How to be Death

by Amber Benson

  Young and vulnerable? I wanted to laugh, but one look from Jarvis shut me up. Over the years, I’d developed a nasty habit of saying exactly what I was thinking without any filter and the habit was proving a hard one to break.

  The next man Jarvis introduced me to reminded me of a prizefighter. He had a barrel chest and thick, muscular legs, which seemed just about ready to burst the seams of the tailored tuxedo pants they were encased in. Handsome in a rugged, outdoorsy way, he had high cheekbones and chiseled features, but the most striking thing about him was his penetrating almond-shaped hazel eyes.

  “I’m Erlik, and Asia is my bag,” he said as he bowed deeply from the waist, his eyes never leaving my face.

  His unadulterated gaze was a bit disconcerting, but I curtsied in return, knowing the ladylike display would win points with Jarvis.

  Next, I was introduced to a handsome African man in a pale blue dashiki. He had wide cinnamon eyes and blindingly white teeth that overwhelmed his generous smile. He held out his hand to me, his smile only widening as he gripped my fingers. “I’m Ogbunabali, but please call me Oggie. All my friends do.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I replied, giving his hand a good shake.

  Surprised by my strength, he raised an eyebrow.

  “On my continent, the women work the hardest of all—and their grip is as firm as yours,” he said. “Someday it would be my honor to host this reign of Death as I hosted your father before you. You must come visit.”

  I nodded.

  “That would be awesome.”

  Oggie grinned, shaking his head in amusement.

  “Yes, I agree. It would be ‘awesome.’”

  Oggie was a very charming man, but that didn’t make me like him. What drew my interest was the way he didn’t seem to be judging every word that came out of my mouth, unlike Yum Cimil, who’d stared me down like I was the second coming of the Antichrist. Oggie had taken me with a grain of salt and hadn’t been at all put off by my unorthodox verbiage. Or maybe the truth was even simpler than that. There was something about the handsome man that reminded me a bit of Daniel: charming, kind, and interested in the people whose dominion he oversaw.

  Oh, Daniel, I thought miserably, my heart breaking all over again.

  All throughout our relationship, Daniel had begged me to approach God about intervening on behalf of the creatures down in Hell. The ones subjugated to the Devil’s nasty and selfish whims. They’d been subjected to all kinds of dictatorial behavior, and Daniel had implored me to ask God to place limits on how the Devil was allowed to treat his people. I’d hemmed and hawed until the Devil and my sister had staged their siege on Purgatory and Death, Inc.—but by then my chance to do the right thing had slipped away. In the end, Daniel had gotten his wish, but not through any help of mine. In the wake of the Devil’s unsuccessful bid to take over the Afterlife, God had made Daniel the Steward of Hell, so that now all of Daniel’s energies—except for the energy he was apparently expending on his new lady friend, I thought sarcastically—were taken up righting all the wrongs that had occurred in Hell during the Devil’s dominion.

  “I thought there were six Continental Vice-Presidents?” I whispered to Jarvis after I’d finished my chat with Oggie.

  “There are,” he replied. “Morrigan is in charge of Europe, but she seems to be late.”

  “I’m right here, little Jarvis de Poupsy … Death’s ‘Executive Assistant.’”

  At the sound of the purring feminine voice, we turned to find an elegantly dressed Irish woman with flaming red hair and an icy smile, standing behind us. Her milky skin glowed in the moonlight, nicely setting off the emerald green of her low-cut gown, but though she was made of living flesh and blood, there was something infinitely cold about the woman. She appeared to be only a few years older than me, but I got the distinct impression this was merely a glamour, that her real countenance was a gnarly thing, indeed, and better never inquired about.

  “I’m Callie,” I said, offering her my hand—which she blatantly ignored.

  “Shall we get this circus moving, Death?” she said evenly, her lips never varying from that cold curl of a smile.

  I shrugged, trying not to show how intimidated I was by the older woman. She was all ice and cold beauty, the veneer of disdain she wore, unwavering.

  “We’re just waiting for Kali—” I started to say, but was interrupted by the weight of a heavy hand settling on my shoulder.

  “Don’t put that crap on me, white girl,” Kali said, her black hair piled on top of her head to show off the sensuous curve of her exquisite neck, her pale cream sari a diamond-encrusted sparkler. “I’ve been here waiting for your white girl ass all bloody night.”

  She gave my shoulder a friendly squeeze, but unmindful of her strength, the squeeze was more painful than playful. Luckily, her appearance seemed to subdue Morrigan, who stepped back in line with the other Vice-Presidents, though her eyes stayed glued to me with a quiet contempt.

  “It’s time,” Jarvis said, nudging me with his elbow.

  I swallowed hard, nerves making my mouth as dry as the deserts down in Hell. I stepped forward, holding the billowing skirt of my dress so I didn’t step on it, and cleared my throat.

  “Here,” Jarvis whispered, palming me a megaphone, which I took happily.

  The noisy crowd, all of them masked now, began to settle down as they saw I was about to speak. Pressing the megaphone’s mouthpiece to my lips, I cleared my throat again, the sound carrying like wildfire in the newly born silence.

