The Quick and the Dead

by D. B. Sieders

  Never one to prolong goodbyes, she hopped in her car and drove away, knowing somehow, they would all meet again. Like Briggs said, there was a lot of work yet to do. She still had miles to go before she could sleep.

  Leaving behind the grey of Mississippi for the springtime splendor of Tennessee, the ache in her heart eased as soon as she took the exit to the parkway that would take her home. Of course, things would never be the same, but she had friends and loved ones waiting for her. Ezra assured her that they would remember her now. It would be as if she’d simply gone on vacation and then come back.

  Her house was the same as the night she’d left, with no trace of the renters who’d kept it for her. Cozy, comfortable, and full of loitering spirits. Since she didn’t have any food in the house, she asked Junior, a rascal of a spirit she’d rescued—the first lost and lonely spirit she’d liberated, actually—to clear them out. He promised to keep them away for a week or two until she got settled.

  For the first time in a long, long time, Vivian Bedford was well and truly alone.

  Except for Mae, a quiet, peaceful presence content to see and experience the world through Vivian’s eyes. For now.

  Her friend Kay Clemmens had stopped by after she settled, helping Vivian clean several months’ worth of dust off her furniture and freshening up the place to keep her mind occupied. That was good. There were too many questions running through it. When would the loa free Darkmore from his mortal state? What would happen when it did? What would happen to Mae if and when she left Vivian’s body? Would she see her sister again? What was Mae’s purpose in this new world they were building?

  Before she left Mississippi, Ezra told her to stop fretting. The answers to all of her questions would be revealed in time. She hated to admit it, but the old coot was usually right.

  Taking a glass of wine with her, she stepped out onto her back deck and took a moment to savor the spring evening with its cool breeze carrying the sweet scents of blooming flowers, freshly mown grass, and a cloudless sky filled with stars. Her strange journey into the world of spirits had begun on a night like this one.

  Are you sorry, Sister?

  “No, Mae Belle,” she said, an odd sense of peace falling over her. “I’m not.”

  Suddenly, she knew what to do—the choice wouldn’t be easy, but it was the right choice for everyone. For her, for the reaper, Zeke, the lost souls of the world and, most importantly, for Mae.

  With a deep breath for courage, she whispered his name on the wind and summoned the reaper.

  Darkmore appeared in his white suit, white hat, and wearing a smile so beautiful it broke her heart. Vivian took two steps and pulled him into a fierce embrace. She’d missed him.

  He pulled away first, perhaps sensing her intent. Before he could stop her and before she could change her mind, Vivian placed her lips on his and infused the last of her healing power, the last of her light. The reaper struggled, but then, as his spirit separated from a now temporary mortal coil, he relaxed as she set him free.

  She only had a few more moments.

  “What have you done?” he whispered.

  “What I had to do. I can’t walk through life with you as a mortal. The loa told me I would never be free of my ties to the guardian spirit world. But Mae can. Will you walk with her and keep her safe? Show her the world and all of its wonders, love her and accept her love in return? She has so much to give and, together, the two of you will change the world.”

  Sister, what is happening? You cannot leave me!

  “I love you, Mae,” Vivian said, feeling the pull of the afterlife. “And I love Lazarus. I give you both this gift. Take care of one another. I will see you again on the other side of eternity.”

  Vivian wiped away a single tear from the reaper’s cheek, kissed him softly with her last breath, and left him in Mae’s keeping.

  And Mae in his.

  Epilogue

  Time was different on the other side. Her crossing had been surprisingly uneventful, but pleasant. This time, she didn’t arrive naked. Her old friend the Padre, known in life as Father Lloyd Montgomery, led her soul to the next place. He’d stayed with her for a few hours.

  Or was it a few days? Months?

  Her place was as she had left it, a little patch of paradise set in the middle of the woods in a warm eternal summer. A worn footpath wound its way through a tree-covered path, past the delightful old springhouse, half concealed by thick vines, and down to the bubbling, lazy little creek that flowed left of the trail. She’d spent her first nights there, camped near the spring without a care for time or such trivial things as hunger, thirst, or discomfort. Her hammock stretched between two trees and served as the perfect place for a nap.

