by Al K. Line
"I'm fine. Just shaken up by my ordeal." Jake rubbed at the marks on his wrists where he'd been taped, but he looked shifty, and I knew he wasn't to be trusted.
I refrained from telling Penelope about what happened, and that Jake had expected her to take a beating or worse from the guys who held him, but it sealed his fate in my eyes. You can fall low, but it doesn't mean you drag everyone else down with you. That's the true sign of a lowlife. Money and status has nothing to do with consideration for other humans, especially friends, and certainly family.
We went into the busy "restaurant" and stood in front of the counter, waiting our turn. Everyone ordered what they wanted then I told them to take a seat while I paid. Jake eyed my wallet and licked his lips.
Within minutes I was carrying food and drinks to a table by the window, the only advantage to Jake's appearance, and smell, meaning we had the booth and the surrounding ones to ourselves.
Jake tucked in with gusto, talking non-stop while he spat food everywhere. I put my head down, ignored his babbling, and ate quickly without looking up as the sight of his stained teeth with mushy burger bits flying everywhere was not conducive to a healthy appetite. Unsurprisingly, Penelope hardly touched hers.
The damn backpack was giving me grief. I kept leaning back and the book would dig into me. It was getting heavier, like I truly had the weight of the world on my shoulders, but I knew I had to keep it close or I was liable to do something stupid like leave it behind. So I adjusted myself, tried to squish it down by leaning back, but I swear the book became fatter by the minute, as if every soul's name was clamoring for attention.
It settled down after a while, as though it knew there would be trouble if it misbehaved, and soon it grew light and I forgot about it.
When we'd finished and Penelope said she didn't want hers and Jake had demolished it, she asked him what he was going to do and where he was living.
He ummed and aahed, used a switch blade he dug from his pocket to pick at his teeth, then, when I was just about to beat him because he was so bloody annoying, he said, "I've got a place. Nothing much, but it's okay. Shacked up with a bird, too. She's pretty cool." He examined the knife while he spoke, the cutting edge sharp, the handle and point dull and dirty, then put it back in his pocket.
"That sounds nice," said Penelope warily.
"Yeah. All good. Look, sorry about this, cuz. Got myself into a spot of bother and didn't know who to turn to."
"What about your folks?" I asked.
Jake's face darkened. "Dad won't have anything to do with me. Mum would talk, but he doesn't let her."
"Because you kept stealing from them, and getting into trouble. They tried over and over to help you, let you stay with them after you'd been off for months on one of your benders, and how did you repay them? You stole from them, sold their stuff, took their money."
"I know, I know, I'm bad news. What can I say? I'm a wild one, haha."
"Yeah, hilarious," I muttered.
Jake suddenly turned angry. He leaned over the table and got right in my face, spittle flying as he shouted, "You don't know me. Who the fuck do you think you are, talking to me like that?" His fists bunched and the veins stood out sharp on his arms.
I grabbed him by the throat one-handed and whispered, "You're in a public place, and you're embarrassing your cousin. I think I'm me, and you're you, and that you are a waste of space. I think you don't give a shit about anyone and I think you'll be dead soon. We're done here." I released him and shoved him back into his seat. He was livid, eyes wild, ready to explode into violence, but he knew I'd beat him down and he knew he'd be shamed. I saw him fidget with the knife in his pocket, but he hadn't used it to try to fight off his kidnappers and he wasn't about to use it now.
He stood and we joined him, then walked out of the restaurant with everyone watching.
"You okay?" I asked Penelope as I put an arm around her shoulder.
"Why does he have to be like this? Why is he such a mess?" She was crying, and I knew it wasn't the first time she'd shed tears over this man.
"It's his choice. The drugs have a hold, and he likes the life. The danger, the wildness, the unpredictable nature of it."
"Sounds familiar," said Penelope.
"Yeah, it does," I replied, knowing we were more alike than I cared to admit.
Jake trailed behind as we walked back to the car. I adjusted the backpack so it was slung over one shoulder as the ledger was playing funny buggers and had gone all heavy on one side.
