by Cheree Alsop
He hurried into the hall. His heart pounded like he was about to have a heart attack. He had seen enough of those to know it wasn’t healthy. Of course, he was Death, so it might not matter. He managed to reach the front set of doors just as a man with a very expectant wife came through. He leaned around them, careful not to touch either but using his shoulder to prop open the door. It was a strange experience and left the couple looking back at him as if he truly had come from the psychiatric ward.
His heart stopped beating a block from his apartment. To chase the feeling of loss from his chest, he went out of his way to let three different people walk through him. The fear and shock on their faces when they looked back at something they couldn’t see was enough to make him feel better.
A cat sat in an alleyway licking its paws. He crept up to it, and then touched the cat. Cynical laughter burst from him when it jumped straight in the air. It made a swipe for his face. He grinned with the claws went right through him. The cat’s eyes widened and it yowled as it ran down the alley.
Death collapsed on the bed in his apartment. He closed his eyes for what felt like two seconds. When he opened them again, another list was etched into his arm. Gregan Parker’s name was at the top and darker than all the rest. Death groaned.
Chapter Four
ANGEL
Nyra felt bad for the way the man had run out of Gregan’s room the night before. He didn’t look a thing like Gregan. His gray eyes and black hair were nothing like Gregan’s blond hair and blue eyes, yet the man had said he was a brother. She tried to remember if Gregan had ever mentioned a brother. If only he had been closer to his family. Yet why would someone say they were related to an accident victim if it wasn’t true?
She gave up trying to puzzle it out. The hospital had contacted the pawn shop and eventually reached Betsy. Gregan’s girlfriend would be there shortly. Nyra wished she could leave, but didn’t dare in case Gregan awoke or Death returned. As much as she disliked Betsy, she would tolerate the woman’s company to protect Gregan.
It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with Betsy. Nyra tried to remind herself of that when the woman walked into the room with a nurse at her side. The heartache on the Betsy’s beautiful pale face was genuine. Tear tracks showed on her cheeks even though she had valiantly put on more makeup. She kissed Gregan’s cheek tenderly and sat on the chair the man had vacated hours before.
“How is he doing?” she asked, almost able to hide the waver of emotions in her voice.
The nurse checked his chart. “It’s touch and go right now. We’ve attempted to contact his family-”
“They won’t be coming,” Betsy said. Nyra felt a pang of regret at that. Even estranged families should be there under such dire circumstances.
The nurse nodded. “The doctors are keeping a constant eye on him. His vitals fluctuate, but for the moment he’s stable.” She met Betsy’s gaze and spoke sincerely, “He is in very bad shape, Ms. Miller. There’s no saying how long he’ll be in a coma.”
“Or if he’ll come out of it at all,” Betsy finished quietly, speaking the words the nurse left hanging in the air.
The nurse nodded and patted her shoulder. “We’re all pulling for him.”
“Thank you,” Betsy replied.
As soon as the nurse was gone, Betsy removed a tissue from her small purse and dabbed the tears that shone at the corners of her eyes. It was hard for Nyra to see how the woman fought to keep her composure. Losing it now wouldn’t help Gregan and would probably get her kicked out of the hospital because as a girlfriend she wasn’t really considered an immediate family member. Betsy took a ragged breath and let it out slowly. She took Gregan’s hand the way Nyra wished she could and spoke to him softly.
Nyra walked to the window. She wished she could shut out the quiet expressions of love that left Betsy’s lips. Gregan probably couldn’t hear her, so she should just stop. She was only hurting herself. It would be harder if they lost Gregan and she left her heart in that room. Nyra knew the same applied to herself, but shied away from the thought.
She kept her gaze out the window until Betsy left. The woman was a schoolteacher and had to get up early. She had stayed well past visiting hours, but the nurse had kindly ignored her presence there as she came in regularly to check Gregan’s vitals. Nyra was somewhat grateful for Betsy’s presence because the nurse often gave little indicators as to Gregan’s current status. The nurse wouldn’t talk to an empty room.
Chapter Five
DEATH
Something had changed inside him. Nyra had changed him. Death muttered angrily to himself as he made his way past the hospital in the direction of another person from the list. Gregan Parker’s name throbbed on his arm, urging him toward the hospital. He pointedly ignored it and followed the next name down. It tingled when he neared a set of apartments at the end of the block.
He walked through the door and up several flights of stairs. Babies cried in apartments he passed, and in one, the screaming of a man and woman were at such a level that he was sure he would be back in the next day or so. Death paused, then crossed the steps to whisper in the ear of a man who held a bottle of beer poorly concealed in a brown paper bag. The man sat up straight and stared in his direction. He dropped the bag, bottle and all, and ignored the way the contents spilled down the steps. Death chuckled and continued.
The apartment was on the left, its door open to catch the faint breeze that came from the broken window at the end of the hall. Inside, Death found a man sleeping in an armchair with a bottle in one hand and a smoking cigarette in the other. A myriad of other bottles littered the floor along with several dime bags.
