by Brindi Quinn
The Death and Romancing of Marley Craw
By Brindi Quinn
~
Copyright 2014 B.E.L.
Artwork by Ben Clemann
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is dedicated to my fellow con-goers.
J.S.
T.S.
And all the rest.
Play on, cosplayers. Play on.
Also By Brindi Quinn:
Heart of Farellah: Book 1
Heart of Farellah: Book 2
Heart of Farellah: Book 3
Seconds: The Shared Soul Chronicles
Sil in a Dark World: A Paranormal Love-Hate Story
The World Remains
The Atto’s Tale Miniseries
EverDare (Book 1 of the Eternity Duet)
NeverSleep (Book 2 of the Eternity Duet)
The Ongoing Pursuit of Zillow Stone
Chapter 1: Not Dead
All of this – this whole entire thing – is my cousin’s fault.
Blame him if you need someone to blame.
If that pompous little pimple hadn’t forgotten to pick me up from work, I wouldn’t have ended up down this torn-up, run-down, smells-like-dirty-foot alley in the first place.
Forgetful little scab.
Little.
Little is relative, really. Milo’s actually two years older than me. The only nineteen-year-old still waiting for a growth spurt. A spurt, I’m guessing, that’ll never come. Scrawny limbs to match a scrawny brain, too many nights cooped up in the basement playing DotA, not enough nutrients – if you ask me, excessive hermitude’s to blame.
Blame.
There’s that word again.
Blame. Blame. Fault.
Maybe this isn’t Milo’s fault, after all . . .
Okay, if it isn’t Milo’s fault, then the fault definitely falls on Howard – Howie Mix-Tape-Maniac O’Neil – who wouldn’t let me leave work, a.k.a ‘the Bistro,’ until I’d listened to his most recent ‘masterpiece.’ The whole. Damn. Thing. Now there’s a good chunk of time I’ll never get back.
Speaking of which, masterpiece is relative, too. Layering one pop song on top of another isn’t any great feat when all the songs already sound the same.
Growl and hiss. If Howard hadn’t kept me, there’s no telling how things might’ve ended up differently.
There’s no telling.
Okay, so maybe this wasn’t Howard’s fault, either.
I’m a reasonable girl. Downright down-to-earth if you ask me. The only person I can really blame this on is myself. At any point in my seventeen years of existence I could have taken a self-defense class or two. I could have beefed up my arms a bit. Instead, I’m just wimpy old me, without the pipes to defend myself.
Not that I didn’t try.
I kicked at him, sure. Kicked him right in his downtown, too. It didn’t do much good, though. Before I knew what was happening, that creep was on top of me, and then . . .
And then what?
There was screaming. My screaming. But it was muffled by some nasty-tasting piece of fabric. A sock or a glove or a wad of towel. And then . . .
Well, I don’t really want to think about that.
And now, here I am, lying behind the old movie theater, with my arms tied over my head and a trickle of red leaking from my side.
Gross.
One thing is certain: I’m not dead.
Well, not yet anyway.
But the trickle of red is quickly starting to pool and my head feels light – like that one time I locked my knees in marching band. That time, I went down like a zebra on the Sahara. . . . Wait, do zebras live in the Sahara, even? Meh. Geography isn’t really my strong point.
Or would that be zoology?
Above me, the sun hides behind a foggy sky. I can still see its shape, but it’s smogged over by cloud. People don’t die this way. Not in the daytime anyway. This whole thing would be much more predictable if it were the dead of night. Yeah, I can see it now: Defenseless girl walks along a shady alley with nothing but a flickering streetlight overhead. Briskly, she scurries, stealing glances over her shoulder, when–
BABAM! A rapist strikes.
Rapist.
Let’s change the subject, shall we?
Sigh. I wonder what’s going to happen to me now. I can’t foresee anyone walking by, and when I try to move, the trickle of red turns into a stream. So what, I’m just supposed to lie here and wait for THE END? Well, that’s just great! I’ve got things to do. I can’t be bothered with something like dying. Carmen and I were supposed to go to Robbie’s cabin this weekend, and then I was FINALLY going to let Noah Carmichael – who’s a little weird and has this unhealthy obsession with all things Russian but all-in-all’s pretty cute, I guess – kiss me!
Guess THAT won’t be happening.
Stupid Milo. Stupid Howard. Stupid rapist.
Rapist.
Can’t say I’m fond of the word. But what else would you call him? Criminal? Jerkwad? Murderer would work too, I guess. And pervert.
Oooh! Got it! Pedophile. I won’t be eighteen till next month, after all.
Groan. None of those words make it any better. This is by far the worst, worst, worst way to go. Whoever finds me is in for a treat. Hello world, take a look at my . . . well, all of me.
Everything’s getting fuzzier. Colder. Distanter. Distanter? More distant, I mean. Eh, who am I kidding? I’m not so great with grammar, either.
Fuzzy. Cold. Distant. Numb. Drifty. Red.
