by Judith Post
"You had a concussion too," she said. "And you'd had a big day."
He waved that away. "I didn't handle things outside my expertise any too well, but it's nice of you not to mention it. Thank you."
"Death rattles everybody when they first meet him."
"I can believe that." His expression grew more serious. "They didn't catch Mark Burgen. They went to his apartment and his office, but it looks like he skipped town. His bank accounts have been emptied out. His clothes are gone. He means to disappear."
Loralei thought about that. "Then I shouldn't be a threat to him anymore. He's probably two states away from here by now."
"It doesn't usually work that way. Once a guy like Mark sets his sites on someone, he can't rest until he finishes up. That's probably why he kills in the first place."
That made Loralei think. How did Mark choose his victims? She understood how he picked Samantha, but the women after her? What set off his rage? "Why do you think he picks the women he does?" she asked.
Lane frowned, unsure. "Since we don't know any other victims, it's hard to tell. Maybe there's no reason at all. Maybe his rage just builds and he has to find a release and picks women at random."
That made sense to Loralei. He'd chosen her and Samantha for particular reasons. He blamed Samantha for his sister's death, and he felt threatened by her. But other than that, there was probably nothing specific.
Lane was beginning to look tired, so she said, "You need your rest. I'm going to leave you now. Get well."
He reached for her hand. "I can't believe D…" he hesitated…"your lover let you come here by yourself."
"Do you really think this would be a good place for him to visit?"
He stopped to watch a nurse wheel a gurney past his door. The patient was attached to a mass of tubes and bags. "Maybe not. Don't walk to your car alone, though, and lock the door once you're inside it."
"It's a deal. When you get out of here, stop by the cottage to say hello."
"I will, and maybe I'll show up again when I have a tough case."
She grinned. "You must be feeling better. You're already pushing your luck."
He laughed, then grimaced. "Be careful driving home."
His words rang in her ears as she walked to her car, carefully looked inside, then locked the doors when she got in. On her drive home, she decided that Mark Burgen had stared in Death's face and decided to leave town. She would too. He'd packed his bags, gathered all of his money, and was going as far away from here as he could. Her grip on the steering wheel relaxed and she let herself enjoy the beauty of the scenery she passed.
Late summer flowers bloomed in manicured lawns. Annuals had bulked up to produce riots of color. Outside the town, Queen Anne's Lace bobbed by the side of the road. Golden rod competed with purple thistles—all weeds with a beauty of their own. She was reveling in nature's bounty when she took a curve and had to slam on her brakes. A car was parked sideways, blocking the road. As she skidded to a stop, Mark Burgen opened its door and approached. He held a gun in his right hand, and his face was a cold mask of hatred.
She put her car in reverse and stepped on the gas, but he'd already slipped a hook under her front bumper. Her tires spun, and the car went nowhere.
"Death! I need you!" The thought raced from her mind as she knelt on the floor and cowered under the steering wheel. If he was going to shoot her, he was going to have to work hard to do it.
A bullet put a hole in the driver's side window. Spider lines cracked like a web in the glass. The bullet sped through the car and buried itself in the passenger's side door. A second bullet followed the first. This one angled itself through the rear window, sped through the front seat, and embedded itself in the panel above her head. She glanced up and saw Mark standing on the trunk of her car, taking aim.
That's all he had time to do. A bony arm grabbed him by his shirt collar and lifted him into the air. His feet bicycled, but he went nowhere, like a hamster on a wheel.
She watched Death turn him around to face him. She scooted out of her hiding spot to see the horror etched on Mark's face.
Away from their house, their yard and property, separated from her, Death was his skeletal self garbed in black robe and hood. He held his scythe in his left hand. With his right hand, he tossed Mark onto the pavement and said, "Your time here is finished." As he swung the scythe, Mark tried to scramble away, but the curved blade whisked through him, invisibly slicing him in half.