  “Uhm, hello, you guys.”

  The sound of insects chirping was my only response as my voice echoed around the temporary encampment, harsh and loud even to my own ears.

  “So … my name is Calliope Reaper-Jones…”

  I trailed off, the crowd seemingly nonplussed by my warbling introduction, the beginning of a light drizzle only adding to the awkwardness.

  Shit, I thought nervously. Now what?

  And then I had a flash of unscripted brilliance: I decided what the crowd really needed was a little encouragement! I took a deep breath and just went for it.

  “Are you guys ready to party?!” I screamed, the megaphone multiplying the sound of my voice a thousandfold—and to my happy surprise, a cheer went up from the crowd, proving that my pandering was well worth the effort. Until that moment, they’d been a cold, bored (and now wet) mess, but with that one phrase I’d gotten their engines revving on high all over again.

  I caught Jarvis’s eye and was pleased to see that even he was mildly amused by my antics. With a nod, he signaled for me to step back and I did as he asked, handing him the megaphone as I hopped back in line with the others: Kali on one side and Naapi on the other. They were already holding hands with the rest of the Vice-Presidents, so that when I took their fingers in my own, it completed a magical circuit of unparalleled power. I felt a burst of electricity rip through the ether as, behind us, a loud boom shook the ground and a violent swirl of gray-green energy began to form inside the tent. Buoyed by another cheer from the rowdy assemblage, I screamed at the top of my lungs:

  “As your new Grim Reaper, I would like to invite you all to the All Hallows’ Eve ‘Eve’ Masquerade Ball!!”

  seven

  Out of darkness a new world was born; one that was unlike any other I’d ever seen, full of lingering shadows and the brilliance of a thousand flickering lights. Leaving behind the chilly drizzle of Central California, I stepped into a Wonderland that was more “prehistoric” than “Disney-centric.”

  Thirty thousand years ago the Chauvet Cave was not cut off from the outside world—that would come later, with the advent of a giant landslide that sealed the cave away until it was rediscovered in the late twentieth century. We were experiencing the cave in the time before its forced retirement, when it was a series of carved niches in the rock wall, the ceiling only a protective stone overhang that kept out the worst of the elements. Hidden in its nooks and crannies, their brightly colored bodies the rea
son why the cave had become a protected archeological site in our time, were the gorgeous painted renderings of wild horses, cave lions, bears, bison; all creatures that haunted and sustained the early men and women who peopled the Earth. Though the cave was empty now, the paintings remained, their presence like a ghostly afterimage pressed into the backs of the eyelids, giving voice to the human beings who once inhabited this place.

  In the semidarkness, the paintings seemed alive as they shifted and shuddered in the glow of a hundred wrought iron candelabras brought in to illuminate the cave for the party. They’d been placed strategically throughout the space, their gray metallic frames blending in with the cavern’s walls. All around them dancers whirled like dervishes, their bodies lithe as cats, the animal masks they wore—modern replicas of the creatures that graced the walls around them—hiding their true identities.

  I was exempt from the fun, forced to stand by the entrance to the wormhole—there was no chair in sight—and greet each new person who entered the cave. After the introductions, I then got to watch as my new masked “friend” moved off toward the writhing mass of bodies. After a while, I got bored with fake smiling at all the masked and anonymous, so I switched to a look that was full-on gravitas, hoping it would speed things up, but it only caused people to malinger, taking my hand and offering me their condolences on my dad’s passing. The contrived sympathy was way worse than the ache I’d gotten in my jaw from the fake smiling, so I immediately switched back.

  At least the music was good. I was enjoying the classic rock cover band Death, Inc., had hired for the event. They were playing Great White’s version of “Once Bitten, Twice Shy,” which was definitely a toe-tapper.

  “Except for the band, this sucks,” I said to Jarvis in between meet and greets, happily taking the proffered glass of wine he was holding and downing it in one sip.

  “That was my wine.”

  I guess he hadn’t been proffering it to me after all.

  “Sorry,” I said, stifling a burp as I set the empty wineglass down on a passing tray. The young woman who was carrying the tray did a double take when she saw me then flashed a quick grin. I returned the smile, but I didn’t know if her grin meant she knew who I was or if she was just flirting with me—ah, the trials and tribulations of being Death: You didn’t even know where you stood with the caterers.

  “Are you sure this ‘no masks’ thing is really necessary?” I asked. “It would be so much more fun if we could wear them, too, Jarvi.”

  Jarvis was consigned to the boring side of the party with me. As my Executive Assistant, he had to stand nearby and whisper people’s names in my ear as I greeted them, so no one felt shortchanged. Since they were all masked, I had no idea how he was able to tell them apart, but somehow he was able to point out all the important Gods and Goddesses and members of Death, Inc., so they wouldn’t realize I didn’t have a clue as to who they were.

  Runt was keeping close, too, splayed out on the ground beside my feet, panting lightly. At first, I tried to get her to go out and dance instead of hanging out in boring land with Jarvis and me, but she just looked hurt by my suggestion.