No, I’m definitely not dead.
But I’m almost dead.
. . .
. . . . . .
. . . . . . . . .
“Marley?”
Through the fuzz, a voice says my name, but I can’t answer it. My mouth stopped working some time ago. So did my lungs.
“Marley Craw, right?” the voice says again.
Shoot! It’s a guy’s voice. Well, that’s humiliating. It means I’ve been seen – all of me’s been seen.
Don’t look. Please don’t look. I’m not normally this . . . exposed.
There’s the click of a pen, followed by the sound of scribbling. “Marley Craw,” says the voice. “Female. Human. Seventeen. Red hair . . .” The scribbling turns vigorous as the unknown person scratches out what he’s just written. “Fake red hair. Naturally a brunette.”
Well, he doesn’t need to say it like that! So sue me, I like dye.
“Green eyes. Wound to the abdomen. Scrapes on the arms and wrists. Discoloring on neck. Bruises at the inner thigh. But what really did her in is that gash on the back of the head.”
Gash.
Oh, excuse me; I didn’t realize I had a gash.
The scribbling carries on. “Morality is at a six. Charity is at a four. Seems like she’s right on the fence. Believes in God, but not particularly devout, so she doesn’t get a free ride.” The scribbling stops. “Marley Craw, can you hear me? Would you say you have love for your fellow man?”
That depends which fellow man.
I can’t say my answer, but he seems to hear it anyway.
“Heh.” The pen clicks. “All right, I’m going to assign you two different reapers, Marley Craw. We do that sometimes,
when a soul isn’t leaning particularly one way or another. Two weeks should be enough to determine where you’re going. If we were under old law, you’d go straight to purgatory. Lucky for you, that place was closed up some two-thousand years ago. Expect your reapers later today. Here’s my card if you have any questions.”
Through the haziness, something flutters down from the sky and lands on my numb stomach.
“Beck Lemmings. That’s me. And beneath that’s my number. . . . Well, I expect you can’t see it right now, but take a look once you’re up, okay? Okay. All done here. Goodbye, Marley Craw.”
He’s . . . leaving? But I need help!
There’s nothing else. Not a single clickety pen click.
Fine then! Leave me here! See if I care!
Ugh.
Smell you later, Beck.
Reapers and purgatory and God. Who knows what the hell that was about? The guy could have at least helped me up. Or called an ambulance.
. . .
. . . . . .
. . . . . . . . .
Brrr. I’m cold.
So super insanely cold.
No . . . wait.
I’m not cold. I’m hot. I’m so hot that it feels cold! It feels like I just ran into a sauna after a dip in an icy lake! I did that one time, you know. It was at summer camp and . . . oh, what does it matter?
I’m deathly cold. I’m deathly hot.
And then I’m just fine, and I find I’m standing over the naked body of a dead girl with dyed red hair.
~ Marley Craw ~
Chapter 2: Definitely Dead
That’s me.
Ohmigosh, that’s me!
Naked, pale, corpsey! Beck was right – there’s definitely a gash. And from the looks of it, I am most definitely dead.
So not cool!
I can’t look.
But . . . I also can’t stop looking.
Oh gawd. I’m like one of those grisly accidents you can’t help but stare at! Like a car wreck or a bar fight or an unkempt woman toting four screaming kids around the supermarket! I always feel bad for women like that, you know, but then at the same time, I’m like, ‘Can you PLEASE scoot your toddler over approximately six inches so that I can grab some mac and cheese?’
Anyway, if I’m going to lie there like that, I have to cover myself at least. I look here and there for something to throw over my corpsey body. Here yields nothing, but there! Beside a broken pallet leaning against the back of the movie theater is a sketchy-looking pile of clothing. Not ideal, but it’ll work. I start for the dirt-stained rags when suddenly I realize something:
If that dead body is me, then how am I also here standing over it?
I look down at myself. Hands, waist, legs . . . pretty sure I look the same as I always have. WAIT!
HAVE I GAINED WEIGHT?!
No, no, phew, must’ve been a weird angle or something. Okay, so I look the same as I always have, except for the fact that I’m wearing a matronly black smock I’ve never seen before. SO not flattering. More importantly – there are two mes? One dead me, one alive me.
What . . . am I?
A ghost? Creepy. An angel? No thanks. A spirit?
Spirit.
A dead spirit.
What was that Beck guy saying? Something about purgatory? And reapers? And leaving me his card?
. . .
His card!
Speak of the devil. On the dead me’s stomach, there’s a small red rectangle of paper – Beck’s card, presumably. I’ll grab that first and then see about covering up the dead me’s body. I inch forward, towards the victim.
Victim.
I’m a victim now, it seems. All because that stupid rapist decided to make me one. Poor dead me. I feel bad for her . . . well, for me, I guess.
