The Golden Age of Death (A CALLIOPE REAPER-JONES NOVEL)

by Amber Benson

I’d never heard Runt talk back to her dad before. Heck, I’d never heard anyone talk back to Cerberus before, but it worked. He bowed all three of his heads (Snarly and the two dumb ones), letting Runt know he was acquiescing to her demand.

  “If that is your wish, Daughter, then I cannot stand in the way of your destiny.”

  “Pop, I just want to help Callie,” she said. “She needs me.”

  I’d learned early on that trying to talk Runt out of doing something was pointless. The little hellhound was going to do what she wanted whether you liked it or not—just like someone else I knew.

  Me.

  “That’s all well and good,” Marcel said, “but what’s your plan? You can’t just go down there without an idea of how to disarm the machine.”

  Luckily, Daniel chose that moment to finally return to reality.

  “I think I should go down there on my own,” he said, eyes feverish. “I’m the Steward of Hell and it’s my job to find out what they’re doing.”

  “Those stupid idiots are building their own funeral pyre,” I said. “They don’t know it, but that’s what they’re doing.”

  “Yes, Daniel should go down there with Judas,” Marcel said, nodding in agreement. “He should act as though he’s just realized there’s a problem. Tell them he’s interrogated Judas, who’s told him about the extra souls coming in through the East Gate.”

  I didn’t like this plan because it put Daniel in unnecessary danger. What was the point of him going down there when they’d immediately sniff him out as an enemy?

  “It’s just a distraction,” Daniel added as if he’d read my mind. “It’ll give the rest of you time to get down there and stop the machine.”

  This part of the plan seemed amenable to the others, but Snarly head asked the one question we were all thinking.

  “How?” he wanted to know. “How do we stop the machine?”

  I had the answer to this one in my back pocket, and Daniel had been the one to unwittingly give it to me.

  “The book,” I said, pulling the original copy of How to Be Death from my pocket. “This is the key to everything.”

  “But you can’t even read it,” Daniel said.

  He was missing the point.

  “I don’t have to read it,” I said. “I just have to throw it in there with all those human souls. It’ll blow The Pit sky-high.”

  Cerberus got it first.

  “The book can’t be touched by human hands, or the human self combusts,” he said, nodding his head. “You believe that goes for human souls, too?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I do. I think it’s the magic inside of us that protects us from this book. Not just immortals, but anyone with supernatural powers. And those are all human souls down there, without any magic. So no protection.”

  “I think Cal’s right,” Daniel said—and I wanted to cry, I was so pleased he had my back. “It’s the only chance we have.”

  His gaze was on me as he spoke and I felt all the love we’d had and would always have for each other flowing between us—and I knew every fight, every cold shoulder, every stupid misunderstanding was forgiven in that moment.

  Thank you, Daniel, I mouthed.

  He smiled at me—and had I known it would be for the last time, I might’ve stopped him, made him kiss me, or stroke my hair, or I don’t know what…but I didn’t know. How could I know?

  I couldn’t.

  So I let him go.

  He gave me a final wave—and then he and Judas took off down the steep mountain path that would lead them from the top of the cliff down to The Pit of Hell.

  twenty-seven

  Anjea, in her owlet form, brought them to the edge of the Cliffs of Tranquility. Caoimhe thought she’d never been in a place so hot before in her life. Even breathing the air scorched her lungs. The heat was making her woozy, so she grasped Freezay’s arm. She didn’t know if it was a smart move. She wasn’t trying to encourage him, but maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t trying not to encourage him, either.

  She was done with Morrigan. She knew this at least.

  She’d put up with her partner’s petty jealousies for far too long, and now that they’d extended to her daughter, Calliope, well, Morrigan could just go fuck herself.

  It was like a weight being lifted off Caoimhe to finally be done with the relationship—though it was strange to think that until she’d made the decision in her head, she hadn’t known what a relief it would be.

  I should’ve been footloose and fancy free years ago, she thought to herself.

  Then she looked over at Freezay, the big lug, and found she was glad to have him there with her.

  She’d fancied herself in love with him once. She’d been a kid back then, wet behind the ears with no male or female experience to speak of, working at the PBI as Manfredo Orwell’s Second Assistant. This entailed picking up his dry cleaning, fetching his coffee…doing whatever Second Assistants did.

  He’d taken her with him on a routine recruiting trip to California to see a young man about a position in the company. She’d been tasked with fetching this young man, a Mr. Edgar Freezay, and bringing him back to Manfredo.

  From her boss’s description, she’d expected Freezay to be a smarmy, narcissistic boy, but he wasn’t any of those things. He was blond and handsome, but too awkward and tall to be completely comfortable in his own body…and he was earnest.

  When she’d introduced herself to him, he’d looked at her with those bedroom eyes, long lashed and seductive, as though he knew her, knew her deep down to the core, and, in that instant, she was hooked. But then he hadn’t asked for her number, or how he might contact her—and that was that.

  So time passed, the summer ended, and she’d found she’d almost forgotten him. And then suddenly he was thrust back into her life again.