  Of course, the soft grass worked for naps, too.

  The water of her creek teemed with small fish, frogs, salamanders, and turtles. She’d spotted a pair of otters…yesterday morning? She didn’t remember them from last time. Birds sang while butterflies, bees, and a host of other insects flitted and buzzed about. No stinging or biting insects lived here, but rabbits, deer, and a few predatory creatures that never gave chase, oddly enough, came to visit—coyotes, bobcats, and even a few friendly domestic cats.

  After a few weeks, or maybe months…she didn’t want to think too much about time, she made her way to the log bridge and crossed the meadow to find the most beautiful part of her paradise.

  It was still there.

  As far as her eyes could see, the rolling hills were bursting at the seams with black-eyed Susans. Their yellow petals waved to Vivian as if welcoming her home.

  Wait, something had changed.

  In the distance, on top of one flower covered hill, sat a two-story log cabin. Outside, on the front porch swing, sat a man. He had dark hair, and even though she couldn’t see them at this distance, she knew his green eyes were sparkling in the noonday sun. She smiled, her heart in her throat, and she took off running.

  He was faster.

  He caught her in his arms, lifting her and spinning around as he laughed through tears. She understood. Her vision had gone blurry with her own tears of joy. She slid down into his arms and kissed him deeply. Then, looking back at the cabin, she said, “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

  Zeke grinned, placing his forehead against her. “It wasn’t home until you came back.”

  “How did you know?” she asked.

  “I didn’t. But I hoped. You gave that to me the night we met. You gave me hope.”

  “And you’ve given me so much more.”

  Zeke’s joy gave way to a wariness that she hated to see in his beautiful face. “You didn’t come to say goodbye, did you?”

  “No,” she said. “I said two goodbyes that broke my heart into pieces. Think you can mend it? I mean, we’ll have to go back…someday. We’ll be needed. But for now—”

  “For now, and forever, this place is yours.”

  “Ours,” she said.

  Then together, hand in hand, they walked to their respite.

  THE END

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  Sneak Peek of House of Ash & Brimstone

  Gisele Walker landed in the fighting pit face-first, and her mouth flooded with mud. Bruised, she scrambled onto palms and knees, spitting out the warm red clay.

  Her stomach churned as she struggled to her feet, wiping her chin with the back of one arm. Mud sucked at the hem of her jeans, had plastered her tank top to her chest.

  This wasn’t how she’d planned to spend her Friday night.

  Overhead, a rich green-and-gold circus tent arched, burnished with ropes of amber globe lights. Empty stands surrounded a checkered stage that extended out from the pit. After hours, the place was quiet, deserted aside from the show’s performers.

  The ringmaster, a bald, jaundice-skinned demon in a crimson jacket and g
ray plaid kilt, leaned over the lip of the ring—at least fifteen feet high—to leer down at her. A cobra tattoo wound up his neck to swallow the top of his head, two fangs dripping venom into his greenish-yellow eyes.

  “Thought you could s-steal from us-ss?” he stutter-hissed.

  Well, yeah. Actually, she had.

  At a quarter past two that morning, she’d crept through a country field littered with smashed popcorn and gummy worms, sneaking up to the tightly circled caravan of circus boxcars. She’d broken into the one with “Curios and Oddities” hand-painted on its side, and from a dusty display case, she’d filched the Mardoll—a shrunken head on a straw doll body. It was the magical curio her client had hired her to find, and for the last fifty years, it’d been on exhibit with the traveling entertainers, demons known as the Curators of the Cursed.

  Breaking in had been easy. Sneaking back out? Not so much.

  One of the Curators, a sword swallower she’d seen perform as she’d cased the circus earlier that evening, reached his entire arm down his throat. With a hacking cough, he extracted a heavy, dinged-up cleaver sword. “This the one you wanted for her, Canaan?”

  Mother-of-pearl ornamented the two-handed hilt. It gleamed beautifully in the amber light. But the wide blade appeared dull and scratched—tarnished with age.

