Death's Courtship

by Jory Strong

  “Bryn,” he said, hips lifting, voice hoarse.

  She leaned over, intent on nuzzling his balls, kissing up his shaft.

  He started struggling then, fighting the tethers.

  “I won’t last if you do that, Bryn. Put me inside you. Let me come there.”

  His need and panic were so darkly erotic that they halted her a breath away from taking him with her mouth. For a split second she was a stranger to herself. The desire to explore the limits of feminine sexual power, to disregard his pleas and command his release rode her, made her pant and struggle to keep from closing the distance between them, from using her lips and tongue on him.

  She’d never thought of herself as a dominant lover or even an assertive one, then again, she’d never been as uninhibited, as spontaneous, as intimate with anyone else. Even tied to the bed, Atticus managed to free her of all restraint, to empower her.

  Bryn kissed his abdomen instead of his straining penis, moved upward, wanting to reward them both with the feel of masculine and feminine perfectly aligned, sensually entwined in an ancient dance of thrust and retreat.

  “I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted any other man,” she told him, gliding her wet, parted slit up and down along his cock. “You make me glad to be alive.”

  She lowered her head, pressed her mouth to his, their tongues finding each other immediately, twisting and twining, increasing the pleasure, the need.

  “Next time,” she whispered, her breathing as fast as his, her body quivering just as his was. “Next time you can tie me.”

  “Put me inside you,” he begged, hips lifting, cock rubbing against her clit.

  Bryn took him in hand, thrilled at the way his eyes closed and his face went taut. She guided him to her entrance, swallowed his length in her needy feminine core.

  As she moved up and down on his thick shaft, she tormented him with images, told him about the vibrator in her panty drawer, the anal plug that would make her sheath smaller, make him have to fight to get inside her. She told him the things she’d let him do with her when they played with her toys as well his, her words driving them to a fevered frenzy until finally they both cried out in release.

  While she still had the energy she freed him from the restraints, but she left them in place for next time. Then somehow they stumbled to the shower, made it back to the bed and settled underneath the covers before giving in to the need for sleep.

  The phone rang and Bryn let the answering machine pick it up. She tensed when she heard the sigh, braced herself for Mark’s voice but instead an elderly woman said, “This is Ester Maigny. I need your services. Please call me at your earliest convenience.”

  Ester was leaving her phone number as Bryn reached for the phone in the kitchen. “This is Bryn.”

  “I know today is Sunday,” Ester said. “I’m sorry for bothering you. You probably take the day off. I’d like to schedule an appointment. Is that possible?”

  “You have a ghost?”

  “It’s not something I want to discuss over the phone. I’m happy to pay whatever you charge for a house call whether you’re able to assist me or not.”

  Bryn glanced at Atticus. He nodded, understanding her silent question. “I can visit with you today,” she said.

  “That’s wonderful! I’ll fix some coffee. Do you like sugar cookies?”

  “Yes.”

  “When can you visit?”

  “I can leave in a few minutes. We can leave. I’d like to bring my…partner, Atticus. Is that all right with you?”

  “Certainly, bring your young man.”

  Bryn smiled at that and got directions.

  * * * * *

  Ester lived well out of town on ranch land that hadn’t yet been claimed by urban sprawl. She greeted them at the door, her face wrinkled from age, her body frail and bent under the weight of the years it carried.

  “You look very familiar,” Ester said, peering intently at Atticus’ face. “Have we met before?”

  “No, I don’t believe so.”

  She continued to look at him for long moments before turning and inviting them into the dark coolness of a parlor.

  It was like stepping into the past. Antique furniture graced the room as it had probably done since the time of Ester’s parents, maybe even her grandparents. Delicately painted bone china coffee cups sat on matching saucers, the coffee table further protected by handcrafted doilies.

  As promised there was a plate of sugar cookies waiting. Ester excused herself long enough to retrieve a coffee pot from the kitchen, her footsteps measured on her return, her hand shaking.

