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  THE REAPER

  RESCUES THE GENIE

  Nocturne Falls, Book Nine

  Kristen Painter

  Welcome to Nocturne Falls, the town that celebrates Halloween 365 days a year. The tourists think it’s all a show: the vampires, the werewolves, the witches, the occasional gargoyle flying through the sky. But the supernaturals populating the town know better.

  Living in Nocturne Falls means being yourself. Fangs, fur, and all.

  Death is what grim reaper Lucien Dupree knows best. Or rather, he did until his reaping powers became tragically unreliable. Now he’s living in a self-imposed exile to keep humanity safe. Sure, it’s a lonely existence, but it’s the best thing for everyone. Except him.

  Retired genie, Imari Zephara, has found her happy place in Nocturne Falls. Well, as happy as she can be considering the alternative returning home would bring her. Then a dark force rears its ugly head and throws her life into turmoil. Suddenly the only way to save herself is to join forces with death, who turns out to be a pretty amazing guy.

  But Lucien’s defective powers might not be enough to overcome centuries of jinn tradition, meaning Imari’s life would no longer be her own. All he wants is to give her the chance to choose her own future. Hopefully, one that includes him. What more could a guy a wish for?

  THE REAPER RESCUES THE GENIE:

  Nocturne Falls, Book Nine

  Copyright © 2018 Kristen Painter

  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—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ISBN: 978-1-941695-36-4

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  Table of Contents

  THE REAPER RESCUES THE GENIE

  About the Book

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  About the Author

  Other books by Kristen Painter

  Many Thanks

  Dedicated to my readers,

  who are obviously the best.

  Death was Lucien Dupree’s life.

  Or it had been for more years than he could count. But then, once a grim reaper, always a grim reaper. Retirement didn’t really exist, not in the human sense of the word, anyway. The powers were permanent and dependable.

  At least, they were supposed to be.

  As it turned out, they weren’t, and he’d been forced into retirement. He’d accepted it, yes, but there had been no other option. His most important power had become unreliable, and that made him unreliable. So the job he’d given up his human life for centuries ago was gone.

  Just. Like. That.

  He’d bowed out of all future assignments with the understanding that if things changed, he could return to work.

  Things hadn’t changed. Not in decades. He no longer had hope they would.

  Because of that unexplained shift in his abilities, his life now was a more self-imposed exile than the easy, carefree days the word retirement conjured up. What else could it be? He was a reaper who could not control the most important of his abilities.

  Something he’d discovered in the most horrible way possible.

  He squeezed his eyes shut at that memory and leaned his head against his chair, ignoring the book in his hands. He wasn’t really reading it anyway. He’d tried, but there wasn’t much that could distract him from the pit of despair he quite often sank into.

  Tonight was one of those nights.

  He was, in a word, miserable. But why use one word when there were so many others that did the job equally well? Despondent. Wretched. Morose. Hopeless.

  “Lucien, stop moping.”

  He didn’t need to open his eyes to know his grandmother had entered the room. Her words, kind as they were, only served to worsen his mood.

  After all, she was the ghostly proof of how broken he had become.

  But being the good grandson he was, he opened his eyes, fixed a smile on his face, closed his book, and brought his gaze to hers. “Yes, Mémé.”

  She peered at him, the hallway behind her visible through her translucent form. “I was going to bed. But I could sit up with you for a while if you want. Talk a little, maybe?”

  Her kindness widened his smile effortlessly, and he shook his head. She was such a good woman. “Thank you, but I’m fine. I need to go check on things at the club.” He didn’t. The club almost ran itself. But it was the escape he needed.

  She pursed her lips. “You don’t look fine.”

  “I was just thinking about Kora.” That was only a half-lie, and an easy one to tell because it was so believable.

  Hattie sighed with understanding. “That child. Where is she now?”

  He shrugged. She was nearly impossible to keep track of, but the last he’d heard, she was in Istanbul. Hopefully staying out of trouble, but that was unlikely.

  “Are you going to send Greyson after her again?”

  “Only if she asks for my help. Which she hasn’t. I’m not sure she will again after Rome.”

  “But you saved her life.”

  He stared at his hands. At the hands that wielded unpredictable death. “Technically, Greyson saved her life.”

  “And you paid for his efforts, so that allows you to take credit.” She shook her head. “She needs a spanking.”

