Michelle sits, slumped forward, on the corner of the bed. Her jeans and t-shirt lie discarded on the floor; her bra, unclasped, hangs loosely from her arms. She has the look of a broken doll, dropped by a distracted child.
Normally beautiful eyes, wide in shock, sit sunken in a face drained of color. Michelle’s dark, rich brown skin is unnaturally pale. Both hands are pressed to her abdomen, just below the bare left breast; blood, thick and red, spills over them.
I sat straight up, instantly wide awake. My heart raced; my palms were coated with sweat.
Michelle.
“Joshua,” I called out. Panicked, my eyes darted about the morgue. “Where is she?” They settled on the wall of body drawers. Not there, I thought, frantically. Please not there.
Joshua walked into view, leaning on his cane. “She who, exactly?”
I stood slowly, staring at the drawers. The sheet slipped down to the floor, leaving me naked. I didn’t care. The debilitating pain of earlier was all but gone; my joints and muscles felt tight and fatigued, but grudgingly serviceable.
“Michelle.” I spoke the name softly, almost a whisper, as I stepped forward.
Joshua followed along, content for the moment to let me take the lead. “Michelle?”
I spun, turning on him angrily. “Damn it, Joshua…Michelle! Michelle Harris! I met her at Steve’s party! You were right there, for God’s sake!”
He stood resolute in the heat of my anger, searching my face. The gears turned almost visibly as he processed my venomous words.
And then his eyes went wide.
“Henry?” he asked tentatively. “Henry Richards?”
Something in my mind clicked.
Yes, that was my name…Henry Michael Richards. A sudden spike of joy pushed its way roughly between the fear for Michelle and my own anger and confusion. The resulting mix of emotion was dizzying. I barely managed a single slight nod before turning back toward the drawers.
Joshua grasped my shoulder with a surprisingly firm hand, halting my forward progress. “She’s not there,” he said. “It’s been six months.”
I faced him slowly, my mouth growing dry. “Excuse me?”
“It’s July, Henry; you’ve been gone since January.”
Six months.
It wasn’t possible.
I’d been with Michelle just minutes ago. The scent of her perfume still lingered in my thoughts. The memory of her fingertips tickled at the back of my hand.
Joshua led me again to the autopsy table, where I sank down without struggle or complaint, lost in my own thoughts.
Had I been in a coma? That could explain losing six months. He might be lying, of course, but what would he stand to gain? And there was my new, strange reflection…
Plastic surgery? Some sort of accident?
But then, how did I end up in the morgue, and why hadn’t Joshua known who I was?
And where was Michelle?
I opened my mouth to start asking questions, but Joshua beat me to the punch.
“It’s only been six months, Henry. How did you get back so damn fast?”
I was caught off guard by his incomprehensible question; my mouth still hanging open. I finally managed an, “Uh, what?”
He continued on as if I hadn’t said anything at all, speaking to himself more than me. “The waiting list was almost ten years last time I checked. Hell, you can barely cross over in six months.”
The more Joshua said, the less I understood.
“Cross over?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Into the afterlife.”
A flood of ice water spilled through my veins, chilling me to the very core. “Afterlife…you mean I’m dead?”
Joshua shrugged. “I suppose that’s a matter of opinion.”
The flames of anger began to grow once again. “A matter of…are you kidding me?”
I pinched a generous amount of arm skin in demonstration. “I’m here, flesh and blood, talking to you. How can I possibly be dead?”
He sighed heavily, settling onto the autopsy table beside me. “You really have no idea what’s going on, do you, son?”
The fire inside died as quickly as it had flamed into life, leaving a void filled only with loss and hopelessness. I shook my head slowly.
Joshua grabbed a small mirror from the tray of surgical instruments, handing it to me. “You’re here, flesh and blood, Henry…but’s it’s not your flesh and it’s not your blood.”
I raised the mirror slowly.
The stranger once again stared back from the reflection.