Mark's head flew back. He fought for breath. He sank onto his hands and knees, then lower still. Finally he lay on the cement road, dead.
Death ran to Loralei, took her in his arms. "Are you okay?" At her touch, his form changed into his mortal self.
She took a deep breath. "I'm fine, thanks to you."
He looked at the body in the street, the two cars locked together by a hook. "Call the sheriff's department. Tell them what happened. I'll wait for you at home."
Loralei waited for him to release her hand, to return to his bony self, and to fade from view. Then she called the emergency number. She already knew what they'd find when they got here. They'd find the body of a serial killer—a man who'd set a trap for her and died of a heart attack before he could shoot her, dead. She watched as Mark's spirit stepped from his body, glancing at her nervously.
"What now?" he asked.
"You're free from your pain and madness, but Death won't let you leave here until you tell me where the rest of the women are buried, so that I can tell their families."
"And what makes you think I'll help you?"
"If you don't, Death will come again, and this time, he'll bind you to him."
Mark gave a curt nod and listed names and graves. When he finished describing a woods in Tennessee, the Light came for him. He blinked in surprise.
"Your business here is finished. You can go now," she told him.
He was gone before the first state trooper reached her. She waited for the natural course of events to unfold. As usual, everything took more time than she expected. It was late before she returned home to the stone cottage, its solid walls, and Death. When she stepped through the door, he scooped her into his arms. He kissed her until her bones turned to pudding—solid, but not strong enough to support her.
"Don't ever scare me like that again," he said.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled sweetly. "I hardly think you can hold me responsible for being attacked."
His hold tightened. He ran a finger through the strands of white hair in the center of her forehead. "These don't blend well with your black locks. It's time we do something about them."
"And what do you have in mind?""I have it on good authority that three hours of sex can fix just about anything." He was dressed in his worn jeans and white t-shirt, her favorite outfit…if he had to wear anything.
"Three hours?"
He grinned. "Unless you need more."
She showed him a broken nail. "I just might."
"In that case, we'd better get started." He trotted up the steps to their bedroom. She leaned into him and inhaled his scent. He was an intoxicating mixture of infinite time and sudden import. Eternity and the here and now. When he lay her on the bed and ran his lips down her neck, she took a deep, satisfied breath. No one brought her to life like Death. No one could have a better lover.
Death & Felice
(Second Death & Loralei novella)
A Lunch Hour Read
by
Judith Post
I want to thank Piers Anthony and his wonderful novel, On A Pale Horse,
for helping me to think of Death in a new and interesting way.
Loralei busied herself in the kitchen. Guests were coming. No, not guests, a client. Officer Lane Stuart had told someone about Loralei and Death's services. When he'd first met them, he thought Loralei was a psychic and a fake. Unfortunately for him, he'd learned through personal experience that her abilities were very real and that Death could not only walk and ta
lk, but he could take or refuse people.
When Lane had called her to set up the meeting, he'd been nervous, she could tell. But who wouldn't be? No one came to their cozy, stone cottage, stepped foot on this property, unless they had good reason.
Loralei hummed as she halved grapes to add to the chicken salad she was making. She brushed butter across the top of the homemade bread she took from the oven. Ebony followed her out the patio doors into the kitchen gardens.
"No catching butterflies," she warned the cat.
He gave his usual yellow stare and wandered farther.
She picked a few sprigs of tarragon from her herb beds and then filled her strainer with ripe, juicy raspberries from the berry patch. Tarts were cooling on the deep windowsill, ready to be topped with their luscious sweetness.
She considered entertaining outside, on the brick patio, this afternoon. A gentle breeze stirred the trees that circled the yard, lifting their orange and crimson leaves in a colorful waltz. It was a warm day for October. She watched a bluebird sail into the wood before her attention was diverted by a young ghost, wandering toward her.
