by SF Benson
Blue and red lights flood the area as a police squad car pulls up. I’m expecting Hank Richards, the were-panther, to hop out, but he no longer lives here. Instead, a statuesque redheaded woman and her overweight bald partner exit the vehicle. The drunk driver immediately drops to his knees and holds his hands over his head. The two officers exchange a surprised look.
The woman removes a set of handcuffs from her belt. “This is a first. I’ve never seen someone wanting to be arrested.”
Incoherent words come from the moron’s lips. He continues blubbering even after he’s placed in the rear of the squad car. Maybe he’s learned his lesson. Mankind can only be so lucky.
My gaze shifts from the pathetic scene to the wreckage. Two medics tend to the driver they’ve placed on a gurney. One person hooks up clear cables to her—I believe they’re called IVs. The other one checks her vital signs, and I want to turn away but I can’t. Over the centuries, I’ve learned a lot of different things, including medicine. I’ve seen too much of what happens to bodies that don’t make it, souls in limbo. It’s not pretty. But when it comes to this human, I want to stick around. Make sure she makes it.
“This one is fortunate,” a woman says. “She’s in bad shape but will probably survive.”
I drift away from them and go to check on the progress of the girl I saved. The two medics hover over her, constant chatter passing between them.
“An endorsement for seat belt use for sure,” announces the man.
The other male—one of the few supernaturals working with the Falls Creek Fire & Rescue Department—says, “She must have an angel watching over her. She should be dead.”
“I don’t see how she made it.”
The sorcerer from the Locke Coven casts an eye in my direction and responds, “Sometimes things happen that can’t be explained. Best to leave it at that.”
An understatement.
Minutes later, I watch them roll the gurney toward the ambulance. Something—an unfamiliar force—compels me to take a seat inside the vehicle. The warlock, aware of my presence, lifts an eyebrow as he shuts the double doors. No doubt he’s wondering why I’m concerning myself with this human. We share the same query.
Doctors and nurses rush back and forth in the brightly lit room. I lean into a corner, keeping watch on the various beeping monitors attached to the girl. These humans don’t realize I’m holding her lifeline, keeping it from unwinding. But it’s not my job to hold back the spectre of Death. To be honest, I’m interfering, but He can’t have this one. Not yet. She’s too young for Him.
Since I’ve been at the hospital, I’ve learned her name is Antoinette Leoni, an aspiring ballerina. The girl used to be full of joy and hope. Perhaps she’ll find it again.
Her parents, recently arrived in the waiting room, are visibly upset. They seem to be good, caring people. Total opposite of the man and woman who raised me.
My father, a member of the senate, was ashamed of me. He expected more from his eldest son. I was expected to follow in his shoes, but I chose a different path full of sordid, public displays. My exploits provided constant scandal and gossip for our household. As my debauchery grew, Father was determined to put an end to it. He secured a spot for me with the Praetorian Guard, but it didn’t change my behavior. Instead, I used my status to excuse my conduct—drinking and fucking in the name of the Empire! Every fight was fought to honor Augustus.
I was a despicable cur who brought disgrace to the family. While Father wore his shame like the stripes on his toga, my mother turned a blind eye, looking past my flaws. Her expectations weren’t as lofty as Father’s. She only wanted me to find a good, respectable woman to settle down with, but I preferred keeping company with whores and thieves and the like.
Stop it! This isn’t about you.
Something tells me Antoinette is a respectable girl, envied by all who know her. The large gathering of distraught people in the waiting room is a testament of what Antoinette’s death would mean. Hours after my death, no one showed any emotion about my passing. My parents barely acknowledged it. They handled my demise by never mentioning my name again. They did everything possible to bury my memory, but I had the last word.
“Who goes there?” Father said from his bed.
Stepping from the shadow, I appeared to the man who gave me life. “Father, you’re dying. Tell me what’s it like to have a slow, painful death.”
Father gasped and stared at me as if he’d seen a ghost.