  It was two weeks before the annual Death Dinner and Masquerade Ball and she was sitting at her desk, secretly reading The Stranger instead of doing her work, when he’d stumbled into her office. As soon as he saw her, he’d stopped, a deer frozen in the headlights.

  “How may I help you?” she’d asked, quietly setting her book down on her lap so she wouldn’t get in trouble.

  “I was, uh, wrong office.”

  He was gone as quick as a jackrabbit.

  She stared after him for a few moments, confused by his odd behavior, then she went back to her book.

  “Excuse me?”

  She looked up again and he was standing in the doorway, holding a bedraggled-looking daisy in his hand.

  “Did you steal that from the receptionist’s desk?” she asked, knowing full well he had.

  He looked sheepish, but nodded.

  “I wanted to ask you to dinner and I didn’t want to do it empty-handed.”

  He offered her the daisy. She thought about refusing it, but decided to take it, instead.

  “I’ll pick you up after work,” he said, grinning stupidly down at her. “That okay with you, Caoimhe?”

  He’d remembered her name.

  “Works for me, Mr. Freezay.”

  Now his stupid grin grew even wider: She’d remembered his name.

  They’d spent the next two weeks together and it was like a dream…then they’d gone to the Death Dinner and Masquerade Ball.

  And that one night had torn them apart forever.

  She hadn’t thought about those days in a long time, so she was surprised by how fresh the memories seemed, like they’d happened only yesterday.

  “Look down there,” Freezay said, pulling her from her thoughts in order to point to the crazy assemblage of bodies below them.

  There were Harvesters and Transporters scurrying around like worker ants outside of a giant orange octagonal building with a sign on it, reading:

  The Pit

  “What the hell is that?” Caoimhe asked, fascinated by the carnival vibe of the building and its surroundings.

  “Don’t know,” Freezay replied, uncertainly. “But it’s not good, whatever it is.”r />
  Caoimhe felt the owlet on her shoulder give a strand of her hair a gentle tug, telling her it was time to go.

  “Shall we go down there?” she said.

  Freezay nodded,

  “Looks like down’s the only way to go.”

  She let him take her hand.

  “Follow me,” he said, leading her toward the path that would take them from the top of the cliff to its bottom.

  It was slow going. The path was slippery, with chunks of orange rock breaking off underneath their feet as they walked. Caoimhe was glad to have Freezay to lean on, to keep her upright whenever her ankle would twist, or she’d start to lose her footing. She found herself clinging to him as though he were a solid, immovable mountain.

  When they finally reached the bottom of the cliff, Caoimhe had to rest her head against Freezay’s arm. She thought she was going to pass out because the heat was even worse down here than it’d been on the cliff.

  “You okay?” he asked, and she nodded.

  “Fine, just…it’s very hot down here.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” he replied.

  She closed her eyes for a second, savoring the nearness of this big, strong man, then her mind flashed to Calliope and she knew they had to hurry.

  “She needs us,” Caoimhe said, her eyes fluttering open.

  She started to run, fear for her daughter making her fly. And Freezay stayed right beside her, keeping up with her panicked pace.

  They hit the crowd of Harvesters and Transporters first. She and Freezay had both expected interference, but, instead, they received no resistance from the strange, Victorian-garbed creatures. The Harvesters and Transporters were too busy running around the orange rock floor, holding their eyes and screaming.

  “What happened to them?” Caoimhe asked, as Freezay grabbed her hand again and began to maneuver them through the hysterical crowd.

  “Don’t know,” Freezay said, shoving a tall man in a stovepipe hat out of his way.

  He didn’t like the Harvesters and Transporters, never had and never would. They’d elected Uriah Drood as their union president, which to Freezay said more than anything about their motives. Any union that had someone like the sniveling pig Drood as their representative deserved what they got.

  “Help me!” screamed a tiny woman in a beetle black dress, gray gauzy bits of fabric floating at her throat and wrists. She was thrashing around, holding her arms out in front of her as though she was blind.

  “What happened to you?” Caoimhe said, grabbing the woman by the arm.

  The woman began to shake, her small body trembling.

  “He opened the jar—”

  “What jar?” Caoimhe asked.

  The woman shook her head, trying to erase the memory from her brain.

  “Pandora’s Box. He opened it and it burned out the fake eyes Mr. Drood had given us, so now we can’t see at all.”

  The woman gave up these lasts words with a sob, and Caoimhe let her go.

  “I guess that’s how he bribed them,” Freezay said. “None of them have real eyes, just empty black holes where eyes should be, and they’re horribly self-conscious about it.”

  The crowd was getting rowdier now, more hysterical.

  “It’ll be easier to get through here if I carry you,” Freezay said. “Is that all right?”

  Embarrassed for God knew what reason, she nodded and let him pick her up. It felt nice to have him carry her through the crowd, protecting her with his own body. Still, even with her in his arms, it took them more than a few minutes to weave through the crowd of bleating Victorians. Finally, they made it to the edge only to discover there was a low fence made of giant concrete blocks surrounding the octagonal orange building. This was what was keeping the crowd away from The Pit. Inside the fence Caoimhe saw two bodies huddled together by the entrance to the octagon. One of them resembled her daughter. Her heart skipped a beat as she tried to see if it was Callie or not.

