I go numb, unable to comprehend the scene before me. My body reacts without direction, lurching into the room toward her.
“Michelle!”
Her head turns slowly, through a series of small jerks…driven by reflex more than intent. A blank stare misses me completely, as if I am invisible. She focuses with a lurch, features flooding with concern.
Apparently unable to speak, she emphatically mouths a single word.
Run!
Two pops sound from the dark. Despair registers clearly in Michelle’s eyes; a thick, deep red fluid splashes across her body and stains the bedding.
It looks like blood.
It isn’t hers.
A white hot, blinding flash inside my eyes split across the dream, tearing it apart. I lurched into a sitting position, all at once awake, disoriented—but thankful to leave my nightmares behind.
The scene was strange at first…unfamiliar. Blinds were drawn over the room’s only window; the dim light filtering through suggested early morning, or late evening. The bedding wasn’t mine, and neither was the furniture. For a handful of seconds, I couldn’t remember where I was, trapped in the fog of my dreams.
Seeing Elliott jogged my memory. He lay sprawled at the foot of the bed, all four paws splayed in the air, with the back right one twitching irregularly. His tongue stuck partway out of his mouth, and the rasp in his breath sounded suspiciously like snoring.
My distinguished advisor.
I looked slowly around the room. I was a Grim Reaper now—a freaking Angel of Death—living in a crappy Chinatown apartment. My neighbor was a demon who probably wanted to kill me. My job was to steal the souls of people who didn’t want to die.
And, somehow, I was meant to stop the Apocalypse.
And I had to use the bathroom.
Apparently Agents weren’t exempt from normal bodily functions—which was actually kind of comforting, in an odd sort of way.
As I climbed out of bed, heading for the bathroom, the door to the living room burst into flame.
I stumbled backward, raising both hands to shield my face. I expected an army of the damned to burst in at any moment, Emma at its head, ready to tear me into small, bloody pieces. It took several seconds for me to realize there was no army—not even heat or any smoke.
I lowered my hands carefully. The door wasn’t on fire. Instead, it flashed with a bright red light, like some sort of deranged traffic signal.
I turned and kicked the bed, shaking Elliot awake.
He hissed briefly in response. “What is it?”
I pointed at the door. “Why the hell is it flashing?”
His eyes slowly traced the line my finger indicated, hesitating briefly before returning to my face. His voice sounded confused, still laden with sleep. “Flashing?”
I nodded fervently. “Can’t you see it?”
Elliott wiped his eyes with the back of a paw before examining the door. He was still and silent for several seconds. “Oh,” he said abruptly. “It must be your first assignment. Your Sight is showing the way.”
I guess the Sight isn’t big on subtlety.
“And you didn’t think to mention that…” I waved both hands at the crazily flashing door, “…last night?”
My companion yawned widely before answering. “You were not particularly interested in details, last night. And, to be fair, you are my first Reaper.”
“Perfect.” I shook my head, bemused. “On top of everything else, they gave me the new guy.”
Elliott growled softly. “Pardon me, but while this may be my first time working directly with a Reaper, I have been doing this work for nearly thirty years.”
“Thirty years?” I scoffed. “I thought cats lived like ten?”
The response came with a sniff. “You should stick to your strengths, Reaper, of which thought is clearly not one. The average lifespan of an American house cat is fourteen to twenty years.”
I cocked my eyebrow and waited.
“This is my third life.”
That, of course, explained everything.
The flashing red light filled the room, and I eyed the door suspiciously.
Elliott asked, “Are we going to follow the beacon?”
I shook my head. “No.”
I strode purposefully through the only other door available, into the bathroom. I relieved myself and took a long, unrushed shower while the sun finished setting, and the door continued to pulse in another room.
I washed myself three times over, examining my new body. I made certain that not only was everything present, but also…in working order. After almost thirty minutes, the hot water ran out on me.
Belatedly, I realized there was no towel in the bathroom.
It turned out not to be a problem.
The robe had shrunk to a small rune-carved stone on a leather thong, both in black, when I entered the shower. Now, as I stepped out, it swirled around me. My body was dried fully in seconds, before my thoughts changed the robe back into jeans, a green t-shirt, and tennis shoes.
I steeled myself with a long, deep breath before stepping out of the bathroom.
Elliott sat on the bed, his back right paw stretched impossibly far forward so he could groom the haunch. The door was, once again, just a door.
I released a breath I’d never intended to hold.
Elliott stopped mid tongue stroke to examine me quizzically.
“The door,” I said. “It’s no longer flashing.”
His response sounded amused. “Of course not, Reaper. How long did you expect it to wait?”
I laughed uneasily, unsure of what else to say.
My stomach tightened painfully, growling.
I was intensely hungry, a fact I was just now finally calm enough to notice. I had no idea how long it’d been since this body had eaten.
I shivered at the thought, speaking quickly to distract myself. “Let’s do something about breakfast.”
Elliott looked out the window. “Or, perhaps, dinner.”
I reached instinctively for my cell phone to check the time, before realizing I no longer had one.
