Night Latch

by Anela Deen

  “She has good eyes, Samito,” she announced. “I like her.”

  With that astonishing assessment, she sailed out the door, calling her goodbyes behind her. I stared after her, dumbfounded.

  Sam set his gift on the kitchen counter and began to unwrap it. “My nana’s a force of nature,” he commented wryly.

  “And a poor judge of character, apparently.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I toil in purgatory. Such implies I am not likeable.”

  His hands stilled. He looked at me. “It does not.”

  “My purpose is to end life,” I answered simply. “To deliver grief.”

  “That’s your job, not your purpose. And even when you are working as Death, that doesn’t make you some kind of walking cancer diagnosis.”

  I cocked my head at him, surprised by the censure in his voice. “What else would I be, Sam?”

  “Yourself,” he said firmly. “A soul striving for redemption. That takes strength, Alice. It takes courage to recognize mistakes. That’s what Nana saw and that’s what I see. I won’t hear otherwise, not even from you.”

  It was as much anger as I’d ever seen from him. I tried to brush off his words as charity but couldn’t. Sam might possess boundless, and often inadvisable, kindness, but never pity. He meant it, and I found myself without reply.

  “Besides,” he added, with a gentle tilt to his mouth. “She’s right on both counts. You do have good eyes. They look different here, you know.”

  “Different how?”

  “In your other form they’re more intense, like sapphires under the light. Pretty in an otherworldly way, and here they’re…”

  I frowned when he trailed off. “They’re what?”

  He averted his gaze. “They’re softer. Like that blue-grey just after dusk.”

  Had he just given me a compliment? I was not so out of touch that I didn’t know the implication when someone noticed the exact shade of blue in another’s eyes. But it couldn’t mean that coming from Sam.

  A distant part of me whispered that it could, the part I’d thought long deceased, the remnant that belonged to a spoiled woman who’d desired adoration and had condemned her soul when she didn’t get it. I pushed her back, stamped out the merry spark Sam’s words incited. He wanted me to feel comfortable in my skin. More of his kindness.

  Sam finished unwrapping his gift, pushing aside the tissue paper to extract a chunky knit hat and scarf set in dark blue. He smiled slightly. Without any hesitation, he turned and tugged the hat over my head.

  “Thought so,” he laughed. “Nana always makes these too small. She still thinks I’m the same size as when I was twelve.”

  I shot him a dark look. “I am not the same size as your adolescent self.”

  He pinched my chin. “You’re right. I think I was taller.”

  I opened my mouth to say something—anything—when another knock came at the door.

  “That’ll be Heidi with some clothes you can wear,” Sam said, going to answer it. “You don’t have to hide this time,” he called after me when I made for the bathroom again.

  “I intend to bathe,” I answered without turning back, suddenly desperate for a moment alone. Which was ironic given the isolation of my existence. Solitude, it seemed, was something appreciated only in its absence.

  ***

  I shifted in the passenger's seat of Sam's truck, annoyed with his friend's bulky coat—white, of all colors, with sparkly gold flecks—and did my best to refrain from ripping out the seat belt that dug into my neck. It didn't help that the thick black tights and velvet, burgundy dress I wore beneath my cheerful winter gear made my skin itch and sweat. Or maybe that was because Sam had the heat turned up to maximum.

  He'd been oddly pensive since we left his home and spoke little. When I emerged from his bathroom in a cloud of steam—hot showers were definitely one of mankind's better accomplishments—Sam had left the duffel bag of loaned clothing by the bed with a note that said he waited outside and to take my time. Odd, given how cold out there it was.

  Later, I’d found him in the snow-filled back garden, standing over a dark smudge beside an empty fountain, taking a picture of it with his phone.

  "What are you doing?" I'd asked, prompting him to whirl around with a flinch.

  "Nothing," was all he said, which meant it was something indeed, especially when his foot swiped backward to cover the dark spot with snow.

