheerful a mood for someone who should be worrying about how well his polyester would hold up against eternal flames.

  Regardless, it was day three. The end of the allotted time to get my mark to Sebastian Balázs, Satan’s right-hand demon, before my soul was nabbed in Mr. Obnoxious’ place. I didn’t relish an eternity in Hell. The heat would frizz my hair. Never mind what the climate would do to my skin.

  All right, there were a heck of a lot more concerns about the location demons called home than hair and skin. But since Mr. Obnoxious would be the one boarding the one-way trip on the Hell Express, not me, who cared? That was all there was to it.

  I carefully inched forward on the high rafter only for a crossbeam to bring my short journey to a sudden halt. Of course, reaching the highest and most exclusive spot in the entire building where the ghost had planted himself was difficult. These days, complexity defined every aspect of my life… and then some.

  “What did the Praedator say to the ghost…”

  I tuned out the wannabe standup comedian and somehow—miraculously—managed to climb around the first obstacle in my path without losing my balance. A few feet of straight shoot was my path across the top of the high beam before I was forced into my next stop. Twisting my body into awkward positions to bypass the challenge commenced. Thankful was I for my monthly yoga class. I knew when signing up the splurge would someday pay off.

  “Can you do that move again, Praedator? Except turn a little this way first.”

  My head tilted back to study my mark only to realize my face wasn’t where his gaze had focused. Great. Dead Guy wasn’t only a comedian, but a pervert. Seemed to be my lot in life as of late.

  “You know,” Mr. Obnoxious said, leaning back and crossing his legs. The damn ghost acted as if he were reclining on a sofa, not balancing on top of narrow steel. “You’re the fourth Praedator they’ve sent after me.”

  “Oh yeah?” I grunted, continuing to inch forward. “What happened to the other three?”

  “Dead.”

  The comment gave me pause. “You’ve killed three cambions? Three half-demons?”

  “Now don’t raise those pretty little eyebrows at me, sweetheart. You should know that boss-man doesn’t want a scratch on you. So do me a favor and don’t fall, okay?”

  “If you don’t want me to fall, why the heck did you climb up here?” I peeked down. Oh, shit. I shouldn’t have looked. “Want to do me a favor and relocate to the bottom rung of the ladder so I can stab you on the ground?”

  That was, if I could figure out how to get myself down from this mess. Chances of meeting back up with the floor without the word falling becoming the mode of transportation were decreasing by the second. Self-preservation had my teeth gritting as I shimmied forward those last few inches.

  Mr. Obnoxious stared down from above me, his face now close to mine. “Welcome, Praedator. I’d offer you a drink, but currently, I’m out.”

  “That’s okay. I’m not much of one for hospitality.”

  “So now what?”

  “What?” I stared at the puzzled expression on his face. “I would think it’s obvious.”

  “What’s obvious is you’re too scared to let go of the beam to grab your sword.” Mr. Obnoxious shifted his perch. “No need to rush, I’ve got time.”

  He had a valid point. Fingers clenched the smooth metal tighter. I was too paranoid of falling to let go. My sword burned the length of my back, a constant reminder that it was there… waiting to be drawn so its job of sending the next wanted mark to Hell could be completed.

  A thought nagged as I clung to the rafters, contemplating exactly how I was going to complete my task. “You want to be caught, don’t you?”

  His lips curved with a slow smile. “Why would you think that?”

  “You haven’t used your energy to shove me off this beam. Wouldn’t you like to add a fourth Praedator to your murder list?”

  “Tempting, but boss-man wouldn’t be pleased.” His head shook. “My sacrifice. It’s for the cause, you know? The greater good and all that shit.”

  “What greater good?” I asked. “Who do you work for?”

  Mr. Obnoxious leaned forward. “You’ve met the boss-man, and he told me to tell you that you’ll meet again real soon.”

  Energy revved up from the ghost while a cryptic grin filled his ashen face. Supernatural wind blew around me, and my grip on the rafter beam tightened against the new assault. So much for not wanting me dead.

  “Stand.” Gone was the mirth that had been displayed on the mark’s face since I’d finally located him earlier that day. Seriousness now reflected in rigid features. “Stand, Praedator.”

  “You’re crazy,” I screamed. My grip was loosening, and I threw my arms around the rafter in a hug. Pressure built between me and metal, threatening to rip away my precarious hold.

  “Stand, Praedator.”

  The ghost rose to his full height in front of me. With my body shaking from the manipulated air pounding against me, I felt my arm muscles relaxing their grip. Almost as if being controlled, I pulled myself up to unsteady feet. A mixture of amazement and achievement coursed through my veins, the adrenaline warming my blood at the acknowledgment that I was not yet a flattened pancake on the cement floor below. Supernatural energy pounded against my body from all directions, creating a cushion of support that allowed me to maintain balance.

  Mr. Obnoxious nodded, and I pulled the short-bladed sword from the harness at my back. “Infernum.”

  Both the ghost and his wind rolled up into a burning flame of fire. He will meet you soon were
the parting words from the mark’s mouth, and suddenly I realized I still didn’t know who this boss-man was.

  You’ve met the boss-man.

  There was only one ghost I could think of. Legs trembled and my balance became unstable. Sheathing the sword onto my back, I slowly sank down on the beam.

  You’ve met the boss-man.

  But it couldn’t be—could it? Red-Eyed Ghost came to mind. The evil spirit who had attempted to kill me by way of sharp rocks below an old wooden bridge when I was fifteen years old, but instead ran off with my mother’s pendant. A family heirloom was what he took. Something I was desperate to retrieve, especially now that I suspected Celtic magic was held inside those dark red stones.

  Air rushed out of my lungs as I absorbed the news that it might very well be him who searched for me, just as I hunted him. But looking for each other would have to wait because… I took a peek down below. Way, way down below. Well, hell. This wasn’t going to be easy. Fortunately, my cell phone was tucked into the pocket of my leather jacket.

  “Hello?”

  Hadley—my BFF in the entire world who was supposed to be figuring out a loophole in that ironclad contract I had going on with Satan—answered on the second ring.

  “Help?”

  Hadley sighed. She didn’t often sigh, so whenever she did, I was left feeling about two inches tall. I’d heard a motherly aspect to that exhale, which combined itself with exasperation in her tone of voice as she asked, “What mess did you get yourself into this time, Kiara?”