Except that I did.
On the battered nightstand sat an old flip phone and a worn, brown leather wallet. The wallet contained an ID and debit card, both bearing my picture and the name Michael Reaper; I grimaced at the name I wasn’t willing to accept. There were also a few twenties, and a one-hundred-dollar bill. I pulled one of the twenties from the wallet and it was immediately replaced by a crisp new bill.
No sound, no fanfare—it was just suddenly there.
Okay. That was, admittedly, pretty cool.
I only hesitated briefly before reaching for the bedroom door. The knob turned as you’d expect, and the door swung open, unremarkable in every way.
My living room looked exactly as I remembered, with nothing out of place. “What do you say, Elliott? A nice bowl of Friskies?”
I saw what looked like a sneer, but I didn’t have a chance to hear his response.
A bright white flash cut across my vision. This time, though, it was more than simply light; a bell tolled within my head, causing my teeth to chatter.
The apartment’s front door began to flash bright red.
“Damn it,” I growled. “Our friend is back.”
Elliott dipped his head in a shrug. “That is to be expected. Your assignments will not simply go away.”
I turned my back on the beacon to search the kitchen, but there was nothing to eat. That left me, really, only one choice.
The flashing door was currently blocking my only exit.
My stomach growled again.
“This is stupid.”
I wasn’t going to starve myself just because the door had turned itself into some sort of crazy, creepy strobe light. I crossed the room with more confidence than I felt, and grabbed the knob after a few quick steps.
Elliott cleared his throat to get my attention, and then spoke without waiting to see if he had it. “My role is to suppo
rt and guide you; under the circumstances, I feel that role should be more active early on. I will accompany you everywhere you go these first couple of days.”
He added, “My ability to speak freely will, obviously, be limited outside of this apartment.”
I opened the door with a smile. “No offense, but that will be a refreshing change.”
My companion mewed.
Up less than an hour, and I already had him cussing. This might be the start of a beautiful friendship.
If he didn’t kill me in my sleep.
As I opened the door, the red beacon vanished.
Or, rather, moved.
The stairway down flashed to red, strobing life.
I looked around carefully for any signs of my demonic neighbor. The hallway appeared empty. Still, I hesitated.
My stomach, insistent, growled angrily.
I moved quickly into the stairway, Elliott close on my heels. The red beacon led us down through the building and out the front door.
The beacon bounced happily down the street to the left, stopping about a block down to wait for us.
I pointedly ignored it, turning to the right.
Behind me, the light vanished with a soft hiss.
It sounded vaguely frustrated.
“No pet in my store!”
Chinatown is full of small Asian groceries and restaurants, but it’s amazing how many of them close early in the evening. We walked nearly four blocks, through a sea of dark storefronts, before we found the “Asian Apple,” a convenience store open late.
The clerk, though, apparently took offense at my companion.
I looked down at Elliott with a smirk. “Oh, he’s not mine…just some filthy stray.”
The cat responded with narrowed eyes and a growl.
Wielding a broom, the owner rushed from behind the counter. He shouted “shoo” several times while swinging his weapon. Elliott hissed once or twice, but ultimately relented; he darted back out the front door as I held it open for him.
I snickered softly, walking down the main aisle.
“That was not particularly funny, Reaper.” Elliott sat, half hidden, behind a small pyramid of twelve-packs.
“How the hell did you get back in?”
The cat scoffed, his tone suggesting the question itself was pointless, “I am a cat.”
We spent nearly thirty minutes shopping together. The store wasn’t large, but it was tightly packed with many narrow aisles. Elliott deftly managed to stay out of view while pointing out a few items he’d be willing to eat—none of which came from the pet food aisle.
I wasn’t particularly surprised.
Carrying an armload of groceries, I returned to the front counter. Elliott managed to disappear somewhere along the way.
“You find good everything?” the clerk asked in broken English.
“Yes, thanks.”
At least, that’s what I intended to say.
I opened my mouth and everything.
A bright white flash filled my vision without warning; the accompanying chorus of bells shook my entire skull. The light quickly vanished, but the blinding pain from the bells went on for several minutes.
When I could finally open my eyes and blink away the tears, I found myself down on one knee. I’d somehow, at least, managed to hold on to our groceries.
The glass door to the street was flashing red.
The clerk stood above me, looking down worriedly. “You now okay?”
“Yeah, fine,” I responded a little breathily. “I was just praying. Very religious, you know.”
He nodded, but I could tell by the look in his eyes that he wanted me gone. He bagged my groceries quickly, in silence.
I left a few bills on the counter and left.
The walk home was long, slow, and quiet. Elliott could clearly sense my mood, and left me to my thoughts.
Well, less thoughts, per se, than abject terror.
I’d only been trying to ignore my assignments for a couple of hours now, and the effort was already nearly more than I could handle.
Just how bad was it going to get?
Would I, at some point, finally just collapse dead on the ground?
And, to make matters even worse, the red light bounced merrily through the streets before me, like some sort of deranged puppy.
