Vengeance born a grim an.., p.1
Vengeance Born: A Grim & Reaper Netherworld Tale, page 1
Stop running from your shadow.
Embrace it.
It takes a lot of strength to reflect the light.
~LC~
Vengeance Born
A GRIM & REAPER NETHERWORLD TALE
L.C. SON
Vengeance Born
Copyright © 2023 by L.C. Son
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in
any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical
methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book and all parts of the Netherworld and the Beautiful Nightmare Universe and its collection are works of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.LCSonBooks.com
Cover Design by Mibl Art
Editing by Alexa Thomas at The Fiction Fix
Contents
Content Guide
Tales of a Grim
1. Thelios
2. Lorna Sydney
3. Thelios
4. Lorna Sydney
5. Thelios
6. Lorna Sydney
7. Thelios
8. Lorna Sydney
9. Thelios
10. Lorna Sydney
11. Thelios
12. Lorna Sydney
13. Thelios
14. Lorna Sydney
15. Thelios
16. Lorna Sydney
17. Thelios
18. Lorna Sydney
19. Thelios
20. Lorna Sydney
21. Thelios
Tales of a Reaper
22. Roark
23. Pella
24. Roark
25. Pella
26. Roark
27. Pella
28. Roark
29. Pella
30. Roark
31. Pella
32. Roark
33. Pella
34. Roark
35. Pella
36. Roark
37. Pella
38. Roark
39. Pella
40. Roark
41. Pella
Tales of Grim & Reaper
42. Roark
43. Pella
44. Thelios
45. Roark
46. Roark
47. Thelios
48. Thelios
49. Sydney
50. Thelios
Epilogue
And they all lived darkly ever after…
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Content Guide
This book contains content suitable for mature adults aged 18+. It includes sexual situations, discussions of grief, death, and sexual abuse.
The above is not exhaustive. Additional provided at the following: http://www.lcsonbooks.com/vengeance-born.html
Please consider before reading.
Tales of a Grim
CHAPTER 1
Thelios
Death. Even among us in the Netherworld, it is a mysterious and ominous power—a power so strong, so gripping, that it winds itself into you until you’re left with nothing of yourself.
That’s where I come in.
As the resident Grim of Purgia, the place where all lie in wait for their final judgment, I alone carry within myself the mirth of darkness, void of life. The very essence of nothingness rests in the murky chasm of my power.
And while it may be a void of whatever life is found here in the Netherworld, it is still only a fragment of the power of death itself.
It is for that reason that a line stretching beyond what even my eyes can see stands before me now: because no one wants to die. Immortality is the enviable, albeit unattainable, presence that eludes us all. While we may live more than ten times the lifespan of mortals in the earthbound realm, all creatures, both mortal and supernatural, desire the one thing of which we are incapable: possessing our own souls.
In fact, some would rather give themselves to my mirth, which is their right, than to board the ships to an uncertain finality on the shores of the Underworld, where Hades awaits. There, Hades uses souls for his own gain, leaving those who remain to wander in the void of his keep while he usurps their power.
Many would rather slip into nothingness than grant Hades such a prize.
And so, they stand before me now.
“Next!” Dane shouts to my left, waving the line forward.
I sigh, watching as a feeble, yet stout and heavily-bearded, troll ambles toward my table. I already know where this is going. The man will beg for his life, promising some grand gesture as I gather him into my scythe, only for me to end up with nothing in return.
“Name.” Dane’s tone is flat as he stares up at the man, prepared to write his name on the scroll. If there’s one thing we pride ourselves on in the Netherworld, it’s recordkeeping. While Hades allows us a modicum of autonomy by taking a small percentage of those destined for the Underworld into my mirth, he wants all souls accounted for.
There are only three ways to escape the Underworld:
Be handpicked by the Prince of Purgia, Kharon the Ferryman, to remain as a resident of his province.
Be chosen by lottery, which I also manage, to become a resident.
Or vacate your soul either via my mirth by freewill, or reaped by Roark if found in vagrancy.
There are no other options.
The bearded troll’s hand shakes as he quietly mumbles something too faint to comprehend.
“Louder, old man!” Dane shouts, his patience waning.
I don’t look at the troll. Instead, my eyes shift upward toward the black gates—there’s rumbling in the courtyard.
“Let us through!” a distinct female voice clips through the darkness.
“You are not permitted inside!” Calis, the chief guard of my citadel, bites back. “Only those chosen for high court may enter. All others remain at the disposal of the lower magistrates.”