  “We need to go in,” she heard the owlet whisper in her ear.

  “Take us inside,” she said to Freezay.

  “Your wish is my command,” he replied, as he set her down carefully on top of the fence then climbed up after her.

  * * *

  howard had not liked being in that jar. Had not liked being carried around like a genie in a bottle. Had not liked being kicked out of the jar and forced to go through Hell. Had not liked anything that’d happened to him since he’d died.

  He wanted to see his wife. He wanted to rest. He wanted to just be left the goddamned hell alone.

  Instead, he was in this animal-like pen with a bunch of other angry dead people. Every so often a few of those Victorian bastards would come in and drag a bunch of souls out, but none of them ever returned, so no one knew where they were being taken.

  He was about ready to start yelling—Attica! Attica! Attica!—when another host of Victorians came in, corralling him and a bunch of others and herding them out of the pen. He didn’t know if he should be irate or overjoyed at this turn of events—but he knew if he’d had his druthers, he’d still be sitting in that rest home playing cards and eating glorified baby food.

  The Victorians didn’t speak to them, not anymore—but they’d sure done a lot of talking to get me into that jar, by God, he thought. Well, if they didn’t want to talk to him, then he didn’t want to talk to them, either.

  After they were a few feet away from the pen, the souls were forced to line up, in single file, one dead person in front of another. Howard slid in between a little girl with short red hair and a young African American woman in surgical scrubs. He wondered what had happened to the doc so that she’d died with her scrubs on. He figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask, so he tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around, a serious expression on her face.

  “How’d you die?” Howard asked.

  She shook her head and indicated she didn’t speak English.

  He made the universal signal for slitting your throat and she laughed, said something in her native tongue. She could see it wasn’t translating, so she began to shake and jump up and down.

  It took a few seconds, but he got it: earthquake.

  “Earthquake,” he said, offering her his hand. She took it and they shook.

  The Victorians came around again and the long line of souls began to walk across the plane of orange rock. Howard was just happy to be moving, even if he didn’t know where he was going. He figured it couldn’t get any worse than it already was—but he’d figured wrong.

  When he saw the old Gravitron buried in the dirt, he got a funny feeling in his gut. You could call it intuition, or just a funny feeling in your gut, but Howard always trusted it—and it was telling him to turn around and run far, far away as fast as his legs could carry him.

  * * *

  gerald was the last one in the big orange machine. He hadn’t wanted to go inside, but they’d made him. He didn’t like carnivals or roller-coaster rides and this smacked of both.

  The inside of the machine was filled with soft black velvet seats, one for each customer, Gerald realized. Maybe this isn’t going to be so awful, after all, he thought. Maybe when this was done, they’d let him be alive again and he could find Molly and go home—because he missed his Vespa something fierce and hoped whoever found her took good care of her and only gave her Supreme gasoline.

  Since Gerald was the last person inside the ride, he was the last person to sit down. But as soon as he’d found his seat, the music began to play. It was funny music, like what they played at a carnival, and it made the room start to spin. Gerald didn’t like it. It was going too fast and the music was going too fast, too.

  “Stop it!” Gerald screamed—and he wasn’t the only one. Other people were screaming, too. Some of them were even crying.

  No one outside was listening, or if they were, they didn’t care. The room just spun faster and faster and faster until Gerald couldn’t think anymore.

  And then there was no need for Gerald to thi
nk.

  Because Gerald didn’t exist.

  * * *

  harold was in the group that didn’t make it into the Gravitron for the first ride. He was annoyed about this. Frustrated he had to stand around and watch as someone else got to do something, anything, before he did.

  While the Victorians herded the luckier souls into the ride, Howard occupied himself by trying to communicate with the doctor. She seemed very nice, even if he had no idea what she was saying. He wanted to impart his name to her, but this simple thing was proving very confusing.

  He would say: “Me, Howard.” She would say: “Meoward.”

  It went on like this until they’d closed the door of the Gravitron and started the machine up. That’s when everyone around him stopped doing whatever they were doing and started watching the big orange thing as it began to whirl. Like him, they wanted to know what the ride was going to do to them.

  They didn’t have to wait long for their answer.

  Howard thought the Gravitron spun around so fast it looked like a whirling dervish, but as it burrowed in the ground and shot out its load of bright orange energy, Howard changed his mind.

  There was nothing magical about the Gravitron, if that’s even what it was, and Howard was pretty damn sure it wasn’t.

  What he did know, though, was the machine was the scariest thing he’d ever seen.

  twenty-eight

  All he had to do was get down there, take out the wish-fulfillment jewel, and then Watatsumi would show up with Pandora’s Box—and the box would solve all of Daniel’s problems.

  “Are you okay?” Judas Iscariot asked as they neared the end of the path.

  “Fine,” Daniel said, but he was sweating profusely, his body aching from heat and stress. “Just want to get down there and stop this madness.”

  He didn’t want to talk to Judas Iscariot anymore, so he picked up his pace, keeping his thoughts to himself as he left the other man behind him. He just needed to get down there and everything would be all right. He’d explain everything to Callie, tell her why he’d done what he’d done, and she’d forgive him because it’d all been for her.