"Thanks for lunch, Arthur," called Jake.
"No problem," I said, less than enthusiastic but surprised he'd bothered to say it.
But then I heard his footsteps speed up and then he was past us, running surprisingly fast.
"Sorry, but I gotta go," he shouted over his shoulder as he sped between parked cars and then was around the corner of the building.
As he turned the corner I saw what he was holding in front of him. I reached back although I already knew.
"Damn, he's got my backpack." I grabbed my keys, handed them to Penelope and said, "Wait here. Don't go anywhere."
I chased after Jake, cursing myself for letting him cut the strap and stealing from me. Me! The Hat, the best damn thief the city had ever known.
Punishment would be severe for such a crime.
I stopped at the road as traffic zoomed by. He was already across, disappearing down a narrow street.
Goddamn, he had the Death Book. I was in big trouble if I didn't retrieve it, and he was at risk of losing his mortal soul if he dared try to open it. Which, obviously, he would.
I dashed across the road, nearly got run over, and then headed into the backstreets after a man I'd just freed.
I Deserve a Smack
How could I have been so stupid? He had a knife, of course he'd try to take what wasn't his. A simple slice with a sharp blade on a strap was all it took. He may not have been up to using his knife in a fight, but this was right up his alley. Most would never do such a thing because chances were they'd be caught, and fast, but it was my own fault for not having both straps over my shoulders, being too casual with something that deserved utter respect, care, and consideration.
"Utter noob," I muttered to myself, the shame burning my face.
I sped up, raced though the streets of the city like a man possessed. Jake would get a mighty shock if he got away and took the book out. I knew in his messed-up state he wouldn't heed the warnings emanating from the pages, that he'd think it was the drug withdrawal making him feel sick and his head pound when he tried to open it. He'd persevere, would mess with it, and I had absolutely no idea what would happen to a mortal if they managed to prize the book open.
Shit, what if he got given the job? Could you imagine? A junkie in charge of every human soul? It didn't bear thinking about. More importantly than Jake actually having the book, and it was unlikely he'd get it open if I couldn't, was him giving it to someone with power. The dark arts dude from earlier had known exactly where it was, so it was only a matter of time before someone caught up with him and took it, no doubt killing him in the process. I felt them closing in, the ether tense and tinged with malevolence, with sinister intent and a coldness more lonely than the afterlife.
Jake was a first-class dick but he was also an innocent of sorts, as, let's face it, what sensible citizen steals from the person who just freed them from drug dealers? It was hard to keep in mind that he was beyond mad, that the drugs had a hold and made him act out in ways reprehensible to any sane citizen, but it was there, that madness being stoned out of your mind for years every day did to you, so I had to make allowances.
Not that I wanted to, mind you. He made his choice, had ample opportunity to turn things around, and resolutely failed to do so.
This was my screwup though. Time to get back what was mine.
Okay, not mine, but certainly not his either.
As my panicked strides ate up the streets, I caught several glimpses of him as he turned corners or slowed
for a slight breather. He was bloody fast, which shocked me, but I guess running was as much a part of his life as it was mine. Running from dealers, other addicts, the law. You name it, he would have run from them. Not to mention his victims, the people he robbed. And as I chased after him it became evident how he stayed alive and kept the cash flowing. He was a thief, a chancer, probably did snatch and grabs, maybe a spot of burglary.
My mood darkened at the thought. Entering citizen's homes and stealing what little they had, it was the worst. But was I any better? I broke into people's houses and took what wasn't mine, so what did that make me? But I only did it to people who were as much in the game as me, all part of the life, something to be expected if you went about collecting priceless magical artifacts. But still, it brought home the kind of man I was and that I was no better than this lowlife junkie thief I was right now losing track of.
I kept on going, lungs burning, legs screaming for me to stop as lactic acid built, but I pushed on, turned another corner, the streets morphing from nice and pleasant, well cared for, swept regularly by the council, back into the heart of darkness where the desperate and the beaten struggled to survive in any way they could.