  Presumably, this had more to do with whatever he didn’t wish to tell me. I’d asked nothing more, trusting in his promise to explain tomorrow, but the infuriating thing about trust was that it required patience. I possessed little of it as Death. Here in the living world, sitting in a hot truck and irritating clothing, the thump of my pulse growing louder with the beat of dread, I had none at all. When Sam checked his phone—which had neither buzzed nor rang—for the dozenth time, I gave up the pretense.

  Reaching over and wrenching the heater dial all the way back to cold, I snapped out, “Is there a reason we must emulate the fires of hell within this vehicle, or do you simply enjoy sweating?”

  Sam blinked at me owlishly for a moment before returning his eyes to the road. “Sorry, I meant to turn it down again once it warmed up in here.”

  “Perhaps if you did not examine your device every thirty seconds, your mind would be better focused.”

  He slipped the phone into his pocket with a grimace. “Probably, yes.”

  “We have spoken before of your distractibility.”

  “I know.”

  “And your need to use greater caution.”

  “I’m not going to die in a car accident, Alice, trust me.”

  It was the certainty behind the words that silenced my reply. I examined his profile, finding his gaze already growing distant again, his usually expressive face guarded. Disconcerting, that I could not guess at his thoughts, though I tried anyway.

  “Is it Maggie? Do you feel her still?”

  “No. I haven’t felt her for a couple of weeks now,” he said, his hand rubbing at his chest in a way that made me wonder if he wished he had.

  It was aggravating, this worry he elicited. Granted, he typically aggravated me, but never like this.

  I shifted to look out the front window again, dug the seatbelt once more out of my neck, and changed the subject.

  “What is a brunch?” I asked.

  “From what I’ve heard, it’s a meal timed before lunch but after breakfast.”

  “From what you’ve heard? You’ve never been to one?”

  He snorted. “It’s not really my thing. I’m more of a standard mealtime kind of guy than a mini-sandwich and mimosa sort. My mom loves it though.”

  “This one is meant to be celebratory, correct? For the holiday.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, and I guess to mark the occasion of meeting Mr. Lindonbury’s adult kids. I normally opt out of family meals on Christmas, but things between him and my mom look like they’re serious. I didn’t want to disappoint her. She actually said please when she asked.”

  “And does she know I accompany you?”

  “I sent a message.”

  “You didn’t speak with her?”

  “She didn’t pick up when I called. I think they’re having catering delivered, so she’s probably busy.”

  Sam seemed untroubled by this, but I had the sudden impression that my appearance at this function would be not just unwelcome, but highly intrusive. An uncomfortable feeling. Etiquette wasn’t something I’d had to contend with in a long while. The world and the time I’d lived in was as dead as I was, but certain social graces were universal, and party-crashing, as it was called these days, required some finesse.

  I tapped a finger on the curve of my knee as I considered, watching as the wintery landscape passed in a horizon of snow, shrubs, and evergreen. A bright spot of color caught my eye and sparked an idea.

  “Pull over,” I said, perhaps a bit sharply because Sam complied immediately.


  “Are you feeling sick?” he asked worriedly.

  “Don’t be absurd. I assume you have your tools in the back of your truck?”

  “Sure, this is my work truck. Well, my only truck, really.”

  “Do you have wire and string?”

  “Yes.”

  “And a saw?”

  That made him look more worried. “Why do we need a saw?”

  “I have a task for you.”

  He glanced out my window at the tree line. “Is it about choosing the saddest looking Christmas tree to remind me of the spirit of the holiday? Because I’ve already seen that movie.” The scowl I sent his way had him lifting his hands in surrender. “I’m going, I’m going.”

  When I descended the truck into a snowbank as tall as my shins, I was grateful I’d opted for the knee-high black boots. The wintery breeze nipped at my cheeks and I rewrapped his nana’s scarf around my neck and face. Infernal season. Why couldn’t Sam have made this wish during pleasant weather?