My new hair, while still brown, was shorter and a little lighter; it stood in a cool, slightly spiky style that the old me could never pull off. As before, I was probably a couple inches over six foot and about two hundred pounds, but the outline of my body appeared more chiseled, with better definition.
I’d been heavily freckled my entire life, but my complexion was now even and clear. The face was thinner, and more ruggedly handsome. The old me was thirty-four; the new Henry might be the same age, but he was less worn down by the years.
This was not plastic surgery. Really and truly, I was in a new body.
Another person’s body.
A wave of revulsion washed over me.
I laid the mirror on the table between us, glass down. “What the hell is going on, Joshua?”
“You died on the fourth of January, Henry. I attended your funeral…they buried you right beside your father.” Joshua stopped for a minute, tears filling his eyes.
It had never occurred to me that he and my dad might have been close; as a child, you fail to notice those sorts of things.
He wiped his eyes and continued on. “When a person dies, their soul crosses over. That usually takes six to nine months, but can take years for some people. When they arrive on the other side, they’re given a choice: continue on to their faith-specific final destination or, as an Agent, return here to Earth. There’s a wide variety of very necessary jobs among the living filled by Agents from the afterlife.”
“Like Reapers?” I asked doubtfully.
Joshua nodded. “Yes, and angels, and demons, and so many others you’d never imagine. Most souls choose to continue on, but a lot want to come back; there’s a waiting list years long. When your turn comes up, you either accept the position you’re offered or go back to the end of the line to start waiting all over again.”
I could feel the corners of my lips pull down and my forehead furrow. “But it’s always a choice?”
He nodded again. “Yes, your choice to be on the waiting list, your choice to accept a position or not.”
“So,” I took a long, deep breath, “why didn’t I get a choice?”
Joshua frowned again, deeply. “Of course you got a choice, Henry. You just don’t remember it, right now.”
I shook my head. “I was drifting upward—I remember that. I remember the sudden change in direction—the painful tumble back down. There was no one else until I woke up here, with you.”
He looked shocked. “But they must have given you a choice. They couldn’t…” He trailed off, thinking for a moment. “Are you sure?”
I locked eyes with Joshua. “No one gave me a choice—and I want to know what’s going on.”
Joshua shook his head slowly. “I don’t know, and that…well, damn it, Henry, that worries me.”
The ensuing silence was long and heavy, almost oppressive. It was all so much to process; I didn’t know where to begin. The idea of wearing another man’s body made my skin crawl—and then I realized it wasn’t my skin crawling, which only made the whole thing worse.
“There’s clearly been a mistake, Joshua. I’m no Reaper.”
“Maybe,” he acknowledged. “At the very least, there’s something damn unusual going on.” Joshua looked thoughtfully across the room. “But there is one quick way to get some answers now.” Using his cane to help him stand, he walked to a desk by the door. Bending down, he pulled a large bundle wrapped in brown paper
from beneath it. “Try this on.” He tossed the package across the room.
It was much too large for jeans and a t-shirt, landing heavily in my hands. I tore away the paper to reveal enough rough black canvas to cover an elephant.
“You seriously want me to wear a tent?”
Joshua shook his head. “Put it on.”
“A damn morbid circus tent.” Shaking out the folds of canvas exposed a monstrous black robe with two arms and a hood. It might actually be fairly stylish, were I a twelve-foot-tall, penniless monk.
In the Middle Ages.
I glanced up, ready to object again.
Joshua glowered at me, nervousness tightening the corners of his eyes.
His tension was infectious, making me nervous as I slipped into the robe. Only, by the time I’d pulled both arms into the prodigious sleeves, it inexplicably fit as if it had been tailored for me. The cut was so perfect that the front stayed firmly closed without buttons or latches.
“Well.” He gave a deep sigh. “That answers one question, at least.”
“It does?” I asked, confused.