I inch a little bit more – inch, inch, inch – and stop because my feet won’t go. My shoes are stuck, like they’ve suddenly become caught in goo or gluck, most likely biohazardous in nature. I can’t move any closer to the dead me, because the closer I get, the more this very unwelcome feeling threatens to grip my organs. Maybe it’s panic, maybe it’s dread, I can’t really tell; all I know is if I get any closer to the dead me, I’ll crash or melt or burst into tiny little pieces!
Before I know it, my knees have started to shake. Soon to follow is the rest of me, and within seconds, my shaking is powerful enough to be its own entity. If it grows self-aware, we’ll be in trouble.
Oh gosh. I’m losing it. I’m totally starting to lose it! SO not a good time to lose my head. Get a grip, Marley Craw. March right over there, grab that business card, and figure out what’s going on!
What’s going on?
I’m dead, that’s what. D-E-A-D. Dead as a deadbolt DEAD.
All at once, the truth of what’s happened hits me square in the gut and I fall down onto those knees of mine that won’t stop shaking. Along with them, my hands shake, shake, SHAKE!
Ohmigosh, ohmigosh, ohmigosh!
I, Marley Craw, am dead.
Not nearly dead. Not dying. DEAD. The proof is in the pudding, and the pudding’s my dead corpse. Broken, defiled, disgusting – I really can’t stand it, but I can’t look away!
I cross my arms over myself and shake. I’m not one for drama. Can’t stand those dramarama queens, but death warrants at least a little drama, right? RIGHT?!
“You don’t need to look at that.”
A warm voice speaks in the midst of my drama, as equally warm hands cover my eyes, cutting off all view of the dead me.
“W-who’s there?” I gasp, before realizing the most likely culprit is: “The RAPI–”
“You shouldn’t have seen that, Marley Craw,” the voice says into my ear. It’s a guy’s voice, but different than Beck’s, whose was all business-ish. This new voice is kind of . . . soothing-like, and soft, too.
“How do you know my name?” I demand. “Are you in cahoots with that Beck guy?”
“Shhhh,” the soothing voice shushes, hands securely over my eyes. “You don’t need to be here, Marley Craw. You shouldn’t be here. It isn’t good for you to see your body.”
My body?
My DEAD body.
Dead. It’s such a short word, but heavy. Squat, you could say.
“That was . . . me,” I state.
“Mmm.”
Still, I need to double check to see that it’s true. But when I try to wiggle out of the stranger’s grasp, the stranger holds me firm.
“Ah-ah-ah. You’re staying with me, Marley Craw. I’m going to make you mine.”
Make me his? Yup, that’s what he said. And his tone was breathy, of all things!
I knew it!
“RAPIS–”
The rapist cuts me off with another loud, “Shhhh!”
Rude.
“You shouldn’t even be here,” he goes on. “We’re late, thanks to this guy.”
“Tch. Hardly.” A second voice speaks up from somewhere behind us. Also a guy’s. One disembodied guy after another. And this one sounds annoyed.
TWO rapists this time?!
Oh gawd.
“LET ME GO!” Shouting suddenly, I swat at the hands covering my eyes. “You aren’t supposed to just grab people like this! Who the heck do you think you are?!”
“We’re your reapers,” the soothing voice says, matter-of-factly. “And I don’t think it. I know it.”
Wait . . . reapers?
That Beck guy said something about reapers, too, didn’t he?
Reapers.
As in GRIM reapers? As in those who wear black hooded cloaks and wield scythes? Well, that’s pretty disturbing. I’ve never pretended to be brave. Really, I’m afraid of all sorts of things. And ghouls in black garb? Tremble-worthy. A shiver runs down my back, combating the warmth of the reaper’s hands.
Apparently, it’s vigorous enough to alert my captor.
“No need to be scared, Marley Craw,” he coos in reply, in a voice that’s too gentle, enough so to make me recant the shiver; and with tha
t, the hands over my eyes force my face to turn, and begin marching me away from my corpse.
“E-excuse me,” I protest, “but if you didn’t notice, I was just in the middle of a freak out. You can’t just storm in and interrupt a spirit when it’s freaking out. That’s just plain rude!”
“A spirit?” the annoyed voice cuts in. This time he sounds amused. “At least we won’t have to convince her she’s dead.”
So it’s true. I’m a spirit. Neat.
Well, that doesn’t make this any better! I was very recently attacked and restrained and I’m not about to let it happen again, thank you very much! On that note, I enact the best defense I can think of. My nails become talons and I start clawing at the hands covering my eyes. “I don’t care how soothing your voice is, you ghoul! Let me go or you’ll seriously be sorry!”
But in response, the annoyed reaper merely says, “She’s getting unruly. Do it,” and the soothing reaper shifts his hold on me, positioning one hand so that it covers both of my eyes, and sliding his other arm across my abdomen. He pulls me close. He nuzzles his face in the back of my hair. He even goes so far as to blow on my neck.
Again, I KNEW it! These aren’t reapers at all! They’re a couple of run-of-the-mill, looking-for-a-kill RAPISTS!
