Death Made Me Do It

by Sarah WaterRaven

  “Uh, pretty standard. Ravenous wendigo, some fighting, until I kindly reminded her she was dead. You know how it goes...” I replied, idly pressing buttons on my music software to make myself look busy. She wouldn’t get the hint and leave, but still, I tried.

  “Interesting how that happens, just the right series of circumstances... A dying human, the taste of human flesh, but it’s too late and they die, and instead of a ghost...we get a wendigo.” Her ruby eyes glowed intensely while she spoke.

  “Would we call that interesting? I mean, she died in fear and starvation and took it with her to her death. All those poor animals...” The images of the raccoon’s body and the sad eyes of the elk as it walked into the next life to find peace... Had they found peace? Had Darren?

  I snapped a pencil in half, not realizing I’d even picked it up.

  I glanced at my mother, who studied me quietly. Her long white hair moved subtly, as if she’d paused while swimming underwater.

  “We cannot stop these things from happening,” she said as she sat up, “but we can do our best to restore balance and help them to move on.”

  I threw the broken pencil at my overflowing waste bin and watched it roll onto the floor, where a rat spirit stepped out to investigate it.

  “Anyway,” I said as I opened up my e-mail, “did you bring the stuff I needed?”

  “Yes,” my mother replied as she got up.

  I grabbed the license, passport, and birth certificate she had acquired for Salem. “Salem... Dunlap... That’s something else right there.”

  “He should be happy he got to keep his first name. In this day and age, I am not sure that name is wise,” my mother observed.

  “I can’t argue with you there, nothing says ‘come burn me at the stake’ like his first name, but it was important to him to keep it. Hey—where did these come from, anyway? Where did you get mine?” I asked, suddenly curious.

  My mother had moved to the center of my room now, still looking around. She’d started to fade as she spoke. “Where all the gods, half-gods, and ancients go for fake IDs—to see Loki of the Norse Gods.”

  She was gone. My lights flickered and suddenly seemed brighter. Tanner floated over to me from where he was hiding on my bookshelf. I patted his soft fur and said, “Gods. Criminals, all of them.”

  I smiled at him. Things were just simpler with animals.

  DEAD-END BUSBOY

  He hadn’t always been like this. At least that’s what his father had told him before he died.

  Salem could picture the small village where he grew up and his last moments with his father, but then the memories faded into mists.

  After his father died, there was a long time where there was only wilderness and survival. Then, a war broke out that seemed to span lifetimes, where he fed on the corpses of a rich and cultured people who had been wiped out by disease and the brutality of invaders with advanced weapons. It was no surprise to him that later these invaders turned on each other, butchering themselves, and feeding him for years.

  When it seemed like the killing would never stop, Salem crawled into a cave where he laid to rest in the darkness, sick of his own existence—until he and Rafal stumbled out of a strange mansion, lost and hungry.

  His thoughts slowly drifted back to the present as he bussed the table in front of him. When all the plates and cups were removed, he proceeded to spray and wipe it down. His reflection in the surface made him pause and wonder how many people he’d killed in his unnatural lifetime.

  How had he become this creature?

  The question was one that had gone unanswered in the nightmare that had been his existence. Salem was unable to remember his life with Rafal before their most recent master supposedly died. And yet, he’d never forget the first time he’d felt Cecile... The force and determination of her power that had brought him to his knees and made him obey.

  From the moment his eyes had met her triumphant gaze, he’d stopped caring about anything else.

  There was nothing more beautiful to Salem than the duality of Cecile’s spirit—or the ashes of the universe she held within her eyes.

  She was fearless. One that would rush into battle against unknown monsters and magick, without hesitation, all the while letting her dreams of a quieter life slip away to help lost souls that no one else cared for. For no one knew the trials and pains of the dead, save for a necromancer and the gods.

  And while Cecile could rage and be merciless, she had spoken to him gently in the gore and horror that was Soma’s basement and summoned Salem back from that nightmare...

  He pictured the soft expression on her face as she’d slept on the couch earlier, her legs laying across him, and knew her trust in him was special. That he was special. Cecile felt safe with him. And even if she hadn’t apologized for making him sleep in a garden shed, he’d understood her apology as she’d moved boxes out of the spare bedroom and cleaned it so he could live there.

  Cheetoh walked by in a huff of irritation and interrupted his thoughts. Salem was accustomed to her attitude toward him and continued as if he hadn’t noticed. She could be mad at him or a customer. It was easily a toss-up.

  The mummy was a fine server and efficient, and despite her temper, never lost it in front of a customer. There had been several occasions where Salem thought Cheetoh wanted to break an arm, but some inner force seemed to restrain her.

  Was it Cecile? Perhaps.

  Did her power over them keep them in line even when they were away from her? Possibly. Either way, Salem did not care.

  As he moved to bus the next table he reflected again on his friend Rafal and his inability to remember their master. Rafal had spoken of their master often, discussing how kind he had been, but Salem wasn’t sure whether Rafal had ever known true kindness or how to identify it.

  The melodic laughter of women caught Salem’s attention. He turned and was surprised to find Cheetoh laughing with a woman at the table in her section.

  He realized he recognized her; she had been in several times the past two weeks and seemed to be the only living thing on this planet that made Cheetoh smile, save for Cecile.

  It was good to see her smile, regardless of her feelings toward him.