Joshua nodded. “The robe, as you may have gathered, is not your garden variety garment. It is a Reaper’s uniform, and only a Reaper can wear it.”
I nodded numbly. “And what if I refuse to be a Reaper?”
He grimaced. “You can’t refuse, Henry. It’s the Reaper’s magic that keeps you here. Either you live as a Reaper, or you die.”
“And I cross over again.”
“No.” Joshua shook his head, lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s why it’s always a choice. Becoming an Agent is a one-way trip; there is no going back.”
The anger started to flare again. Someone was going to answer for this, and fix it. I snapped, more harshly than I intended, “Well, tell me how this damn thing works.”
Joshua nodded. He stretched his arms to the sides and…shimmered. I can’t think of any better way to describe it. An effect akin to the heat mirage over hot concrete briefly surrounded him; all of his features were obscured. The effect lasted less than a second; in that short span of time, however, his clothing…changed. Joshua had been wearing a lab coat over khakis, and a light blue dress shirt. As the shimmer vanished, that was replaced by a black robe identical to mine.
I jerked back a step, shocked. A new apprehension washed over me as I fingered the material of my sleeve.
“The robe is the only clothing you’ll ever wear, Henry—all that you’ll ever need. It will, within reason, assume any form you desire.” He paused. “Do not take it off, no matter the cause, ever.”
“Why not?”
Joshua smiled sadly. “The robe is a Reaper’s servant, his suit of armor, and the source of his power. It will obey and protect you faithfully, as long as you wear it. Remove it, and that magic withers, leaving you defenseless and, within a few days, well…”
“Yeah, dead, I get it.” I continued to examine the material of the sleeve, which still felt like nothing more than rough canvas.
Joshua shimmered again, returning to his previous khakis, shirt, and coat. “Think what you need; the robe will answer. Just be aware that it may interpret your needs differently than you do.”
I fixed an image firmly in mind, one of the outfit I’d worn my last living day: jeans, dark red polo, and tennis shoes. With an effort, I sent the thought outward, belatedly appending a please.
It probably pays to be polite when addressing an intelligent, shape-shifting robe—especially when you’re already wearing it.
There was no sound, but gentle vibrations acknowledged my thoughts. Warm waves passed over my body and the entire room shimmered around me.
Almost before it began, the sensation had passed. I was no longer clothed in rough canvas; instead, I wore exactly what I had imagined. Every detail of the outfit was precisely as I remembered—even a small stain on the jeans from the latte I’d spilled yesterday.
Six months ago, yesterday.
Unfortunately, the robe had interpreted my request literally. I wore the sneakers without socks and I was going, uh, “commando.”
The devil really is in the details.
A second wave and shimmer passed over my feet and waist.
Joshua smiled, nodding. “Happens to everyone. I spent my first week mostly barefoot.”
I realized that he’d once been through this, too. He’d had a life before becoming Joshua the Reaper. He’d died, lost everything, and chosen to come back. I wondered how long ago he’d made that choice.
At least, for him, it had been a choice.
“You’ll get better at it as time goes on,” he said with a reassuring smile, “and the robe will learn how to serve you. A month from now, it’ll take no effort at all. Just don’t piss it off.”
I stared at the other man, my body tense and emotions strained. “How exactly would I…piss it off?”
Joshua chuckled. “Well, that would depend on the robe, now wouldn’t it?”
It amazed me that it now felt no different than my normal clothing. “How can something like this robe even exist?”
Joshua cleared his throat and smiled. “Orientation, day one, lesson one, Henry. There’s a powerful magic that makes all of this possible: Agents, the afterlife, and a thousand other things without which the human race would fall into ruin. That magic is powered by the faith of the masses. They don’t have to believe in the magic; they simply need to believe in, well, anything. When enough people believe strongly enough in something, it is made real, and the magic grows stronger. Each type of Agent has their own talisman, their connection to the magic. For us, that talisman is our robes.”