Entirely wrong. The word ghost implied benevolence. I was anything but benevolent. This man deserved as much agony as I could muster. I moved closer to his bedside.
“Did putting my memory to rest absolve your own guilt?” I sat beside the trembling man. “You were right about one thing, Father. I was a reflection on you. My actions and behavior showed others how weak you were as a parent.”
My father’s jaw dropped while his guttural sounds filled the space between us.
“I only mimicked your behavior though. You frequented brothels and made mother unhappy. When you weren’t fucking other women, you were sloppy drunk. But as long as you did your deeds behind closed doors, it didn’t matter, right? Unlike you, I chose to be honest with my actions.”
Father clutched a hand to his chest.
“Is it too much for you?” Leaning closer to the man, I saw beads of sweat pop over his forehead. “You should wish I had my human form. I could make death so much easier for you. Mine was quick. One moment I felt the sharpness of the blade, and the next… Well, it was over in the proverbial blink of an eye. Here’s a fact to take to your grave. I didn’t kill Augustus, but I know who did. Contrary to your opinion, I have morals. Only an honorable man would hold tight to the truth even in death.”
Father paled one last time, and drool slipped past his lips. His empty eyes glazed over as his heart slowed down. My father died. My job was done. It was the last life I’d ever take in any form.
Killing my father didn’t bother me because he deserved it. But the human lying on the gurney doesn’t deserve death. She has a long life ahead of her, thanks to me.
I leave and let the living tend to its own. Besides, my business is with the dead.
CHAPTER TWO
Uraeleus
Hours later, I’m in the Falls Creek Memorial Cemetery with the rest of my brethren. I’m here for a crossover ceremony. Every time a member of the Night Terror Society—ghosts and other ghastly spirits—gets the green light to enter the Realm, we have a celebration. Tonight’s lucky soul is a young woman who died at the hands of a jealous man. He killed her along with her boyfriend. Recently, the murderer turned himself into the police and confessed his crime. Her soul has been vindicated and can finally rest in peace.
She’s lucky, I suppose. No one came to exonerate me. Even after Augustus’s wife was found guilty of killing him, I remained stuck in this world. Reasons were never given to me, but I’m sure it has to do with my denial of Cornelia, the only woman I’d ever loved.
Focus. This home going isn’t about you.
Normally, I’m an eager participant at these events. Hell, I’m fucking glad when a spirit crosses into the promised land. It gets damned crowded out here with all of us prowling about. But my mind won’t stay on tonight’s revelry. All I’m thinking about is Antoinette, who slipped into a coma before I left the hospital. I’ve racked my mind, wondering if there isn’t something more I should have done.
Why do you care?
“Are you all right?” Nathan, the Soul Assassin asks. The reaper for hire stops at my side, dressed in his customary dark suit and tie.
My head snaps up. “I’m fine. Why are you here? I don’t recall inviting you.”
“This soul belongs to me. Her response to dying was difficult. I want to make sure her home going is as smooth as it can be.” Nathan studies my shadow for too long.
Forcing my tendrils together into a cohesive pattern, I face him. “Is there something else I can do for you?”
Nathan shakes his white-blond head. “I know what you did tonight. My only question is why.”
Of course, the reaper knows what happened. He probably reaped the soul of the one who died. Fortunately, he can’t punish me for my interference or pass unwarranted judgment.
I grunt, “I don’t answer to you.”
“You’re right.” Nathan’s shoulders sag as he shoves his hands into his pockets. “I only thought you might want a friend to talk to.” He lowers his head and lumbers away.
Good riddance.
I can do without the Assassin’s self-righteous sagacity. If he’d done his job properly, he wouldn’t be doomed to roam the earth waiting for his next assignment. The reaper does have a valid point though. A friend is what I need, but she’s not among this sorry lot of creatures. Before stalking off, I glance around the graveyard one more time and let my pattern disintegrate as I move on.