  He snorted. “Best of luck with that.” But he admired that Hattie was fearless even in the face of the willful vampire who was his daughter. He put the book on the chairside table and stood. “I love you, Mémé.”

  “I love you, too, Lucy.”

  Only Hattie Dupree could get away with calling him that. It was one of many things she could get away with. Like the lace doilies and dishes of hard candy in the living room. If she asked him for the world, he would have bankrupted his vast wealth to get it for her, but she’d never asked for anything, except to live with him after…the incident.

  He would have thought she’d have asked for her life back, even knowing it couldn’t happen, but she didn’t seem to hold that against him. Maybe because he’d managed to return her soul to her? He wasn’t sure, but they never discussed it. She just went about her life as if she’d always been a ghost.

  As if he wasn’t responsible for her undead state of being.

  Grandmothers were interesting and wonderful that way. Now more than ever,
she had become his heart. His soul. The one good thing in his otherwise bleak existence. “Sleep well, Mémé.”

  “You, too. Good night, sweetheart.” She floated away down the hall toward her quarters in the enormous underground levels that made up their home.

  He almost sank back into his chair, but tonight the club really did call to him.

  Insomnia was the business that had helped occupy him in the years since they’d moved to Nocturne Falls. It was an exclusive, supernaturals-only hotspot that gave him some leverage in town. He didn’t need much. Just to be left alone. The club’s popularity bought him that. So did some of his other financial contributions in town. The cost was worth it to him, though. And highly effective. In fact, only a handful of people knew he owned the club or that he resided in Nocturne Falls. That’s exactly how he wanted it.

  Of course, the Ellinghams knew, but he didn’t mind. They were the family who owned the town, and they were a reasonable bunch of vampires. He had deeply conflicted feelings about vampires. There were some very good ones, such as the Ellinghams and Greyson Garrett, the vampire who worked for him on an as-needed basis. Then there were some dreadful ones, such as his ex-wife.

  His lip had curled without him realizing it.

  He sighed out the bitter taste in his mouth and took solace in the fact that Pavlina was no longer around to torment him. And not because of anything he’d done. His hands were clean of that death. She’d just made too many enemies and had paid the price. But he wasn’t going to dwell on her. That would only drag him down deeper.

  Tonight, he needed to be lifted up. He needed to sink into the energy of the one thing he would never have again. Humanity.

  Because, despite serving only supernaturals, the patrons in his club still had a great deal of their human sides left. The vampires not as much as the shifters, for sure, but the witches were essentially just humans with very special gifts. The fae looked mostly human if you didn’t focus on the ears.

  In his club, he could inhale the warm breath of life, revel in the laughter and joy of his patrons, and remind himself that there was still good in the world. He could imagine that he too was human again.

  He wasn’t. He never would be. But even a reaper could dream.

  His mood made him reckless. He had so little to lose. Most nights, he was content to lurk in the secret hallways that surrounded the club and watch the patrons through the one-way mirrors that lined the walls for that very purpose. But tonight, watching wasn’t going to be enough.

  So after throwing on a dark suit, a dark shirt, and a thin pair of black leather gloves, he slipped through a passageway that led from his home to the always reserved area of Insomnia’s VIP section.

  It was always reserved because no one was allowed in it but him. Even if he only used it once a year.

  The music’s pulsating thump vibrated through his bloodstream, forcing him to be present. Forcing him to let go of the past. It was a good thing to lose himself like this sometimes. To forget the past and live in the moment. Too hard to do often for someone like him, but he needed this tonight.

  He walked to the railing that separated the elevated platform from the club a few feet below, but kept slightly behind the sheer silk curtains that hung from the corners of the private box.

  The place was busy. That pleased him. He didn’t need the money, which was part of the reason he paid his employees so well, but he wanted the popularity. He wanted the power that gave him to remain secluded. And he wanted to see the people who made up this curious town.

  Especially because he almost never left his home. It was in everyone’s best interests that he not mingle. He was too dangerous, too unpredictable.

  And he didn’t want another unintentional death on his hands. Literally.

  He gripped the railing, letting the pulse of the music flow through the metal and into him. He didn’t dance. He had no idea what rhythm was, but the throb of the club music felt like a heartbeat, and that he understood.

  He liked it. Better that thump, thump, thump than the deafening silence of nothing.

  The lights strobed and flashed over the crowd of dancers. He imagined the colors, but it had been so long since he’d actually seen them he had no idea what they might actually look like. The ability to see color had been stripped from him when he’d gotten his first assignment as a reaper.