  Atticus rose from his seat before Bryn could, closed the distance and took the pot from the elderly woman. A knot formed in Bryn’s throat at his kindness and what she sensed in this room from a long ago era.

  There were no ghosts here, only lingering memories. Moments of victory and despair, pride and pain, sacrifice and redemption, now faded into a nearly forgotten past.

  Ester took her seat on the other side of the coffee table and Atticus reclaimed his on the couch next to Bryn. “May I?” he asked, indicating the coffee pot.

  “Yes, please,” Ester said, her attention never wavering from his face has he poured their coffee.

  When he set the pot down, she said, “I know where I’ve seen you. You were there when my Aunt May passed away and at the hospice when my sister Zeda was taken from us. You were dressed in a dark suit.”

  Her hand shook slightly as she lifted her cup. “No, that can’t be right. I was only eight when May had her accident and died. You wouldn’t have been born then. Maybe I’m confusing you with your grandfather. But your voice sounds so familiar. Both times I’ve heard it, the word were the same. It’s time. Just the two words, It’s time.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Goose bumps rose on Bryn’s arms. She remembered another voice that sounded like Atticus’—Charon the Coachman, Death card tumbling to the ground in offering as he bowed and said, “Parting is such sweet sorrow, but we’ll meet again.”

  Her focus shifted to Atticus’ face and she saw again the gray of the ghostways in his eyes. She shivered, her thoughts skittering like leaves caught in wind, not wanting to follow a mental path and find the truth at its end.

  Bryn was grateful when Ester directed their attention to the stack of photo albums on the coffee table. “I thought those might help you in your work,” Ester said, putting her coffee cup down and opening the first one, her face softening with memories.

  Compassion kept Bryn from admitting she didn’t feel the presence of a ghost. She stirred cream and sugar into her coffee as Ester revisited the past, fingers lightly stroking over long-dead faces. Stories of childhood exploits and adult hardship unfolded, along with those of men sent to war never to return, of babies born and children raised, farms abandoned for city life, happy moments and sad ones, all lovingly told as album pages were turned.

  “I’m the last,” Ester said, closing the final album. “Six sisters and five brothers. I’ve outlived them all. We weren’t a prolific bunch. It probably came from there being so many of us and so little money when we were growing up. Only a couple of my brothers and half of my sisters had children. Some of them moved away. Some of them divorced and I didn’t know their children well, never met their grandchildren. There was only one great-grandchild who had an interest in history, in family, but he’s in Arlington cemetery now, brought home from Iraq and buried there.” She met Bryn’s eyes. “Do you feel any of them here?”

  “No,” Bryn said, her throat tight.

  Ester nodded as if expecting the answer. “Do you have time to walk out back with me?”

  “Yes,” Bryn said, glancing at Atticus, tears threatening to erupt at the compassion she saw in his face.

  They left the parlor, matching their steps to Ester’s. The hallway was lined with pictures, the carpeted floor worn. Modern appliances graced the kitchen. Sunlight poured in through picture windows.

  The backyard was d
efined by rosebushes and shrubs, a scented square with a rope swing strung from an old oak tree. Beyond it was pastureland and to the side, a small well-tended family cemetery.

  “I’ve got a yardman that comes every week,” Ester said as Atticus opened the gate in the white picket fence separating backyard from graveyard. “When I was able, I tended it myself.” She led them to a wooden bench positioned underneath an arbor draped in jasmine.

  Old headstones and statues rose above summer-brown grass. Butterflies danced from flower to flower. Hummingbirds descended then hustled away.

  “When I was child a ghost lived here. Most of the time Zeda and I were the only ones who could see him. He’d move through the cemetery pale as moonlight, more a shimmer than anything else. We always wondered what he was looking for.”