We parted ways at 928 South Lane Street. The beacon bounced about a block beyond the doorway, just as it had before. I hesitated a moment, but ultimately turned inside.
This time the hiss as the light vanished sounded more like an angry growl.
Elliott and I walked up the stairs in silence. I didn’t even worry about crossing paths with Emma. I’d never expected to live a life where the demon living across the hall—the one who might want to kill me—would be the least of my problems.
But such was the life I now lived.
Not that it mattered. We reached our apartment without seeing any sign of another living being. The door swung open quietly at my request.
A white light flashed within my eyes, bright enough, it seemed, to sear them right out of their sockets.
The bells were no longer inside my head, they were my head. My entire skull rang like a church bell, the pain indescribable. Balance, and all sense of direction, fled. I stumbled about violently, certain I’d be thrown down the stairs and tumble to my death, but unable to stop myself.
Finally, my head struck something hard with a very loud crack.
And the world went black.
VIII
The Commute
Sudden cold shocked me awake.
The first thing I saw was Elliott, soaked fur plastered to his sides. He looked barely half his usual size as he stood there, hissing.
My own clothes were also soaked, dripping on the hallway floor.
Emma loomed above us both, holding an empty bucket. Her body was rigid, but the phantom tail swished angrily behind her. She stared at me with narrow, menacing eyes. Absent were all traces of the friendly neighbor I’d briefly met the night before.
Behind her, the stairway flashed with my red beacon, but that direction was completely blocked.
So, this is it, I thought.
I didn’t want to die, but I also didn’t want to live the hell my world was becoming. Maybe there was an escape, and maybe there wasn’t; I was no longer sure I could find it before this new life managed to kill me.
So I turned to face Emma, and prepared for the worst.
“I know this isn’t the greatest neighborhood,” she began, her tone furious, “but it’s the only one I’ve got. I’d kindly thank you, Reaper, to stagger all the way into your apartment before you decide to sleep one off.”
“Wait,” I stammered, shocked. “No wait, what? It’s not like that.”
Emma crossed her arms, unconvinced, looking judgmentally down her nose at me. “Oh really? Why don’t you tell me what it is like, then.”
I touched my forehead experimentally, wincing when I found the tender spot. “I hit my head.”
“Uh huh.” She tossed the bucket into her apartment before turning back to me. “I expected better from a Reaper.”
My words lashed out angrily. “Well, maybe I don’t want to be a Reaper, damn it.” The anger evaporated as quickly as it came, leaving my voice sounding suddenly hollow. “I never wanted to be a Reaper.”
“Oh, is that it?” Emma squatted down beside me, wrapping her arms around her knees. Her eyes filled with an emotion that, while not quite compassion, was certainly more than simple understanding.
“Look at me, Reaper. Demonic slut isn’t exactly what little Midwestern girls dream about growing up. We all have a past, we all come from…” she trailed off for a moment, the emotion in her eyes unreadable, “…somewhere.”
“But I didn’t have a choice,” I argued weakly.
Emma laughed a short, humorless laugh. “Nobody gives up their immortal soul without a really good reason, Reaper. One way or another, we were all forced into this life.” She st
ood, offering me her hand.
I realized it wasn’t yet my time to die, and the relief that washed over me was a surprise. Despite everything that was happening, it seemed I wasn’t ready to give up.
I took Emma’s hand and let her help me back to my feet. The remains of my groceries lay in scattered ruins around us. It didn’t matter; I was no longer hungry.
Emma examined the aftermath, her smile hard. “Now that you’re here, you just have one decision to make.”
“And what’s that?”
“Will you own your new life, or will you let it own you?”
I looked at the flashing red stairwell. A lukewarm sensation, somewhere between resignation and determination, started to build in my chest. She was right, of course. I understood exactly what she meant.
There are times when the best way to escape your problems is to run at them head on. I wasn’t giving in…not exactly. I was going to find a way out, but first I needed to live long enough to find it.
“I have to go,” I said, my voice cracking. “I’ve got a job to do.”
And then I hesitated, surveying the mess I’d made of the hallway.
Emma slipped an arm through mine, smiling her cute and friendly neighbor smile once again. “Don’t worry. I’ll clean it up, but you’ll owe me one.”
Elliott hissed behind us.
I immediately understood the sentiment; no matter how cute and friendly, Emma was still a demon…an Agent of Evil. Owing her a favor sounded like a very risky proposition.
No matter how trivial.
“Don’t go to any trouble,” I somehow managed without stammering. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Nonsense.” Her smile stretched wide, almost beyond what seemed humanly possible.
Though, to be honest, that might have been my overactive imagination.
“We’ll be seeing a lot of each other. It’s the neighborly thing to do.”
I swallowed hard.
We walked down the stairs in silence—if you ignored the constant growls from Elliott at our heels. Emma peeled away as we reached the second story. She walked up to suite 2E, the one marked “Massage,” and unlocked the door with a key from her pocket.
“This is me.”
Of course it was.
His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) Page 6