  Wide-mouthed, the ringmaster grinned, and Gisele saw that his teeth had been filed into points. “Give it to her. Ss-so we can place betss.”

  Canaan turned, signaling to someone she couldn’t see with a flourish of his hand. The entire stage rattled beneath the approaching clomp-scrape of heavy hoof steps.

  Oh, no. It had to be the cow-headed beast from the ‘taming’ exhibition mid-show. Her heart had panged while he’d charged around the stage, bullwhipped and slavering. She’d watched as they’d spun plates on his shoulders and horns.

  Then, he’d just snorted and clacked his teeth in protest. Now he brayed, piercing her eardrums—the sound like boulders cracking together.

  They’d brought out the minotaur.

  The sword swallower tossed the cleaver into the mud, and Gisele dove for it as the monstrous demon barreled into the pit. She rolled, then crawled, elbows digging into the ground as she dragged the heavy sword to her side.

  Stomping one hoof, the minotaur regarded her with unnerving, side-slitted eyes. He stood upright like a man but on backward bent legs, at least seven-and-a-half-feet tall, and crushed her hundred-and-twenty-five pounds by a good five hundred more. Stocky, with wide sloped shoulders, his body was a solid mass of muscle. Mud-splattered, dark brown fur covered him from top to hoof-tip, and a dirty, black mane lay matted to his head and neck. Two large, curved horns, one of which had been cut in half, curved out from his temples.

  He wore only what appeared to be a rawhide loincloth, and she did not want to know what was underneath the flap.

  “Um, this is a little awkward,” Gisele said, belly-down in the mud.

  With a snort, the beast charged for her, faster than she would’ve thought possible. His meaty three-fingered hand tangled in her dirty-blond hair, lifting her onto her knees.

  Heart kicking like a rabbit on the run, she swiped for his legs. Blood flowed, and he bellowed, flinging her across the pit. She landed with a flailing splash, and a round of jeers exploded from the rim of the ring. Popcorn fluttered down like buttery snow as the Curators leaned over, hurling both insults and food.

  “Don’t let him kill you before he breaks your leg,” a strongman shouted. “Be a doll and win me an extra two-fifty!”

  Groaning, Gisele tried her best to tune them out.

  She crawled to her feet, trembling, scraping the tip of the sword through the mud as she backed away. As a half-demon, she was stronger than a human, but the weapon felt unwieldy in her grip.

  Again, the minotaur stomped a hoof, preparing to advance.

  “Easy, fella,” Gisele said, one hand outstretched to placate the beast. “I didn’t come here tonight to hurt you.”

  Intent mattered, right?

  His nose was black and wet, nostrils flaring wide as he sucked in breath. He hesitated, and she took her chance.

  “Right now,” she blurted, “they’re taking bets on us. Thinking you’re going to kill me. But you don’t like doing what they want, do you? And they don’t know everything about me. Like how fast I heal. You can gore me, trample me. Choke me. I’ll get back up again.” Eventually. “So instead of chasing me around this ring ’til we’re both tired and hurting, why don’t we turn the tables on these creeps and get the hell out of here?”

  “S-stalling won’t sssa-ave you,” the ringmaster warned.

  Sword up, Gisele sidestepped, walking a slow sweep of the ring that the minotaur mirrored. When he stepped forward, she jabbed with the cleaver and he retreated.

  Live and learn. Hopefully.

  She licked her lips, tasted clay mixed with blood. “All I’m saying is, I could really go for a stiff drink and a hot bath after this, if you’d care to join me.”

  The minotaur leveled her with guarded, teal-blue eyes, contemplating. Then he flicked an ear in agitation. Violently, he stomped a hoof into the ground.

  His left hoof. He’d been doing it off and on all fight. What was it about…?

  And then she saw it. He was wearing a metal cuff around his ankle, so coated in mud that she hadn’t noticed it before. The cuff had been in place for so long, it’d rubbed the fur around his ankle raw. It was a collar, a cage.