  The approaching whine of a motorcycle engine caught my ear as I came around the end the truck. Sam already had the back end of the covered trailer open, grumbling to himself as he rummaged around inside.

  “Any particular kind of string you need for this mysterious venture?” he asked.

  “Whatever you have available will do.”

  I picked out a lone figure riding the motorcycle, black clad. He had the broad shape of a man, his face hidden behind the reflective visor of his helmet. It was peculiar enough to see a motorcyclist this time of year, but something about him tugged on an instinct of concern. He slipped one hand from the handlebar, reaching for his waist. I stepped closer to the road, squinting against the glare of sunlight on snow.

  As he drew near, he slowed down, and I had the odd impression that he was looking directly at me. His free hand paused. He seemed to gaze on me with…surprise? Whatever he saw, he returned his grip to the handlebar, tucked himself down and accelerated past with a roar of his engine.

  Sam jumped down from the truck holding a box with the items I’d requested. He held it out for inspection.

  “Good enough?”

  Frowning, I stared down the road after the motorcyclist. He hadn’t looked back.

  “Is that anyone you know?” I asked.

  Sam glanced that way and shook his head. “No one I know would ride that thing around here in December. Probably just someone passing through on their way to Des Moines.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. It seemed plausible, but the concern I’d felt lingered nonetheless.

  * * *

  By the time Sam pulled into the driveway of our destination, I tied off the final string on my little project and examined my work with a critical eye.

  “It needs something,” I muttered.

  “Alice,” Sam said quietly. “It’s beautiful.”

  It was, I had to admit. The wire and string had worked well to bind twigs of juniper, pine, and cedar into a winter bouquet. Sprigs of holly stood out like scarlet pearls alongside a trio of pinecones nestled between the needles. But it still needed something.

  “I have it,” I announced, and passed the bouquet to Sam to extract my hair tucked into my coat. I’d braided the sliver curling ribbon Sam’s grandmother had used on his gift into my dark locks in an attempt at looking festive. I hadn’t known what else to do with my waist-length hair. Servants had styled it all the days I’d lived and I’d never had to learn more than the most rudimentary skills.

  “Hold it still,” I instructed, winding the ribbon around the base of the stems, knotting as I went to create a pattern.

  “I had no idea you were a craft person,” Sam said, a smile in his voice.

  “In my living days, I loved flowers,” I told him. “Northern Galilee was known for its vast fields of vibrant wildflowers.”

  “Is that where you lived?”

  “For some years. I always had a garden.” It gave me a twinge of longing to think of my hands among their petals, watching something beautiful grown from my efforts. Those small joys.

  Strange to recall these memories so vividly after so long. How far away they seemed, and yet not at all.

  “There. All done.” I tied off the final knot and tucked in the ends of the string. Sam didn’t reply and I glanced up at his face to find him watching me, a fond look in his eyes. “What?”

  “I like hearing about your life. You don’t often talk about it.”

  “There’s a reason for that. This,” I gestured to the bouquet, “is the most inconsequential detail of what I was.”

  He frowned. “You wouldn’t be this good at it if it was inconsequential.”

  “Dabbling with flowers says nothing of who I was.”

  “I don’t think that’s true.”

  “Because you’re foolish.” Very foolish, always seeing the light and never the shadow. I reached over to turn off the truck and extract the key. I held it up to him. “Shall we go?”

  He didn’t move to take it, the frown still in place. “You do this a lot, you know, dismissing the good parts of yourself.”

  “Don’t see more than there is.”

  “Yes, exactly like that. Every time I say something positive, you’re quick to blow it off.” He seemed deeply troubled by this. I wished he would let it go. Perhaps if I addressed it, he would do so.

  “You must understand; there are crimes so heinous, they become our definition. I committed one such as this.”

  Sam considered that a moment, his eyes never leaving mine. “Would you make the same choice, if you could do it again?”

  The question slammed into me with as much force as a fist. It was a struggle not to let him see it. “I can’t answer that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I know the consequences of my actions. Saying I wouldn’t repeat the mistake means nothing if I know the punishment.”