Cherina’s Mindfulness Shoppe—painted in shades of purple and trimmed in pale green—sits at the end of a lonely, dead-end street near the hospital. The two-story, wood-frame house contains a store for those indulging in the metaphysical. The tiny, white lights hanging from the wraparound porch flicker as a gentle breeze blows. A neon open sign glows in the window.
Inside the transcendental shop is my only friend—the first being I met when I came to Falls Creek. I was drifting along when I stumbled upon the witch. She took pity on my sorry ass, inviting me into her home. Cherina claimed to see my soul. She told me I deserved better than the horrendous fate I received. Not once did she condemn me for my past deeds. Instead, Cherina embraced the opportunity to get to know me. She’s the only one in this damned town who calls me by my given name. She said calling me Uraeleus robbed me of the small amount of humanity clinging to my spirit.
When I pass through the wooden door, I find Cherina in a room off the main hall. She stops stocking the shelf and turns toward me. Her waist-length black hair swings, and I see a half smile dancing on her lips.
“Marcus, what brings you by tonight?” Although Cherina has the ability to read minds, she has always respected my privacy. Her only request from me is to keep it honest. No lies between us. Ever.
“I need to talk,” I admit.
“If we’re going to talk, I’d rather look at something besides dusty air.” She does me a favor and does what I’m too exhausted to do. Waving her hand, my particles reassemble. For a short while, I’m back to my former human self: six foot four, muscular build, and dark, wavy hair brushing my shoulders.
Scratching my chin, my skin feels like a prickly pear. “A shave would have been nice, Cherina.”
She leans forward, pats my stubbly cheek, and places a kiss on it. “I like you better this way. Let’s have tea.”
The statuesque, curvy woman leads me down a narrow hall and into the kitchen. She sets a red kettle on the stove, and I drop my carcass on a seat at the table.
I take the time and appreciate the sight of Cherina. Her hips gently sway as she goes from cabinet to cabinet gathering the items she needs. The flowing floral dress she wears, an unnecessary barrier to her sensual body, dusts the floor with every movement. Any man would enjoy spending time with this witch, but she keeps herself guarded. In all the years we’ve known each other, we’ve never come close to a relationship, and I haven’t seen her with anyone else. I’ve often wondered if she even fancies men. She has assured me she does but has never elaborated.
“So what’s going on?” She sets two mugs with teabags along with a container of honey on the wood-plank table.
Slowly, I unravel my tale. “There was an accident down on the interstate tonight.”
“Anyone I might know?” Cherina turns and grabs the whistling kettle.
“Three human females. One of them died.” Adding the sweetener to my cup, I pick up a spoon and stir the contents.
She sighs heavily and sits across from me. “Too bad. I hate to hear things like that. What did you witness?”
“I only saw the aftermath, but I intervened. Saved a girl.” I take a swig of tea, savoring the beverage flavored with a hint of cinnamon. Enjoying real food and drink isn’t something I do often.
Cherina’s huge brown eyes study me before she takes a sip. Disbelief colors her words. “You saved someone? Are you feeling okay?”
“Trust me, I’ve asked myself the same question repeatedly since it happened.” Lowering my eyes, I run my fingers along the tongue-and-groove surface.
“Any answers?” Cherina asks.
Her eyes lock on me as if she’s waiting for me to explode or something. I understand. My expectations mirror hers. “No. For some reason I can’t stop thinking about Antoinette.”
My friend gasps before her gaze drops to the table.
“What is it?”
Cherina runs a finger along the edge of the mug. The ancient clock in the hall strikes the hour. After the gonging stops, she finally says, “Maybe there’s a connection between the two of you. The names are so similar. Antoinette. Antonius.”
Never have I believed in such things as fate. Coincidences happen in this world. I should know. My existence has been one happenstance after another. This is simply another one.
“You know I don’t believe in that nonsense.”
“Well, then, forget about it.” Cherina waves her hand in the air, dismissing the idea. “Accept it was your one time to do something good for someone else and let it go. If you’re feeling the need to be helpful again, however, you might want to consider what it means. It’s so unlike you, Marcus.”