  “I want to be where you guys are,” she’d said, plopping down on the floor next to me—and I’d left it at that.

  It was warm in the cave; too many bodies crammed into a too small space, making me glad I hadn’t brought a wrap because I was already starting to sweat like a pig. I wiped my upper lip with the back of my hand, my eyes peeled for another waiter bearing drinks. There was no food at this shindig, but the alcohol was free-flowing. I’d seen a couple of drunk staggers intermixed with the dancing and knew the way the crowd was drinking, it wouldn’t be long before I saw more.

  “Why is everyone wearing masks?” I asked suddenly. It was the first time I’d wondered why, exactly, the whole mask thing was so important—and once the bee was in my bonnet, I wanted an answer.

  Jarvis was quiet, his dark eyebrows knitting together in consternation. I could tell by the look on his face he was having a hard time deciding how much information to divulge. This response was the opposite of how Jarvis usually handled info—he loved to lecture, it was his raison d’être—so I knew there was something naughty he was gonna try and hide from me.

  This is going to be interesting, I thought curiously.

  “Well, uh, you see, Calliope, the reasoning behind the masks is, well …” He struggled with his words, not an everyday occurrence, and I relished it.

  “Yes, Jarvis?” I said, baiting him.

  He gritted his teeth, his jaw tightening.

  “One word, Death,” a feminine voice purred. “Ritual.”

  Jarvis stopped stammering, foisting a nasty glare on Morrigan, who’d sidled in between us, her emerald green dress almost black in the candlelight setting off the pale smoothness of her skin. Unlike the rest of the crowd, she wasn’t wearing her mask.

  “Ritual?” I asked.

  Jarvis closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

  “In the old days, All Hallows’ Eve ‘Eve’ was a Bacchanal, where the Gods and their human supplicants came together in honor of creation, an appeasement to the Mother Goddess,” she said matter-of-factly, “so they could be assured their magic would be returned to them on All Saints’ Day.”

  “You used the words ‘supplicant’ and ‘appeasement,’” I said. “Are you talking, like. human sacrifice stuff?”

  Morrigan’s laugh was throaty and mellifluous.

  “Nothing so trite, Calliope,” she replied. “Fucking. Lots and lots of fucking.”

  I was taken aback, not prepared for her answer. Next to me, Jarvis sank down into his shoes, embarrassed … or maybe there was something more to it than that.

  “Jarvis, you should share your history with Calliope,” Morrigan purred, enjoying Jarvis’s discomfort immensely. My Executive Assistant blanched, his normally tan face white and pinched.

  Morrigan was harassing Jarvis on purpose, putting him on the spot because she knew something personal about him that he didn’t want to have to divulge to me. Now, normally I would’ve been annoyed with Jarvis for withholding pertinent information, but I didn’t like how Morrigan was railroading him, and my annoyance at being left in the dark again was forgotten in the wake of all the defensive feelings she’d roused in me on my Executive Assistant’s behalf.

  In this world, only I was allowed to tease and/or torment Jarvis—not this haughty red-haired bitch. She wasn’t more than an inch or two taller than me, so I figured I could take her in a fight.

  “Well, thanks for the info, Mortimer,” I said, taking a step closer to the Celtic Goddess, so I was pretty much invading her personal space. “But I think you best move the show along before I say something you regret.”

  Morrigan stared at me, openmouthed, and I couldn’t tell if her shock came from my bluntness or from the fact I’d just called her Mortimer. For a minute, it seemed as if she was going to attack me, but then her entire countenance changed and she visibly shrank away from me.

  Score for the Reaper-Jones team! I thought happily, but my self-congratulatory pat on the back was cut short by the realization that I wasn’t the one responsible for the redhead’s change in demeanor. As I followed her gaze, I saw that Morrigan’s eyes were locked on a tall, statuesque woman moving quickly toward us through the crowd, her patrician face, high cheekbones, and short dark hair making her look like approaching Byzantine royalty. She was holding a golden horse mask in her right hand, obviously having just taken it off.

  “Morrigan, darling, you haven’t introduced me to your friend,” the woman said as she joined the huddle, taking Morrigan’s arm and giving it a loving but firm “warning” squeeze.

  The tension in the air was palpable, but the new woman ignored it, not waiting for Morrigan to introduce us, but holding out her hand for me to take.

  “I’m Caoimhe O’ Donoghue,” she said, a crackling snap of electricity flowing between us as I grasped her hand. Her grip was solid, her fingers warm
to the touch as we engaged in a very traditional handshake, but I got the sense that, for her, this was something more.

  “Calliope Reaper-Jones,” I said when she finally released my hand—an action I had to initiate. She seemed so loath to let my hand go that, frankly, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d decided to take it with her as a prize.

  “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Caoimhe said as she begrudgingly returned to Morrigan’s side. To my surprise, her eyes were moist with emotion, her smile wavering.

  “Nice to finally meet you, too,” I replied, not sure who the hell the woman was, but not wanting to hurt her feelings.