  Ester laughed. “March 12. That’s the only day any of the others could see him, but only the children. We figured it must have been the day something horrible happened to him, something that haunted him in life. On that day my brothers dared each other to go into the graveyard and touch the ghost light.” She turned toward Bryn. “I haven’t seen him in a long time. Not since I got married and left home for my first teaching job in Santa Maria. Is he still here?”

  There was a hopefulness in her voice that spoke of loneliness, of wanting to find something of the past still alive in the present. The cemetery felt calm to Bryn, as though any souls who might once have lingered had ultimately found closure and peace and moved on.

  “No,” Bryn said.

  Ester’s face saddened. “I’d hoped… You must think me a crazy old lady. I imagine most people want you to chase away their ghosts not invite them to make themselves known, to come up to the house for conversation.”

  Bryn took Ester’s hand in hers. It was frail and bony, the skin paper-thin. “I understand,” she said around the lump in her throat, glancing up to find Atticus watching her. His eyes were dark, troubled. She wondered what he was thinking but abandoned the question when Ester gasped, her eyes widening, her hand tightening on Bryn’s in a nearly painful grasp.

  Bryn’s heart stuttered in her chest when she turned her head and saw the dark-suited man silhouetted in a doorway made of thin air and swirling, phantom clouds. His face was in shadow though the sun was alone in a blue sky, its light bathing the cemetery.

  The man stepped from the doorway and it was Bryn’s turn to gasp. Atticus. And yet as the man moved closer, his face looked younger, his body leaner and his hair longer.

  She forced her eyes away from him and back to Atticus. He was leaning forward on the benched seat, so still he looked like a statue.

  He’s surprised, too, Bryn told herself, just as surprised as I am. But even as she tried to convince herself, fear slid through her.

  Dread filled Bryn when the apparition stopped in front of them. Elegant death, he was the dark-suited man Ester had mistaken Atticus for.

  “It’s time. Are you ready, Ester?” he asked, his voice deep, echoing like a well, the black suit melting into flowing white robes as golden-veined wings unfurled behind his back.

  Sunlight caught and spun around him. The sight was so beautiful Bryn had to look away, fight to contain the tears burning in her throat.

  “I’m ready,” Ester said, her voice steady though her fingers tightened on Bryn’s, as trembling, she lifted her other arm, reached for Death.

  He took her outstretched hand in his and Ester shuddered, gasped one last time and then her fingers went slack in Bryn’s grip as her soul left the shell of flesh behind.

  The angelic manifestation walked Ester to the swirling gray of the ghostway door, and without a backward glance she stepped through it.

  Emotions swamped Bryn in the hushed silence of the gravestone-decorated landscape. Grief, shock, fear.

  Tears wet her cheeks as she released Ester’s hand and stood, turned toward Atticus seeking comfort, seeking reassurance, telling herself that Death’s manifestation had taken his form because his face and voice had been familiar to Ester, his likeness present when she’d lost her aunt and sister.

  But what about Suriel the Trumpeter and Seker? Why did they sound like Atticus as well?

  Atticus rose from the bench too, concern in a gaze that held a deeper knowledge, a more profound understanding of death. The worry in his gray ghostway eyes made Bryn shiver, made it hard to override the silently whispered questions she didn’t want to face.

  He gently repositioned Ester so she lay on the bench. His fingertips closed her eyelids so she looked as if she slept peacefully.

  Bryn’s throat tightened. His gestures unnerved her even as she reminded herself that he ran a funeral home, had more experience with the reality of physical death than she did.

  There was wariness in his expression when he stepped toward her, as if he expected her to turn away from him, to run now that she saw him as something other than a lover and companion.

  She resisted only for the breath of a heartbeat when he put his arms around her and pulled her to him. Then a sob escaped. Shock gave way to guilt and she pressed against him, wondered if her presence, her being there with him had summoned Death.

  She’d always believed in the rightness of using her talent to help spirits move on to whatever awaited. There’d been satisfaction in doing it well, in helping both ghost and haunted human alike. But it had never been so real as it was with him.