  His division was known as the War Angels. It was partially a misnomer. They weren’t angels at all, but merchants of death. But the war part was correct. He and his fellow reapers swept the battlefields of the world, taking the souls of the casualties, both soldier and civilian.

  All of the War Angels had been stripped of their color vision. It was supposed to be a mercy, to prevent the burnout from seeing so many wounded. So much blood.

  He would have liked the chance to choose for himself, but that was an old wound and not one he spent much thought on anymore. What was done was done.

  A server approached. Trina, a fae woman who was one of the shift managers. She was also one of the few who had permission to engage with him. “Good evening, sir.”

  “Evening, Trina.”

  “Shall I get you the usual?”

  He paused a moment. His usual was a single glass of good cognac. Tonight, his usual didn’t feel like it would be enough. “Bring the bottle.”

  “I’ll be right back.” She was familiar enough with him that her expression showed no shock or surprise.

  If he wanted to drown his sorrows, that was his business.

  He watched her work her way through the crowd and back to the bar, but she was only partway there when another woman caught his eye.

  The woman was very, very pretty. Even without his ability to see color, he understood that her dark hair and dark eyes made for a mesmerizing combination. The men around her seemed as captivated as Lucien was.

  She was standing with a group of female friends near the edge of the dance floor. He recognized a few of them as regulars. They seemed to be trying to persuade her to dance with them. She kept shaking her head and laughing off their requests.

  At last, her friends gave up and went off to dance without her. She stayed where she was, arms crossed defensively in front of her, making eye contact with no one. The smile that had been present for her friends left when they did.

  He understood. They’d already talked her into coming to Insomnia tonight. This wasn’t her usual place. He would have known. He would have remembered seeing this particular woman before.

  She seemed to want to leave but acted like she felt some kind of obligation to remain. Maybe it was one of her friends’ birthdays. Or hers? No. Not hers. She wouldn’t celebrate like this.

  Trina returned with his bottle of cognac and a single glass. She poured for him, but left the glass on the small table. She’d been trained well. “Can I get you anything else, sir?”

  He tipped his head toward the woman across the dance floor. “Do you know who that is?”

  Trina stepped closer to the railing and followed his line of sight. “I don’t recognize her. I can ask around.”

  “No, it’s not important. Is she drinking anything?”

  “She asked for tea, but that’s not on our menu.”

  Tea? What sort of woman came to a nightclub and wanted to drink tea? His curiosity was aroused. “We don’t have tea.”

  It was a statement, not a question, but Trina answered him anyway. “No, sir.”

  “We serve coffee.”

  She sort of wobbled her head back and forth. “Yes, but that’s because we can’t make Irish coffees without it.”

  He snorted softly. “Stay here.”

  It only took a minute to return to his apartment and raid the kitchen for a tin of his best Assam loose leaf. He entered the VIP box again and set the tin on the table. “Make her a cup of that.”

  Trina nodded, took the tin, and went to do as he’d bidden.

  He left the railing and sat on the plush white leather sofa where he could stretch out his lo
ng legs. Tea. How odd. Almost as an afterthought, he remembered his cognac. He tugged his gloves off so the liquid could benefit from the warmth of his hand and lifted the glass, holding it up so the light shone through it.

  He knew the color of good cognac. Hadn’t seen it in ages, but it wasn’t a color he was soon to forget. He imagined this cognac had that deep amber hue. A sip confirmed that it was his usual, but the bottle already displayed that it was a very fine brand. The liquor’s burn lit the length of his throat with a pleasant heat, and for those few moments, he thought he remembered what normal felt like.

  But just thinking that brought back all the reasons why he wasn’t normal.

  He frowned and tossed back the remaining cognac. That was no way to treat such a fine beverage, but correctness was the last thing he cared about. A recklessness came over him. Why should he care what was proper?

  He poured himself another.

  Obliterating part of his brain, now there was a thing to focus on. He lifted the glass, but reason returned and he made himself sip it. He wasn’t an animal. He was just a miserable sot of a being who had no real reason to carry on.

  Save for his grandmother.

  An outsider might guess his daughter would be reason enough, but Kora had been poisoned against him by her mother to the point that his child regarded him as a bank account and not much more. He knew Kora blamed him for her mother’s untimely end, but he’d had nothing to do with it, despite his deadly touch.