Death paused. He had a choice. He could let the cigarette fall from the man’s hand; it would ignite the liquor that had spilled from the bottles, and burn down what would probably be not only the man’s apartment but those around him. The babies he had heard cry, the man drunk in the hallway who would probably sober up quite quickly, and the man and woman fighting along with the many other occupants of the building. They would be victims in the man’s senseless actions.
If Death let the cigarette fall, those in the building who died would require his touch. After that, names of some who had been set to die would shuffle around because of the time he took at the apartment complex. They would then appear on his list the next day, shuffled back among those chosen to move on. He had made the decision before. It was easier than chasing around the city fulfilling all the names. He caught himself reaching up to rub the back of his neck. It was an empty gesture and he wouldn’t feel it anyway.
Nyra.
He shook his head with a sigh and leaned over to the man’s ear. “Wake up,” he said in a voice as soft as a rattlesnake’s hiss.
The man’s eyes cracked open.
“Put the cigarette on the table,” Death said.
The man obeyed, though he looked around as if wondering who was talking.
When the cigarette was settled safely on the ashtray already filled with smoking butts, Death smiled his predatory smile. “It’s your time.”
He put a hand on the man’s fleshy head and felt him jerk in alarm. Death stepped back, watching denial and anger run through the man’s eyes. He shook his head, his eyes focusing on the mess around him.
“I’ll change,” the man pleaded. “I can do better.”
“Your time here is done,” Death said.
A shiver ran down the man’s spine. He gripped the arms of the chair tightly, his eyes searching the room. His jaw tightened, his arms twitched, then his fingers began to loosen. It was the sign Death waited for. He closed his eyes and put the images in his mind into that of the man, showing him the direction to the gates. The man fought for a second, then his body relaxed and he fell forward, coming to rest among the bottles. Death crossed back to the door.
***
Though Gregan Parker’s name throbbed on his arm, he ignored it and finished the other names on the list. He liked his job and reminded himself of th
at fact over and over as his touch finished lives and sent them on their way. It wasn’t as if he had a choice, anyway, but he thoroughly loved his job. He loved fear and anger, the defiance that filled a person’s eyes when they fought his touch. He loved the fact that they couldn’t fight him, that his was the final say. Above all, he loved the darkness.
But in the back of his mind, he couldn’t help remembering the light that surrounded Nyra and the glow of love in her eyes when she spoke of Gregan. He wondered how it would feel to have someone think of him that way, to have such warmth in their eyes instead of fear. He kept pushing the thought down. It wasn’t conducive to his job and he had things to do.
He sat on the steps in front of his apartment and stared at the last name on his arm. The final name on the list. The others had vanished as he took them, leaving only the one that had started darker than the rest. He forced breath through his still lungs in a loud sigh that made a passerby jump and stare at the vacant spot on the steps he occupied. He rose and walked through the man, then chuckled at his gasp of shock.
When Death neared the hospital, his steps slowed. He studied the tan building and wondered why it felt ominous. Death wasn’t afraid of anything. A pair of green eyes appeared in his mind. He shook his head and walked through the closed door.
Gregan Parker lay as Death had left him, a still form pale against white sheets. The numbers that beeped on the monitor meant nothing to him. He wondered briefly where Nyra had gone, then he felt her presence behind him.
“Not today,” she said, a gentle pleading in her voice.
He turned and she took several steps back, her form more substantial while his was mere shadows. She feared him. That fact usually brought pleasure, but this time he felt something else. Was it regret? Death didn’t regret because to regret meant caring, and Death didn’t care about anyone or anything.
“Why shouldn’t I take him?” he demanded, his voice harsher than he meant for it to be.
She cringed, but then steeled herself visibly and straightened up again. He felt a grudging admiration for her courage. No guardian angel had ever stood up to him. “Because he doesn’t deserve to die.”
He chuckled, a low, ominous sound that made her flinch despite her resolve. “If I left everyone who felt they didn’t deserve to die, this world would be overrun.”
She opened a hand, asking him to understand. “He’s young and a good person. He helps out at the shelter on weekends; he gives money to people on the streets who are starving, he-”
Death held up a faint hand, cutting her off. “I’ve heard it all before, Nyra.” He didn’t have to say her name, but he wanted to. He liked the way it felt in his mouth, rolling off his tongue. It was less musical than when she had said it, but it made his lips tingle. He fought back a true smile.
Her head jerked up and she stared at him. “How do you know my name?”
A cold dagger ran through the empty place in his chest where his heart had beat on only two occasions in his entire existence, both the times when she was near. He searched for an excuse, but he was Death; he didn’t need excuses. “I know everyone’s name,” he said with false confidence. “It’s my job.”
She gave a little huff of annoyance. “Your job?” There was obvious disdain in her voice. “You kill people and you call it a job?”
He gave her a curious look. “What else would you call it?”
Flabbergasted, she backed off, giving him much needed space to get his thoughts in order.
“I don’t consider being a guardian angel my job,” she finally said after a few minutes of silence.
He didn’t look at her; he pretended to study Gregan’s motionless form instead. “A job is a particular task performed toward a specific purpose for a designated amount of time. What would you call it?”