And then, just like that, he vanished. I stood at a T-junction and looked both ways but there was no sign of him. There were groups of youths hanging out, several drunk men muttering to themselves, not the nice kind of drunk, but the desperate-to-escape-the-world drunk, and all the front doors were shut and locked. Even this would disappear soon. People would move away, the houses abandoned or sold for a pittance, and the cancer would spread, poverty and crime chewing through the city year by year, lost in the shadows of the gleaming office blocks where everyone pretended everything was fine and dandy and life was good.
I knew it was pointless, but I asked the gang members if they'd seen him and got nothing but abuse and dire warnings for my trouble. I thought about beating it out of them, but they were just doing what they had to to get by. Keep it gangster, never rat out one of your own, or a potential client at least. The drunk dudes were so out of it there was no point even asking.
Reluctantly, I turned around and headed back to the car. I had to check on Penelope and take her home. This was too dangerous for her, and I got the feeling it would get worse as the day progressed.
Out of breath, sweaty, and angry, I arrived at the car.
"Any luck?" she asked, concerned and looking like it was her fault.
"No, I lost him."
"I'm so sorry. I didn't think he'd stoop that low."
"It's okay, it isn't your fault. But your cousin is not a nice guy, and I don't think there's any hope for him."
"I think you're right. Sorry."
"No, my fault. I should have known better. Let's get you home, then I'll come back and find him."
"He's gone, Arthur, you won't find him. What about the book? Are you in a lot of trouble?"
"I am in a whole world of trouble. But don't worry, I'll uncover him, of that you can be sure. I know his kind, I know the places he will go, and I will get him."
"You won't..."
"What? Won't what?"
"Hurt him?"
"You mean kill him? No, I won't."
"Good. I suppose." Penelope looked at me, and for the first time I couldn't read her. I wanted her away from the violence, otherwise she might become too accustomed to it. Like Vicky had.
I drove away, feeling like an idiot.
Accepting My Muppetry
With Penelope taken safely through the portal and heading back home, I turned straight around and stepped back through the gate into the city house. I cursed over and over, unable to comprehend how I'd been so stupid. By helping Penelope out I'd got myself into serious trouble and no mistake.
There was no question of me having to retrieve the book, and soon. Others would be after it, were after it, and Jake would be toast if any of the magical misfits caught up with him.
Where to start, what to do first?
Sasha, bloody Sasha. She'd been keeping a low profile, but it was time we spoke, had a few words.
I stalled by drinking coffee and trying to build up my nerve. This wouldn't be pretty. Part of me knew it was my own damn fault, and yet I knew there were still things going on that I wasn't privy to. What else had I agreed to that I could no longer remember? How many deals had I struck with this most wily of fae?
As I sat contemplating my bleak future and the fact I would most likely lose my cool with a powerful faery, a thought struck me. When Ivan had stabbed me, ostensibly to solve the problem of Mikalus and his damn ashes, it was because Sasha had convinced him it was the right thing to do. She'd told him I'd be fine if I died, and she'd made arrangements with Death.
I tried to recall the conversation I'd had with Death when I met him that time, as he was certainly pleased to see me. What had he said? Something about him agreeing to do it early? Yes, he did. He was going to deal with Mikalus and most likely save everyone from a devastating supernatural war and in return he'd made a deal with Sasha. It meant they'd agreed to change it so I took over at life lost number forty-nine.
Sasha had arranged to have me killed and to take over and be Death before it was my time. How could they agree that without me? Probably a damn clause in the contract I suppose, a contract I had no memory of. Why would she do that? Why let me go early? I suppose it was because there was something important to be done, that if Death had agreed to finally send Mikalus to his afterlife it would solve all our immediate problems and stop countless deaths. I'd merely be doing it one life earlier.
Guess from her point of view that was a good deal for me and mine, and for everyone else. And it wasn't like I wouldn't get killed and become Death eventually, that was inevitable with my happy-go-lucky attitude. Although, since Penelope I had been doing my best to stay alive and out of trouble. Or as much trouble, anyway.