  “All right. How about, do you regret it?”

  I got out of the truck.

  What I wouldn’t give to vanish from his sight and his infernal questions right now. All I had was this physical form struggling not to slip on the icy drive. Hardly dignified, and ill-befitting the incandescent rage pulsing through me.

  “Alice,” Sam called behind me, rushing to catch up. “Wait.”

  I spun to face him, my voice low and hard. “No more questions.”

  “Alice, I only meant—”

  “Be silent,” I commanded. “You would do better to remember which of us is the mentor and which is the child blathering from his juvenile understanding of this world and the next.”

  His gaze fell from mine. The lash had struck home. I refused to be sorry for it.

  “You’re right,” he addressed the ground between us. “I didn’t mean to—I shouldn’t have pried.”

  “See that you don’t repeat the offense,” I said, words sharp as knives, and then drew back in alarm. For the first time I noted the tone of my voice. It was identical to the one I once used to decree cruelties as queen of Chalcis.

  No. No, Salome had died and burned for her trespasses. I had changed my name along with my purpose when I accepted the mantle of Death. Could the petty, brutal person I was still reside within me after all this time? After everything I’d suffered? To think I could fall into that pattern so easily and so quickly when I felt cornered, it was terrifying. I did not want to be her again, angry and bitter, empty despite all the riches and power.

  “Hey,” Sam’s voice reached through the cold horror of my thoughts. “What’s wrong?”

  He extended a hand as if to clasp my arm, but hesitated. I closed that distance to grip his gloved hand, grateful for the return squeeze he gave my fingers. Regret squeezed me just as hard.

  “I spoke too harshly,” I managed, my throat tight. “You intended no insult. It was wrong of me.”

  Sam gave a half-smile, easy forgiveness filling his brown eyes. “It’s okay.”

  “It truly isn’t.”

  “I say it is,” he answered lightly, keep
ing hold of my hand as we walked toward the house, the bouquet I’d assembled nestled in his other arm. “If I don’t want my chestnuts roasted, then I shouldn’t go poking at painful memories, right?”

  “You speak as though you deserved it. You did not.”

  “I was clumsy. It’s true, I don’t know who you were,” he allowed. “I only know you as you are now, and who you are is someone I trust and admire. I just wish you could see that too. Definitions can change, can’t they?”

  “Sam,” I shook my head, unable to make sense of my own thoughts.

  “Come on,” he bumped my shoulder with his. “Let’s get this brunch over with so we can do the other fun stuff on the itinerary. Oh, and word to the wise, if my mom offers you a hot toddy, proceed with caution. It’s a weekend bender in a mug, believe me.”

  A slight smile found its way to my lips, though I could not so easily shake off the meanness of my replies. Sam had spoken from concern, his heart motivated by friendship and compassion. It came so readily for him, an innate willingness to forbear my fury because he wished for me to think better of myself. Heaven chose well with him. As it had with where it placed me. Clearly, I still had no comprehension of empathy and self-sacrifice. It was a divide that stood between us, no matter how much Sam refused to see it.

  ***

  When his mother met us at the door, I began to understand Sam’s reluctance to attend the ritual of holiday get-togethers. Wearing a flowing white dress with a red, silk scarf coiled around her neck, she gave him a look as blustery as the winter day when he introduced me.

  “I didn’t expect you to bring,” her cool gaze evaluated me from top to bottom, and seemed uninspired by what she saw, “a date.”

  “She’s a friend, mom,” Sam said for the third time, clearly summoning patience. He’d already given the stranded-while-travelling excuse, which she did not accept as easily as his grandmother had. It did lack a few believable details.

  “A friend.” Her eyes wandered down to our clasped hands and narrowed.

  To his credit, he didn’t immediately shuck my hand away as though caught in a lie. Perhaps he should have. I wasn’t sure why I still gripped him so tightly. On the pretense of taking the bouquet from Sam, I released him.