“I have never given a Reaper their orientation before,” he began, “but I doubt it can be too difficult.” Elliott glanced out the window as the first rays of morning sun broke over the Seattle skyline. He was highlighted in that clear, pure light.
“Death is largely automatic; the soul departs as the body fails, and moves on according to the beliefs the person held in life. In those very rare cases that someone truly believes in nothing—is unable to accept even the possibility of something more—the soul disperses, returning to the magic that forged it.”
Elliott paused dramatically. “There have always, unfortunately, been exceptions.”
His attention returned to me and he took two steps forward, closing the gap to an intimate distance. “A small percentage of deceased souls do not make the crossing on their own. They linger around the deceased body, or they move in the wrong direction entirely. Some simply refuse to die at all. Reapers exist to deal with these lost and stubborn souls.”
An uncomfortable weight settled in the pit of my stomach. “What exactly do you mean by deal with?”
“Usually nothing too dramatic. Most need a few simple words of encouragement…a hand pointing the way.”
The weight grew ever so slightly heavier. “Usually?”
“Well…” Elliott dipped his head briefly down between his shoulders—apparently his feline approximation of a shrug. “There is occasional need for a Reaper to be more…forceful.”
“Why…” I stopped for a moment, swallowing; my mouth and throat had grown very dry. “Why not just leave them alone?”
“Left unattended, such lost and stubborn souls become the stories that have long haunted mankind. Vampires, mummies, zombies, ogres…many horror movie monsters have very real origins, and most of them began life as a soul that failed to cross over at their time.”
The weight blossomed into a frozen boulder, chilling my entire body to the core. “What if I refuse?”
Elliott took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as his tail swished. “Excuse me?”
“I didn’t agree to this. What if I refuse to be a Reaper…refuse to offer words of encouragement…refuse to be forceful?”
Elliott paused a moment, apparently dumbfounded, before he abruptly started grooming a portion of his chest hair. Maybe it was the way he gathered his thoughts, or he felt a need to build the suspense.
Or, perhaps, you know…he was just a cat.
I couldn’t imagine why anyone would ever want to be a Reaper. It sounded awful, and dangerous. Any intelligent person would avoid it at all cost.
Elliott’s attention returned to me as unexpectedly as it had left; he continued as if there’d been no pause at all. “Reapers have many rules—things they should do, things they should not—but there are only three unbreakable rules.” His face inched closer to mine until I could see little but his large golden eyes.
“First, it is the duty of all Agents to protect the magic. When mortals learn the truth, the magic weakens. Some mortals will know you as a Reaper, others as a man; some may even know both, though that should be rare. Under no circumstances may any mortal learn the two are actually one and the same.”
So not only was it dangerous for Steve to know the truth, but it might also be dangerous for me to tell him.
“Second, you may befriend humans, at your discretion, and you are free to interact with other Agents any way you choose. However, you must never have any sort of…relations…with any mortal. Even so much as a passionate kiss is forbidden.”
Elliott moved uncomfortably close, until our noses nearly touched. His hot breath washed over me; I expected to smell rotten meat, and braced myself for the stench. Instead the scent was fresh and pleasant.
Mint.
The unexpected incongruity was somehow far more disturbing than my expectation.
He continued on. “Finally, and this is the most important, you are strictly forbidden from arbitrarily interfering in matters of life and death. As a Reaper, you will receive assignments; you may neither reap, nor spare, an unassigned soul, except to save your own life.”
“If you want to be a Reaper, you must follow the rules, but I am aware of no rule that requires you to be a good Reaper.”
I considered Elliott’s words carefully. “And what if I break the rules?”
“A seasoned Reaper might be occasionally allowed to…stretch…the rules. For someone like you, brand new and unproven, it would mean dismissal.”
His bright yellow eyes locked on mine. “Dismissal, Reaper, means death.”
Elliott turned suddenly, batting at something invisible in the air. He stalked to the far end of the couch, where he lay down in a small pool of sunlight that had come with the dawn. Once again, he started to work at his chest hair.
A chill ran through me as I realized that Chris hadn’t simply been interfering at the overpass. He’d kept me from unwittingly breaking rules I hadn’t even known about.
And in doing so, he’d saved my life.
“So,” Elliott said to regain my wandering attention. He was again only inches from my face, though I hadn’t noticed his approach. “I just need your name, and I’ll have everything ready in the morning.”
I frowned, confused. “I already told you, it’s Henry.”
He sighed, close enough again for me to smell the mint on his breath. “Not your old name, your new one.”
“I’m sorry…what?”
“Henry Michael Richards is dead, Reaper,” Elliott said without emotion. “Every Agent chooses a new name.”
A trap door swung open beneath me; my heart lurched, and my mouth grew dry. I’d lost so much already. The only connection to who I’d been was my name.
And now they were trying to take that too.
I stood, beginning to pace the room.
Every last damn thing had been stripped from me: my body, my family, my life, my freedom, even my very right to choose. All in the name of some fucking war between people I didn’t know, over God knows what.