So, thinking back on it, she was looking out for me and my family and friends in her own interfering way. She knew me, knew I would get killed again, so why not do it then, a little early, if my death was productive and meant something for once?
The more I thought about all this nonsense, the more I concluded that Sasha was interfering and messing with my life, but that she had my best interests at heart and was right in what she did.
Sure, it would have been nice to have had a heads-up about the whole business, but that wasn't the arrangement we made, not how it worked with the fae. They had to be manipulative, it was in their strange faery DNA. So was I still mad at her?
You bet.
She hadn't told me. She'd manipulated me, and she'd put me in an impossible situation. No matter that I'd agreed to it, I hadn't been told exactly what would happen, sure as hell hadn't been told how many lives I would have, or how many I'd have left if I served my time as Death, and I guess I had kinda screwed with it all.
Once I'd gone over and over it endlessly, I came to the disappointing conclusion that this was mostly my fault. I was the one who'd lost so many lives, squandered them like she said I had, and it was I who'd broken the contract, stole the Death Book, and refused to give people their passage to the other side.
And if that wasn't bad enough, I'd lost the damn thing, actually torn paper from it, and not allowed my fiftieth death to register.
Now there was nobody to ease people's passage, and they were stuck in limbo, endless souls waiting for guidance. I wondered what effect that would have on the world, how it would play out because nobody was truly dying. Or were they? I had no idea.
On cue, just as I'd accepted I was a first-class muppet and brought this on myself, the air stirred and a familiar tingly feeling spread across my nether regions.
Shimmering faery dust fell from nowhere and coated the coffee table as the air itself parted for the awesomeness that was Sasha. My beautiful, sexy, divine, interfering, and very-frightening-when-she-wanted-to-be faery godmother.
"You are in a lot of trouble," said Sasha as she wagged a finger and shook her
golden locks in disappointment.
I hung my head in shame, feeling like a naughty child before such timeless beauty.
"I know. Sorry. Forgive me?"
Sasha tutted, then she beamed at me, and my heart lifted as she bestowed her warmth, her love, on me. "It's not like I expected anything else, my beautiful human."
"And that's good?" I asked, hope returning.
"Not really, no."
"Oh."
Bigger Problems
"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked as Sasha crossed one perfect leg over the other.
Her short green dress shimmered and clung even tighter to her curves, something I'd thought impossible. I was distracted by the material, couldn't see a single stitch line or zip, and failed to figure out how she got it on or off.
"Arthur, I am not a bosom. My face is up here." Sasha pointed to her face with a well-manicured finger.
"Oh, sorry, was just thinking about your breasts. Dress, your dress, not your breasts," I said hurriedly. Talk about a Freudian slip. "Haha, no, never. Never look at your big boobs, haven't even noticed." Damn, I wasn't usually this flustered. I think all the sexy times with Penelope had awoken my libido after it being dormant for so long.
"Silly human. To answer your question, we had an agreement. After you saved me, I promised you many lives, but there is a price for such things. You agreed, on the proviso you would remember nothing. Please don't ask why it had to be that way, it's simply how it has to be, the rules even I must abide by."
"Okay, I get that. George kind of said as much back when Ivan killed me. Which brings me to my next point. You connived with Ivan for him to kill me and you made a deal with Death to swap with me a life early. Correct?"
"Yes, correct. I knew it wouldn't be long before you reached number fifty. What difference would it make apart from to help you and your loved ones to defeat your enemies?"
"I thought so. And don't worry, I'm not cross."
Sasha folded her arms across her ample bosom and frowned at me. "Cross!? Cross? Why should you be cross? I'm the one who made a deal and my ward has broken it. Do you know how bad it makes me look? Do you think I can help you as much when you've done this? I'm your faery godmother, I look out for you, and you go and do this? It's unforgivable. You have broken your word, your contract, and that is tantamount to declaring war on the whole of Faery."