A magical robe…it was at once both terrifying and amazing, but I had no intention of wearing it long. Regardless of what Joshua said, there had to be a way out of this.
First chance I had, I’d go see Steve; we’d talk it through. Together, my brother and I could figure it out—we’d always been able to tackle any problem together.
A static-laden voice filled the room, booming through an intercom by the door. “Dr. Black?”
Joshua checked his watch, muttering obscenities as he crossed to the intercom. He placed a finger to his lips in a needless gesture before answering the call.
“Yes, Sam?”
“She’s back, Doctor.” Sam’s disembodied voice placed heavy emphasis on the word “she.”
“This isn’t the best time, Sam. Please ask Mrs. Winston to return during the day shift.”
“She’s being rather…stubborn, Doctor.”
“Of course she is.” Joshua turned off the intercom briefly. “Damn that persistent woman.” He regained his composure before flipping it back on. “All right, tell her I’ll be out in a few minutes.” He turned the intercom back off with visible malice.
“Friend of yours?”
“Mrs. Karen Winston is a huge pain in my ass.” Joshua exhaled angrily. “She refuses to admit the simple truth: her husband ran off with his pretty young secretary. She keeps harassing the police, the hospitals and the morgues looking for him.”
He checked his watch again. “I’m afraid we’re out of time, Henry. I didn’t expect to give a full orientation tonight. You must be on your way to avoid…awkward questions.”
Questions like hey, where’s that dead guy going?
“I have no idea where to go or what to do.” My voice sounded vulnerable and a little petulant, but I didn’t bother tempering it.
“I know,” Joshua responded as he pressed a slip of paper into my hand. “This is your new home. It’s not much, but it’s yours for as long as you need it.”
I snorted as I read the International District address: 928 South Lane Street. It was familiar in a vague way. The full address meant little to me, but it shouldn’t take long to hunt it down. It was the apartment number, though, that caught my attention: 3C, ironically enough.
Hopefully, this 3C would treat me better than the last one.
“Is this…was this…” I rubbed my chest. “
…his home?”
Joshua’s eyes spread wide. “God no. I’m sorry, Henry. I keep forgetting how many basic things you don’t know yet. I’ll come by in a couple hours. Until then, Elliott should be able to answer most of your questions.”
“Elliott?”
He shrugged. “Your mentor? Your assistant? You’ll see. He should be waiting for you.” Joshua cleared his throat and changed the subject. “There’s a reception desk just down the hall, where Sam is dealing with Mrs. Winston. Slip quietly in the other direction, through the fire door, down one flight of stairs, and out the locked rear entrance. Make your way to that address.”
“If the door is locked, how do I get out?”
“Locks will no longer hinder you.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Joshua started to respond, but a female voice echoed through the hallway, distracting us both. The words were muffled by the door, but her tone was unmistakably sharp and impatient. The male response was measured, calm and professional.
“Damn that woman,” Joshua grumbled. “Are you ready?”
The conversation continued outside our door. Still firmly under control, Sam’s voice reasoned with Mrs. Winston’s. His exact words were unintelligible, but the tone was plain enough.
Patience with a touch of exasperation.
I shrugged, showing Joshua a forced smile. “Not really.”
Joshua pushed the door open slightly, allowing the words to come through.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Winston, but it is the middle of the night.”
“My goodness, don’t you think I know the time? I do own a watch. I have been at this all day and I’m willing to wait; please inform whichever doctor is on duty that I’m here.”
“But ma’am…”
I started into the hallway.
Joshua grabbed my arm, stopping me. “Don’t go anywhere, don’t talk to anyone, not until I come by later.”
I nodded hesitantly. I had every intention of seeing Steve, and I wasn’t willing to argue the point. My brother and I lost our dad twenty years ago, under circumstances far too similar to my own death. My brother was strong, but I knew how I’d feel if our roles were reversed…if I had lost him. I was afraid it might be enough to break him.
His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) Page 2