All because of Chris.
A name may seem inconsequential in the grand scheme, but it signified so much more.
It was all I had left.
I made every effort to calm my voice, and almost succeeded. “How do I pick a new name?”
Elliott cocked his head to one side; I assumed he heard the tremor in my words, but was good enough not to mention it. “You may select any name that catches your interest.”
I stopped in the middle of the room, turning to face him.
“I choose Henry Michael Richards.”
Elliott’s lips spread in his disturbing smile. “Any name but that.”
I shook my head stubbornly, angry. “I’m not choosing anything else.”
“Listen, Reaper…”
A knock at the door, loud and insistent, interrupted Elliott mid-thought.
We both froze in surprise, staring at the door.
“No one knows we are here,” Elliott whispered softly.
My tension rose another notch.
I wasn’t ready for any more surprises.
The knock came again. While it was still echoing ominously through the small apartment, there was a third knock.
In a halting voice, I called out, “Who’s there?”
“Dammit, son.” Joshua’s voice was unmistakable, even muffled by the door. “Let me in.”
My heart began to race.
The last time I’d seen the man, he hadn’t been a man at all. I’d been running from a monster, in a frenzied panic.
That panic began to return.
Only now, I had nowhere to run.
VI
A Reaper by Any Other Name
I stood still, in shock and fear.
After several seconds, the door unlocked itself and swung inward.
Joshua filled the doorway, but he was just a stooped old man again, using his cane for balance.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
He stepped in briskly, and the door swung shut and locke
d itself behind him.
Elliott nodded to Joshua as he entered. “Joshua.”
With a strained smile, he nodded to the cat in return. “Good morning, Elliott.” He then turned toward me, scowling. “Dying is no excuse for forgetting your manners, son.”
I smiled uneasily. “It’s good to see you too, Joshua.”
He grunted, shuffling past me to the couch, where he settled down heavily. “It’s been a long damn night, and I’m tired.”
Elliott spread out over Joshua’s lap, and Joshua began to scratch absentmindedly behind the cat’s ears. The purr was as big as the cat himself; I could feel the vibrations through the floor halfway across the room.
When Elliott spoke, the words were deep and gravelly, laden with the sound of his pleasure. “This is quite the unusual situation.”
Joshua nodded. “Yes, it is. That’s why I went to see Atropos.”
The purring ceased abruptly, the sudden silence almost deafening. Elliott slowly withdrew from Joshua’s lap to stand beside him, eyes wide. “You found her?”
Joshua nodded again. “For once, yes.” He hesitated briefly before adding, “I think she wanted to be found.”
“Wait,” I said, confused. “Who’s this Atropos?”
Joshua stared at me long and hard, before finally sighing. “She’s my boss.”
I stepped forward excitedly. “What did she say?”
He shook his head. “She said I’m an old damn fool.” His voice was harsh and bitter. “She said I should mind my own damn business.” He stood angrily. “She said, ‘Henry Richards is a Reaper, like any damn other—treat him like any damn other.’”
My momentary excitement popped like a bubble, leaving a giant void. Anger and frustration washed in like a flood to fill the sudden empty space.
“So,” Joshua continued, “I’m here to teach you how to be a damn Reaper.”
A terrifying image filled my mind’s eye—Joshua not as he stood before me now, but as a robed, skeletal specter of death. That might be him, but it was not me.
It would never be me.
“No,” I responded, soft but firm.
Joshua crossed the space between us slowly, like a lithe animal stalking prey, moving now much differently than the stooped old man that had shuffled into the apartment. He cocked his head to one side, raising his ear to me, as if he hadn’t heard clearly.
“What was that?” The voice sounded very dangerous.
My own response sounded no less so. “Elliott told me the rules. I’ll keep it in my pants, and I’ll keep your secrets. But I will not be reaping any souls.”
Joshua snorted, shaking his head. He turned toward the couch, where Elliott cringed under his stare. “Has this Reaper chosen his name yet?”
Elliott mewed, shaking his head. “No, he refused.”
The stare turned to me. “What’s your name, Reaper?”
I growled menacingly, looking down at him. “Henry Michael Richards.”
Joshua pushed me hard in the chest, and I stumbled back several steps.
“What’s your name, Reaper?” His voice was tense and tight.
My anger boiled just below the surface, barely contained. I strode quickly back to Joshua, until we stood toe to toe. My words were barely a whisper, short and clipped. “Henry…Michael…Richards.”
Joshua pushed me again, his strength surprising for a man of his age. I slammed up against the wall. I looked up, ready to lunge at him, but Joshua had already crossed the gap, his face in mine.
“What is your name, Reaper?”
The dam burst.
Every emotion, every frustration, every loss, it all came rushing forth in an uncontrollable torrent. I was dead. I’d lost Michelle. I’d lost Steve.
I’d lost everything.
My scream was inhuman.