Normally, I would ignore the usual grumbles in the courtyard, but a small whimper, like that of a child, catches my attention. Children are a rarity in the Netherworld, and even more so are those set to board the ships to the Underworld.
“I demand an audience with the Grim lord!” the same female voice shouts again. This time, it’s followed by a menacing snarl, a singsong lilt weaved into her words. It’s soothing but violent, and I like it.
But there’s something else—a magnetism I’ve never known tugs at the heartless hole in my chest. Vertigo sets in as the black gates invert like a boomerang until I’m left with nothing but the view of a woman wearing a dark cape. I shake my head, hopeful to ward off the dizzying spell. Looking up, I notice a small soul by her side, likely the child I heard earlier.
I stand from behind my table, and Dane’s eyes grow wide in surprise. Even he is surprised by my response. I am not easily rattled, but this woman…something about her disturbs me.
“My–my name is—” A quivering voice from the other side of the table reclaims my attention. It’s the bearded troll. I don’t care what his name is or where he’s from; he’s wasted enough of my time.
Without warning, I lift my scythe. “Into darkness,” I whisper as a chasm funnel forms at my side, instantly drawing the troll into my dark flume. I close my eyes as raw currents of electricity rivet through me, absorbing his essence into my own. Still, I feel nothing. Just as I assumed, the troll had little to offer.
“Stay back!” Calis yells once more, and my eyes pop open, only to see the woman and child closer than before. “If I have to tell you again, I’ll board you on the ship to Hades myself!”
Snarling once more, the woman turns to Calis, squaring her shoulders, daring him to respond. “You won’t lay a hand on me!” she grits through her teeth. “I must speak with the Grim lord!”
As Calis lifts his brawny arms, I know what comes next: he intends to strike her into a dead-and-wake, a blow so strong that she’ll appear as dead until she wakes hours later. By that time, he would have her shackled and bundled aboard the ship to the Underworld.
I watch as if time stood still, marveling at the mysterious woman demanding to see me. Although her hooded cloak gives me nothing more than her voluptuous silhouette and a pair of legs that curve just outside her covering, something about her lulls me into something akin to peace.
Still, the woman does not flinch. Either she accepts her fate, or she devises some sinister will in her mind—which one, I do not know.
What I do know is that I must have her.
And so I shall.
CHAPTER 2
Lorna Sydney
Hala squeezes her small arms around my waist, grinding her teeth, fearful of the blow we’ll both receive from the Grim lord’s guard. I, though, keep my eyes trained on the burly, dark haired man before me.
I could lift my cloak, show him everything a wraith-like soul like me has to offer, but I know better. Doing so would likely enrage not only this lowly guard, but the Grim whose mercy I need most.
Correction. We need.
T
No. That is the least of my worries.
What I fear is letting my little sister become a lottery prize of that savage, Purcival. Many believe only the high courts oversee the grand lottery held at Festivus, but very few know of the low-court underbelly lottery market.
Scalpers like Purcival trick poor souls like our father to gamble where the stakes are high. Not only did Purcival trade our lottery for his own gain, but he sold my father’s soul to the black ships of Hades—the ships even the Ferryman himself doesn’t steer. Now, with Purcival’s duplicitous nature, I fear his intentions toward my young sister.
Claiming me as a soiled wench, Purcival set his wicked sights on Hala from the day her bosom blossomed. He desires to make her his personal milking wench or some other lascivious tool for his depraved pleasures.
So, here I stand, willing to take whatever blow I must to ensure my sister’s safety. She is all that matters.
I wince, tightening my eyes while sucking in a breath as I feel the heat of his arm whip through the wind at the side of my face, but it doesn’t land.
Peering through my hood, I’m surprised to see a bone-white hand now wrapped around the guard’s wrist, holding it steady in mid-air.
It’s the Grim lord.
Only the side view of a skeletal-painted face with bright green eyes glares in my direction. There’s a haughty curl to his lips, his raised brow letting me know I owe a debt.
Dropping to my knees, I pull Hala down with me. “Thank you, my lord,” I groan, hating even the sight of me groveling before any man.
“Don’t thank me yet,” a lush, heavy voice sweeps over me like the wind.
“Please, my lord,” I continue, my face still lowered to the ground. Hala shrieks at my side, squeezing me tighter as two black snakes coil around the Grim lord’s ankles and slither up his legs to hide beneath his thick black gown. I firm my grip on my sister’s hand, hoping to calm her. “We beg for your aid.”