  Fear shuddered through her. “Do you think this is our fault?” she managed. “Do you think we brought Death with us?”

  Atticus’ hand stroked her spine in a soothing gesture. “No. It was her time, Bryn. It was just her time.”

  Bryn forced herself to look up into the ghostway-colored eyes. “How can you be sure?”

  “Because I am. Because I know.”

  He sounded so confident, so certain that some of the worry and guilt faded, but not all of it. “There’s something about us being together that calls to Death. What if this happens again?”

  Atticus’ arms tightened around her. “Would if have been better for Ester to pass from this world unattended? Alone? Would you rather she’d seen one of the more terrifying faces of Death?”

  “No,” Bryn whispered, her heart racing, fear skittering along her nerve endings because underneath his questions she heard his acknowledgement that what happened today would happen again if the two of them were together.

  “I need to go inside and call someone,” she said. “The police I guess. Will you stay here with her?”

  A kiss brushed across Bryn’s forehead. “Yes.”

  She retraced their earlier steps, the hushed silence giving way to birdsong, life continuing, accepting death as part of the natural cycle. The tears wouldn’t stop, their source a faucet of emotions she couldn’t turn off.

  Her purse was on the couch in the parlor where she’d left it. A shudder went through her when she spotted the tarot card, a somber reminder that while it more often stood for endings, transitions, it could also represent physical death.

  It was on top of the stack of photo albums, an unwanted confirmation of what she’d feared. Her presence and Atticus’ were responsible for the manifestation and it would happen again.

  She put the card in her purse and called the police before returning to Atticus. As they waited she showed him the card.

  A muscle twitched in his cheek. He tensed before glancing up. When he didn’t say anything Bryn put the card away and walked to where the ghostway had opened, a waiting burial spot in a row that contained six women and five men, Ester’s brothers and sisters.

  Tears started flowing down Bryn’s cheeks again and Atticus was instantly there, his arms around her. She tried to distract herself with conversation, remembered the brief research she’d done at the computer while she was waiting for him to come back from his middle-of-the-night trip for ice cream. “Was that Sammael?” she asked, thinking of the Angel of Death his brother had been named for.

  “No, that was Azrael. He was born after Sammael.”

>   As soon as the words were spoken she felt Atticus go completely still. His heart raced against her chest but there was no rise and fall of breath.

  Bryn lifted her face and met his eyes. Questions tumbled through her mind. Fear and disbelief, impossible conclusions. For a shimmering second she believed he was Death and had come for her, but then thoughts of what they’d done together made her push the idea away.

  The police arrived, sparing Bryn from her imagination, from the wild thoughts that left her uneasy.

  And eventually the two of them were free to leave.

  Silence reigned in the car. It accompanied them through the office space and into the living quarters.

  Atticus was tense, wondering what she was thinking. The glances he gave her, the lines etched on his face told her as much.

  “Would you like some ice cream?” he asked, walking into the kitchen and retrieving the carton from the freezer, his effort to get things back on familiar footing so obvious it made her heart ache.

  Bryn wanted to put him at ease, to tell him nothing had changed between them, but she couldn’t. If he hadn’t stiffened against her, if his heart hadn’t raced after so casually knowing the difference between two angels of death, Azrael and Sammael, she might have been able to remain in denial, to accept he was like her, someone with a special talent.

  She wanted to ask what he was, who he was, but she was afraid. Afraid of his answer, afraid everything that had happened between them was a lie, a strange dark fantasy.

  Without conscious thought she walked over to the book-littered desk in her living quarters, her true work area despite the desk in her office. The breath froze in her chest when she looked down at the tarot cards she’d placed there. Instead of the three that had been there after adding the one left behind by Seker, now there were four. Five if she counted the one in her purse.

  Her hands shook as she gathered them up. It took all her courage to pick up the new one, the one appearing in her home, in a place where there was no reason for the ghostway to open unless it was for her.