I reached out for Joshua, grabbing him by the lapels. My new body was strong like I’d never known before; in a single smooth motion I spun and rammed him into the wall, pinning him over a foot off the floor.
I heard something snap at the impact.
Elliott yowled behind me.
Yelling, I spit the words into his face. “Henry! Michael! Richards!”
Joshua gasped, wincing; pain was plainly etched across his face.
My anger evaporated in an instant. I released him and stumbled back.
He landed heavily, leaning forward over his cane, and this time there was no doubt he’d fall over without it. Joshua took several shaky, shallow breaths, before calmly addressing Elliott as if nothing had happened.
“Michael, his middle name, will work for now. It doesn’t exactly break the rules.” He looked at me. “Michael Reaper, I think…it’s as close as we can get to ‘John Doe.’” He smiled weakly.
“Yes, sir,” the cat responded softly.
“Joshua, I…” I tentatively stepped forward.
He shook his head, waving his hand dismissively. “Listen, son, you’re going through a hell of a lot, and I know you want answers. Hell, I want answers.” He sighed. “Neither of us is getting them.”
He took a long, deep, shaky breath before continuing. “Like it or not, you’re a Reaper now. I honestly don’t know what will happen if you ignore your assignments. This is all new territory. I doubt it’ll be as easy as you think.”
Joshua shuffled forward with his cane, wincing at every step. He placed a comforting hand on my shoulder; it was oppressively heavy. “Good luck…I mean it. You know where to find me, if you need anything—anything at all.”
I stood in shock as he turned slowly and departed.
I’d never been that angry before. It left me feeling drained and empty. I’m not sure how long I stood frozen like that.
A burning need to apologize overwhelmed me suddenly. I darted out into the hallway to find Joshua.
Of course, he wasn’t there.
But I wasn’t alone.
A sultry female voice from across the hall caught me off guard. “Well, my new neighbor is a Reaper. What will that do to the property values?”
In my haste, I’d failed to notice the woman. As I looked now, my new Sight presented a slightly disorienting double image.
To the naked eye, a woman in her late twenties stood at the door across from mine, withdrawing her key from the deadbolt. She didn’t quite reach my shoulder, standing maybe five foot two. Long blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and bright blue eyes mirrored the easy smile on her lips.
Her features were clearly Caucasian, but tinged with the barest hint of Asia: someone generations back had dipped their toe in another gene pool, at a time when such things must still have been very taboo. It gave her a comfortably familiar look that also managed to suggest a touch of the exotic. Her clothing was simple and casual: jeans, light pink blouse, and sandals.
There was nothing overtly sexual about her, and yet she exuded a strong, undeniable allure.
The Sight revealed…more.
Superimposed over her clothing was a skimpy negligee; had she worn nothing else, it would leave little to the imagination. Two small white horns protruded from the woman’s head. A long, slender phantom of a tail swished lazily behind her.
The sight was so unexpected, it took a moment for my mind to process it all.
Panic then flared.
“Hi,” she said, smiling brightly. “I’m Emma, your cute and friendly next door neighbor.”
She extended her hand.
I took a nervous step back.
Emma frowned slightly, sensing my apprehension. “See, this is typically the part where you shake my hand and tell me your name. I could just call you Reaper, I suppose; do you have any other name?”
I fled back into my apartment, Joshua forgotten, and slammed the door. I slid to the floor, my back barring the entry…just in case.
Elliott approached tentatively. “Is everything all right?”
“The woman across the hall,” I stammered, “she’s a…a…a…”
“A demoness,” Elliott offered
helpfully.
“Yes.” I desperately wanted to swallow, but my mouth was far too dry.
He settled on his haunches and nodded. “A succubus, I believe, to be completely accurate—a seductress, a jezebel—a female demon that uses sexuality to tempt men into sin. Filthy job for an Agent.”
I jerked. Right, of course…just an Agent, like me, only…
Only a freaking demon.
I shivered. “Elliott, how often would you find two Agents in the same building?”
Elliott dipped his head in another of his shrugs. “Fairly often; to be honest, I would be surprised if you are the only two here. The landlord is an old, blind Chinese man who likes rent paid in cash and asks very few questions. It is an ideal location for your kind.”
So, just a horrendously unfortunate coincidence.
Or, maybe, it was something else entirely.
“Do you think it’s safe?”
Elliott looked at me, confused. “Safe?”
“Living across the hall from…her?”
“Well,” Elliott said, pondering, “she is just an Agent, like yourself. Unlike you, though, she is an Agent of Evil. I would advise strong caution, but if she has no reason to be your enemy I cannot imagine there is any need to worry.”
If she has no reason…that was just perfect.
Chris had warned me the full might of Hell was already on the hunt.
And that they would find me.
But I doubt he realized a part of Hell’s “full might” lived right across the hall.
VII
Red and Black
Michelle sits slumped forward on the corner of the bed. Her jeans and t-shirt lie crumpled 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.
Red so dark, it’s almost black.
His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) Page 5