"Tammy, haven't I told you to go the Light?" Loralei's hands went to her hips. She'd always been able to see the dead. They were her "invisible friends" when she was little. Once she understood her "gift" more, she began encouraging them to go to Home. Tammy refused to leave. She'd died a few months ago, rode her bike directly in front of a car.
Tammy blinked at her in surprise. "Why are you out here? You usually paint this time of day."
Loralei was a well-known artist. Her work hung in various galleries and graced many book covers. "If you know my routines, you come here too often. You need to go to the Light."
Tammy geared up to argue when flocks of ravens swept onto nearby branches. Death's birds. He must be close.
"Gotta go." Tammy made a hasty retreat.
Why did the girl insist on staying here? When Loralei got the chance, she was going to sit her down and have a long talk with her. At the moment, though, she glanced through the open door into the house.
The entire first floor was one, large room divided by a massive fireplace. She saw the front door open, and Death—still in his Grim Reaper mode of gleaming, white bones draped in black—crossed the threshold. As he did so, flesh covered his skeleton, and a tall man with dark hair and darker eyes—so handsome, he took her breath away—stalked toward her. He wore his usual jeans and white T-shirt.
He gave her his lopsided smile—the one that made him look young—and instead of joining her in the garden, went to the windowsill, plucked up a tart, and popped it into his mouth.
She gasped. "Those are for lunch, and you know it."
He made a quick count. More than enough, and his smile widened. He grabbed for another.
Ebony darted into the house to greet him. The black cat wove in and out between his ankles until Death bent to pet him. Then he straightened to come to her. As always, her heart did flip-flops. Their time together was scarce and precious, but before she could walk into his embrace, Lane's squad car bumped down their long, gravel drive.
Death grimaced. "I cut it a little too tight, didn't I? No time for us, but I'll make myself useful. I'll get the door." He left her to rinse her berries and toss them with a hint of sugar, while he went to greet their guests. He held the front door wide and motioned them inside, a tricky maneuver since their client had to use a metal walker. Lane hovered by her side, his six-foot frame towering over her, his hand under her elbow to support her.
The two men worked to settle her in a comfortable chair. Loralei stopped to admire the fetching sight—Lane with his blond hair and vibrant, green eyes on one side and Death's dark beauty on the other. Then Lane rushed into introductions. "Felice, this is Loralei and Scythe Black." He gave a quick hand gesture toward their client. "And this is Felice."
Death grinned. Lane had taken to using Loralei's made-up name for him. It amused him, Loralei knew. She'd even begun to call him Scythe, and he liked it—a new identity to match his appearance when he was home, on this property, with her.
Death bowed over the frail woman's hand. "Felice, we welcome you."
Loralei finished arranging berries on top of cream fillings and came to join them. Felice wasn't what she expected. When Lane told her that Felice suffered from ill health, she'd pictured someone emaciated, with a pained expression on her face. Felice was thin, yes, and looked as fragile as a delicate knickknack, but her eyes twinkled and her lips curved into what seemed a perpetual smile.
Loralei took a seat on the sofa opposite her. "Lane said you need help. He said it was complicated, and that's all he told us. Has he explained to you about the cost of our services?"
Loralei's service was a new gift. She'd always seen spirits, but she couldn't call them back to her until she'd met Death. Most didn't want to come. She had to bind them to her and make them return. It took a lot of energy. For the first time, Loralei seriously worried that the usual payment, in years, might bump Felice to the end of her life.
Felice could read her concern. The woman gave a wry smile. "You're thinking that you'll age, as always, when you call my Lesley back to me." At Loralei's look of surprise, Felice chuckled. "He always hated his name. Thought it was girlish." She gave a wicked grin. "Let me tell you, there was nothing girlish about my Lesley. He was quick-witted and sophisticated. When you meet him, you'll see for yourself."
"About that…." Loralei wasn't sure this was a good idea. She wasn't sure Felice would survive the experience.