“They are a matter for the lower court, my lord,” the guard quickly answers.
A low tremor rumbles through the Grim lord, but he says nothing. His thick gown rustles, and I feel him leaning over me. Long, boney fingers stretch out from the sleeves of his cloak as his hand finds my chin. His touch is gentler than I’d expect as he slowly lifts my face to meet his.
I’ve never been more thankful for our practice of remaining hooded. Being what we are, only our true mates are permitted to see our face in full. It’s been eons since I’ve removed my hood—so long, in fact, I’d barely recognize my own face.
I can only see through the thin veil of cloth that has forever been my covering. It’s a good thing that while I can see out, no one can see in.
Still, the Grim lord is careful not to let his hands wander further than my chin. Even for a Grim lord as renowned as he, I fear what the sight of me could do to him. More so, I fear the sight of me would repulse him. He’d gladly send me to the shores of Hades himself.
“Well then,” he begins in such a low tone, I strain to hear it.
“Yes, my lord?” I answer, my lip quivering.
“You said something about begging.”
My breath hitches. He’s making me eat my words in front of everyone. No doubt many are furious I’ve garnered his attention for my own, but I can’t worry about them now. I must do what I came to do: save my sister. If I lose my own life in the process, so be it.
“My lord, we, my sister and I, seek your mercy.”
A hearty laugh rolls through the courtyard. With the way the onlookers carry about, you would think I was the court jester.
The Grim lord’s shoulder’s shake with amusement. “You are Nether, dear one. Even you know there is no grace or mercy found in these lands. Dare I say, not even in Purgia.”
The laughter grows louder, and I do what I can to make sure he hears me. Sitting back on my knees, I rear my shoulders back and lift my head. “But my lord,” I exclaim, reclaiming his attention as a sly skeletal grin hovers once more at the side of his mouth. He raises a fist, quieting the crowd. “There is yet mercy in your chasm, is there not?”
He turns away from me, motioning for two of his guards. I suppose he no longer finds me amusing.
“Or perhaps there is mercy somewhere–anywhere—in your court? Your galley, perhaps? Your bedchamber?” The last phrase is a whisper; I’ve run out of options. “Please, I beg of you!”
Throwing myself at his feet, I tug at the hem of his cloak. I know it isn’t permitted to handle an esteemed member of the High Court like this, but I’ve run out of options. The cape of my hood flies back as I lay outstretched before him.
I’m not sure if he’ll throw me into his chasm as he did the troll before me, but even that would be a better fate than Hades or Purcival. As long as Hala and I are together, that is all that matters.
His large green eyes beam down at me as he bites his lip. Devious intentions dance behind his eyes as they land square on my breasts, nearly popping out of my corset as my father’s heirloom sways between my cleavage.
“Mmm…” he hums, rubbing his boney hands together. “I like the way you beg.”
CHAPTER 3
Thelios
Once again, I’m mesmerized.
This time, however, it’s not from the vertigo of the black gates. Instead, it’s the view of this mysteriously perfect creature grasping at my ankle. I’ve never seen more beautiful begging in my entire existence.
It’s not just the sight of her luscious breast spilling out so perfectly before me that catches my attention. Rather, it’s the trinket looming between them that stops me in my tracks.
From what I gather of this woman and the child clinging to her side, they are Specter folk—wraith kind, bound in cloaks, lest their hallowing glare damn you into a hell-like state. It’s been years since I’ve seen one up close since, rumor has it, the wicked Changelings laid waste to the Specters and very few remain. They may be all that is left of their kind.
“My lord?” the woman whispers, her full lips, the color of pomegranate, curling upward as she cranes her neck toward me.
As I offer my hand, she places her petite, yet frightfully pale, palm in mine. I help her from the ground, and she stands upright with the child nestled under her arm.
Trailing my hand along her chin, I slowly twine my fingers around the shiny ring hanging on a silver cord just above her bustline. I do my best to push aside the desire to run my boney palm over the pillowy soft mounds tempting my resolve.
I don’t know how she obtained such an ornament, but I find it curious that something of Grim origin would be found on a Specter, of all folk.
Dropping my hand so as not to bring undue attention to the rare find adorned on such a perfect vessel, I allow my palm to squeeze at her breast, just enough to make others think I only want her for one reason.
She grunts, to my surprise, as my thumb grazes the imprint of her nipple, and the sound makes my dick jolt.