  Palms suddenly sweaty, Gisele swallowed against what felt like cotton candy lodged in her throat clogging her airway.

  With a terrifying bellow, the minotaur charged. She twisted and ducked, lashing at him with her cleaver. He knocked the blade aside, opening a bone-deep slash in his arm, and got her in the gut with his fist.

  The air exploded from her lungs, and she doubled over, in a world of pain. The Curators roared and stomped their feet, clamoring for a bloody, drawn-out finish.

  If she couldn’t get the cuff off of him, one of them was going to have to kill the other. And despite what she’d said…she wasn’t sure she’d be the one to walk away.

  Gisele retched, then sucked in heaving gulps of air. She rolled away before he could grab her again, and as he lumbered after her, she dropped, sliding in the mud. His cuffed hoof stomped near her head, and she got a good look at the magical device. It was remotely powered, pulsing as it fed from an external source. The metal was tarnished silver and etched with symbols she didn’t recognize.

  Whatever spell it cast was powerful, but the cuff itself didn’t look too difficult to break. Wielding the sword like a bat, Gisele swung the flat side of the blade against the ankle cuff hard enough that her entire arm went numb on impact.

  The cuff looked undamaged. Frustrated, she grabbed it with a bare hand and felt electricity arc through her body. She screamed and wrenched away, palm scorched.

  Leaping leviathans from Linger! The damned thing was a shock collar.

  How the hell did the minotaur withstand it? And more importantly, how the hell was she going to get it off him?

  Before she could come up with another plan, the minotaur reached down and clamped a thick-fingered fist around her neck. He lifted her by her throat, and she choked, sneakers dangling off the ground. His breath blew hot in her face, gusted her bangs off her forehead, and coated her own tiny horns with sweat.

  Her pulse shot into a wild, adrenaline-fueled race.

  He was going to kill her.

  Stupid godforsaken minotaur. He hadn’t given her enough time.

  Her vision swam red, and her head pounded. Her nails bit into the palm of her hand around the grip of the sword, sharp as claws.

  She bared her teeth at the minotaur. They cut into her lower lip, drawing blood as if she’d suddenly sprouted fangs, but if he noticed, he didn’t react. He was too busy, turning—winding up with all his strength to toss her into oblivion—and then she was flying, sailing high overhead. She crashed hard into a boxy metal unit, hu
rting and disoriented.

  Her side screamed, ribs bruised or cracked.

  Moaning, it took her several moments to realize that she was actually above ground.

  He’d tossed her onto the stage, near the best seats in the house—front and center. He’d thrown her right out of the pit!

  Curators scattered like loose marbles. Twin acrobats and a bird-masked harlequin scrambled to flee while a fire breather in a brass dragon-scale corset rushed for her. Planning to roast her on the spot? She was welcome to try.

  Others—including an improbably milky-eyed fortune-teller—screamed at the minotaur, furious and panicking.

  Oh, yes. Gisele was going to make them pay, every last one. She was going to rend them from neck to navel.

  She just needed to get up first.

  Her head throbbed, her normally tiny, knobby branching horns feeling thick and heavy where they jutted from her skull. She blinked back the headache from Hell, focusing in order to take in her surroundings.

  The equipment she’d landed on hummed low with power, and Gisele’s excitement soared as she realized what it was: a transmitter. The Curators must need to keep it within range of the cuff. And the minotaur had hurled her right into it.

  That beautiful, brilliant beast.

  Miraculously, she’d kept a grip on the cleaver through the crash landing. Struggling up onto her knees, she jabbed the full length of the blade into the front of the power box and was blasted backwards from the resulting electric surge. Heat sliced up her skin. The unit sparked and fizzled, leaving the acrid taste of charred magic in the air. It was dead, and the binding spell with it.

  There was nothing controlling the minotaur now.

  A soul-shattering bellow erupted from the pit, so intense that the ground shook. The minotaur clambered out of the pit and charged the ringmaster with unnerving speed, horns angled down, ready to gore.

  She didn’t want to watch, but couldn’t tear her eyes away.