It means nothing. At least it’s the story I’m going with. A weak grin crosses my face, and I return to my cooling cup of tea. “Perhaps you’re right.”
Unfortunately, my concern for Antoinette doesn’t fade overnight. Spirits have no need for sleep, but after a night of expending energy deep in thought, I’m exhausted. Rifling through the events, however, doesn’t help me find an explanation for my actions. Instead of discovering answers, I uncover possibilities—none of them good—along with a slew of unexplainable emotions.
Guilt.
Regret.
Interest.
It’s been centuries since I’ve even thought about any woman. Ages since I’ve felt anything for one. Such a long period of time has passed since a female has captured my thoughts and made me second-guess my actions.
“Okay. Shall we vote on the measure?” The annoying voice of Luc Duquette, head of Council, snags my attention. Glaring in my direction, he asks, “Uraeleus, are you with us?”
I’m tempted to materialize just to give the angular vampire with a permanent stake up his ass the finger. “I heard you, Luc.”
“Good. What say you?”
I haven’t heard a damned word he said. To be honest, my mind is in stasis along with Antoinette. Instead of asking for Luc to repeat his statement, I grumble my response, hoping it’s an appropriate one. “I say do it.”
All eyes land on me. Obviously, the vote is something unfavorable. Doesn’t matter. As long as I’m my usual disagreeable self, no one will suspect anything different about me.
“Well, that’s not surprising,” Audra, the only female alpha wolf shifter in town, says. The honey-colored wolf looks down her pretty nose. “Why do you even bother coming to these meetings? You always vote opposite the majority.”
Like I said, as long as I stay true to character, I won’t have any problems. “Glad I’m not disappointing you, Audra.”
“Okay, matter settled,” Luc says, clapping his hands. “Supernatural travel will not be restricted outside of Falls Creek. Meeting adjourned.”
Great. Time to leave this spot and check on Antoinette. Once I know she’s all right, I’ll leave town. As I make my way toward the exit, Luc cuts me off.
“A word please, Uraeleus.”
I pull my pattern together. “What now?”
“You seemed to be more disagreeable than usual. Anything I should know?”
Fuck. Why is he so concerned with my behavior?
I came. I saw. I got bored. Like I said, my mind is some place else. “Nothing. Things are on my mind, that’s all.”
“Anything I can help you with?” Luc leans against the doorframe.
“No,” I say sharply. “It’s personal. If we’re done here, do you mind?”
The vampire steps to the side. “You know Old Man, if you need to talk—”
Why does every being think I need to talk? I snap, “I don’t fucking need to talk to anyone! Let me be.”
He holds his hands up.
My pattern unravels as I storm away.
An hour later, I find myself unable to breach the hospital walls thanks to my heavy spirit. My overwhelming concern for a human makes no sense. After all, when I was alive I did nothing benefiting anyone but myself. Why should I change now? Something must be wrong with me. Do supernaturals get sick? It’s a possibility. After all, when you’ve been dead as long as I have, something could go wrong. I do realize that’s a stretch even for me. But what else could be responsible for me acting out of character?
People and even supernaturals can and do change over time.
I’m not buying it. Maybe Cherina could offer a better explanation?
Stop stalling.
New plan—I’ll simply check to see if Antoinette’s out of the coma. Then I’ll stop thinking about her. Yeah. That’s what I need to do. Closure. Nothing else. Now to go inside.
Breaching solid structures has always amazed me. A little thought as to where I want to go, and I’m there. The concept confounded me when I first died. I’d think of one place and then get distracted by thoughts of a beautiful woman. Instead of landing in the coliseum, for instance, I’d end up in the middle of a brothel.
The key is focus—something I lacked even as a human. It took me a while to finally get the hang of the whole process. I had my adventures in the interim. Like showing up in a woman’s bathhouse. I forgot no one could see me. I freaked out and materialized. Women screamed, and I got to watch lots of pale flesh jumping out of the water like conger fish. I’m thankful those issues are behind me.