“It’s not my job to be a guardian angel,” she said with a slight upturn to her words that made them ring with annoyance.
He glanced at her sideways, inexplicably pleased for having riled her. “But if you didn’t do it, you would no longer be able to exist in your current state of being.”
He felt her stare. “Being?”
He chuckled at her frustrated tone. “You know; your existence. Being a guardian angel is your job because if you didn’t do it, you wouldn’t be able to call yourself a guardian angel. You would merely be Nyra, angel of unknown occupation.”
She blew out a breath of extreme annoyance. “I guess this is what I should have expected when arguing with Death.” She glanced at him. “What is your name?”
The question caught him off-guard. He met her green gaze and a strange tremble ran through his limbs. “You just said it,” he said softly.
“Death?” At his nod, her eyebrows pinched together.
She studied him and he shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. He was definitely not used to being uncomfortable. The name on his arm gave a resounding throb. He cleared his throat even though he had never done so before. “I, uh, I’d better get on with what I came here for.”
“No!” she said. She darted in front of his outstretched hand.
He shied back quickly and stared at her. “Are you insane? Do you know what would happen if I touched you?”
She shook her head, her eyes wide, but she didn’t move from her place in front of Gregan.
Death dropped his gaze. “Me either.” He studied his hand, feeling a dislike for the limb he had never known before. He looked back at her. “I might have killed you.”
“Can angels die?” There was something in her voice, a hint of wistfulness that might have been his imagination, but he was almost certain was there.
Baffled, he shrugged, the motion almost lost within his shadows. “I’m not sure.”
Nyra looked back at Gregan, then met Death’s eyes once more. If he looked a little unsettled, she didn’t appear to notice. “One more day,” she begged. “Please.”
“It’s just prolonging the inevitable,” Death told her, but one more day meant one more visit with this strange angel who turned his whole world upside down. He had almost hoped she would ask.
“Just one,” she said.
He stalked the length of the room as if debating. After a few minutes of pure silence in which the beeping of the monitors sounded like a dissonant choir clouding his thoughts with unease, Death nodded. Before Nyra could say anything else, he stepped through the door. Once in the hallway, he leaned against the wall and held his head in his hands. He didn’t know what she did to him. He didn’t understand what drove him to be compassionate when Death had lost his empathy long ago.
His heart gave one tiny flutter. He pressed a hand to his chest, willing his heart to stay still. It obeyed.
Chapter Six
ANGEL
Nyra stared at the door Death had passed through. She wasn’t sure what had just happened, or why he gave in, but there was something in his gaze, something lost and searching. He wasn’t what she had expected Death to be at all.
When he almost touched her, the look of dismay on his face had been colored with something that almost looked like fear for her safety. Why would Death fear for the safety of a guardian angel? If anything, she got in the way of him performing his job. She grimaced at the term.
How could someone take killing others so lightly? That was what he did, after all; he had stated it so bluntly himself. Yet had there been disdain in his words? She almost believed that Death hated what he did. Something was in the way he looked at Gregan and reached out the hand to touch him as though wishing he didn’t have to. Could it be that Death was as reluctant to take Gregan as she was to give him up? Did he dislike being Death?
She enjoyed being a guardian angel. She told herself that many times after Death left. There had been a moment when she wanted to reach out and take his hand, when she wanted to see if his touch would truly kill her. She didn’t know if she could die, or if her existence would really be considered living for that matter. In that moment, though, she had almost wished to cease her
existence.
The thought terrified her more than anything. What would she be if she wasn’t a guardian angel? She couldn’t return to her previous life. That had been taken away long ago. She ached at the thought of a gentle hand on her arm and the brush of fingers sweeping her hair behind her ear. There were times she regretted remembering what it felt like, yet she held onto the feelings in fear that they would vanish and she would forget her previous life entirely. It had been so long since anyone had been able to touch her.
Yet Death almost had, and his touch might have been the end of her entirely. She vowed to stay away from him. He was dangerous even though his dark eyes beckoned to her, their depths haunted with pain and loneliness, stark within the shadows that surrounded him. Why couldn’t she stop thinking about those eyes?
Chapter Seven
DEATH
Death took two women home from the bar that night. They laughed and fought over who got his attentions. He let them drive him to distraction, but sent them on their way as soon as he grew tired of their ear-splitting voices and sharp perfume. Both women stumbled down the stairs on heels too high for their ankles to support. They complained loudly in the street about their unsatisfactory entertainer. He was tempted to shout down that they had invited themselves, but he knew better; no one could resist Death’s twisted smile, his charming ways, and the hint of danger that lurked in his gaze. He loathed himself.
“What is wrong with me?” he asked his reflection in the mirror. One eye hovered higher than the other, an illusion of the broken glass. He wondered if the women would have gone home with him if he had truly looked that way. On impulse, he ran a finger along the break. His living body gave an uncomfortable throb of pain. He stared at the wound; two drops of blood oozed from the gap only to be absorbed back inside. Within seconds, his skin closed together again without leaving any sign that it had ever been broken.