Felice interrupted. "Lane explained how it saps your resources to do me this favor. I also know that I'll be expected to restore some of those resources with my own energy. And the truth is…" She shrugged. "If it’s the last thing I do, it's of little consequence. My doctor's assured me my time is short."
Loralei had never had a client die on her, but there was always the risk. She glanced at Lane. "And you're all right with that?"
He gave a curt nod. "I can assure the medics it was because of her heart. No questions, no problems for you."
Lane's concern touched her, made a warm glow spread through her. Few mortals worried about how her talents affected her. Even fewer understood how compassionate Death was. "Let's discuss our plans over lunch. I hardly ever get company. I've been looking forward to it."
Death's brow quirked. "Do you miss people? Has living here made you too isolated?"
"Don't be silly." He should know her better than that. "If I wanted to be social, I'd drive to town. I'd join a club. I'm happy here. This is my slice of Eden."
Satisfied, he rose and held out a hand to her. Lane helped Felice with her walker.
They ate at the heavy, round table off the kitchen. Even though it was a warm day, Felice wore long sleeves and a sweater. She'd be cold outdoors. Her laugh tinkled as she picked at her chicken salad and sipped white wine. "I don't have much of an appetite these days, but this lunch is lovely."
So was Felice. Loralei longed to be able to help her.
"What if I tell you my story while you enjoy your food?" The three of them nodded, and Felice began. "I've suffered poor health my entire life, was always sickly. A bad heart, juvenile diabetes, a list of things."
"I'm sorry." Loralei's mother had suffered with health problems, and she knew what a daily struggle it was.
"I'm not looking for sympathy, dear. I've been more fortunate than most. My family was wealthy, so I've never had to worry about money, as so many do. I've had the best doctors and the most options. I decided quite early on that I could feel sorry for myself or enjoy each and every blessing as much as possible."
"Doing what?" Lane's tone implied that he'd sidelined her on sight. When he realized that, a flush colored his neck and cheeks.
Felice chortled with amusement. "Nothing that would tempt you, I'm sure, but I love people, the arts, and good books. I attend operas and the ballet, baseball games and lectures. I'm on a great many boards for charities, and I've been able to give
back, to feel I've served some useful purpose in life."
Lane shrugged, only showing interest when she mentioned baseball. Death's gaze met Loralei's. He was as impressed by Felice's attitude as she was, she could tell. He asked, "And your husband? What was he like?"
A smile lit Felice's face. "Leslie's lust for life matched my own. His interests were infinite, his curiosity boundless. He never saw me as frail. He said that he only noticed my joy and spirit. He was my perfect soul mate."
Lane finished his meal and glanced at the tarts on the countertop. When Death pushed his empty plate aside, too, Loralei rose to clear the table. "No need to stop talking. I can hear you from the kitchen."
Felice's tone dipped. "It seems so unfair that I was the one with poor health, and Lesley died first. We were only married two and a half years."
"What happened?" Death asked.
Felice sighed. "A freak accident. He fell from his company's rooftop patio. I bought the building for him as a wedding present, so that he and his partner wouldn't have to struggle to meet their rent. It made Lesley so happy, but I often wonder if it sealed his fate."
"What do you mean?" Death leaned closer, intrigued by her story.
Loralei heard the hitch in Felice's voice as she continued. "A premonition, a strange unknown fear haunted me for a week before it happened, but I couldn't pinpoint what the fear meant. Lesley's business was beginning to blossom, to promise big profits. No worries there, so I couldn't decide what worried me. I can't believe his fall was an accident, though. Lesley was never careless."
Lane nodded. "That's why I brought her to you. I thought you could give her an answer."
Loralei placed the tarts on the table, along with a fresh pot of coffee. She looked at Lane, even more unsure that this was a good idea. "I don't see what good will come of this. Even if I can summon Lesley with the crystal ball, what can you do? If his death wasn't an accident, you can't use a ghost's comments in court. There's no way to prove what happened."
