Deathless

Chapter 34: Millie

We drive to London in silence. The quiet occasionally punctuated by Jackson swearing at other drivers as we hit more traffic. My mind feels swollen, achingly full of knowledge it didn't carry before. Nothing Jackson had said was believable. Nothing about it made sense, but at the same time... I knew every word was true.

Jackson was a reaper. Jackson killed people.

I knew he believed that he didn't. That reaping and murder weren't the same thing, but how could he be right? How could taking a life, even if he helped them pass over, not be killing?

Jackson had never made sense. It was what I loved about him. I'd felt separate from the world for so long, but meeting Jackson had shown me I wasn't the only one. I wasn't the only person who floated through life, carried on a different breeze than everyone else. Now I knew the truth. Now I knew all the pieces of Jackson, the parts he'd always hidden behind the blinding smile and slick charm. The big question was simple—did it change how I felt about him? How could knowing he was a reaper not change how I felt about him? But if it didn't? What did that say about me?

I turn to look at him. The window is down and his raven-black hair is being swept back by the wind, his eyes narrow, dagger-sharp and glinting like metal. The late-morning sun picking up the golden hues in his skin. His crumpled shirt is rolled up at the elbows, showing the definition of his arms. I still want to touch him. Nothing he has said has doused the flames of that fire. I turn away. The thought of losing him feels like physical pain, as real and substantial as a blow to the jaw. But all this? It's all too much and I can't breathe.

"We're not far now if the traffic's on our side," he says, his deep voice crashing through my thoughts. We've just arrived in central London—more black cabs on the roads than cars, old and new buildings towering over us. The air is denser here, with too many scents to split them apart. Everywhere there's movement, throbbing with life. Like Bristol, everything is a little off, too. Every so often I see people yelling at each other in the streets, a person sobbing on a park bench. The churches and cathedrals we pass are full of panicked and scared people.

The world is still spinning, but it's tilted off its axis.

I don't know London, but Jackson seems to. Apart from a visit to the West End to see a show with Mum and Roisin as a child, I've never been before. We arrive in a part of London where every building seems to be an imposing skyscraper. Metal and concrete soar upwards, sharp and as brutal as weapons. Sunlight radiates off the glass, making the world shine unnaturally. Jackson parks on the road outside one of these towers. He looks up, having to lean his head back to see the top. I know we've reached our destination. I recognise the garish logo—Red Horse Media.

"Is this it? What are we doing here?"

Silence.

Jackson climbs out of the car, still staring at the building and waiting for me to follow. Sighing, I slowly climb out and walk in his direction. He looks at me, his face grim.

"Come on, let's go." He storms ahead as I continue to stare up at the building, still with no idea what the hell we're doing here.

***

We walk through a bustling office near the top of the building, Jackson having charmed a frazzled receptionist into letting us up. I follow him through, trying not to stare and look even more out of place than how I already feel.

We're walking through the office of the Daily Beacon, a red-top newspaper known for its love of unflattering photos of celebrities and its dislike of almost anyone who wasn't white, male and privileged. It's a large open plan space, with countless desks. The acrid smell of printer ink and bitter coffee lingers in the musty air. The people look like extras from a zombie movie, with crumpled clothes and the pasty, sickly complexions of people who don't have the time for daylight or self-care. I can't tell if that's their normal state of being or, like everyone else, they're still coming to terms with being in a world with no death.