  Their household was somewhere between the lands of the living and the dead, and it was hard for their kind to be happy. He understood that.

  Salem smiled to himself, overhearing the two of them laugh again, and then picked up his tub of dishes and headed into the kitchen.

  His hands pruned, just as a human’s would, so he didn’t wear gloves. He wanted to see them and wanted others to see them. It was some strange validation that Salem needed to know that he wasn’t completely different, not truly.

  As he listened to the kitchen staff discuss sports and talk about their families, he scrubbed harder. There was a distance he and Cheetoh had to maintain, and the less he knew about them, the easier it was to maintain it. The undead in Cecile’s home were allowed to work, but not socialize outside of that. There were too many risks.

  Salem had been invited out for drinks, and even to a few parties, but he never attended. He did his best to be polite, but did not miss the confusion or disappointment in the eyes of his coworkers from his rejection.

  He and Cheetoh could offer minor details of their lives—a favorite color or dish on the menu, or whether they had plans for the weekend—but they’d both had to rehearse how to avoid personal questions and how to decline social gatherings.

  He suspected that this was how criminals felt when attempting to rejoin society. They were there, but not really in it. There would always be a part of themselves that they had to hide or compartmentalize while being with others—and there was always the fear of discovery and repercussions.

  “Hey, Salem, be a pal and take that trash out for me?” Russel asked from the other side of the kitchen. He was hands deep in burger patties.

  Salem nodded and picked up a towel to wipe his hands.

  Russel smiled. “Thanks,
bud.”

  After drying his hands, Salem grabbed the two gigantic bags waiting by the back door and hauled them out. He was careful not to let the screen door slam as he exited.

  Without effort, Salem tossed both bags across the alleyway and into the dumpster.

  Realizing his carelessness, he swore and checked the alley.

  For a moment he thought he was in the clear, until he realized he was not alone.

  Two figures were down at the end of the alley, embracing. Concerned that they had seen him, he stepped closer, only to realize that it was Cheetoh kissing the woman from the restaurant.

  Salem wasn’t afraid of much, but in that moment, his heart raced. None of what he’d been through, in what very well could have been a thousand years, terrified him more than Cheetoh catching him spying on her.

  As quietly as he could, he stepped back and slowly turned. He did not stop until his hand touched the screen door. Once there, he looked down the alley again and sighed. The women were too distracted with one another to notice him.

  As he stepped back into the kitchen, he realized he would have to tell Cecile and suddenly felt very ill. Very ill indeed.

  Michel and Salem were the last two out the door for the night. Michel locked up and waved as he made his way to his car. Salem stepped over to the bus stop and ran his fingers through his hair.

  What was he going to do?

  If he told Cecile, it was possible Cheetoh would kill him. If he didn’t tell Cecile, it was likely she would kill him.

  They were not allowed to have relationships with humans, for very understandable reasons. They were dead. Illegal. Dangerous—so dangerous that they couldn’t even be trusted with someone they loved.

  Cecile had the ability to control them, and once bonded to her, they could never harm her. But anyone else... Salem closed his eyes to the things he’d done because of his hunger.

  He did not want to interfere in the relationship of another, but he was loyal to Cecile, and not because he had to be, but because he wanted to be. She had demonstrated heart and leadership, unparalleled to any necromancer he’d seen in his strange life, and he endeavored to deserve her trust and this life she’d given him.

  But could he tear a rift between her and Cheetoh? Was this his truth to tell, or would Cheetoh come forward on her own?

  The light footsteps of the government woman distracted him.

  Salem looked away as she approached.

  Not now, he thought.

  She had been relentless, night after night, trying to get him to answer questions about Rafal. He did not know how much she knew, but Cecile had instructed him not to say anything to her. As a CSIS agent, she did not have the power to arrest or interrogate him—according to Cecile’s quick Google search—but Salem suspected she had more power than most.

  “Hello again, Salem,” Agent Peterson greeted him.

  He nodded to her politely.

  “Another late night for you. You’ve been working a lot of late shifts this week,” she commented.

  He looked down at his shoes and then out across the street.

  Snow fell as he replied, “It must have been a cold night for you, waiting so long in your car.”

  She chuckled. “You’re not wrong about that. Listen, I want to be polite and do things the old-fashioned way, you know? I want to talk. You and your roommates came into Silverbrook General with Rafal Smith. He was pronounced legally dead, and somehow his body went missing. I don’t know about you, but that seems awfully strange to me.

  “I suppose it wouldn’t have been much of a big deal. The police could have written it off as an unsolved mystery... Until a slaughtered group of necromancers were found in the hospital basement—the type of carnage I haven’t seen the likes of my entire career... So, a dead man disappears in a hospital one night...ritualistic slaughter a couple days later... I think you can see why the Canadian government would have some concerns.”

  They had been at this song and dance for three nights in a row. Cecile had gone over what he needed to say and he decided to stick to it. “I am sorry, Agent Peterson, but we barely knew Rafal. We were at a party, we continued drinking at our place, and then we found him dead on our couch. We thought he’d just had too much to drink, but when he didn’t wake, we took him to the hospital. I wish I knew more, but sadly I don’t.”

  She sighed and shook her head. Her black curls bounced with her movement. “Salem. Salem. I tried the honest approach with you, but you and your friends don’t seem to want to cooperate. I’m afraid that I will have to sneak around now and tail you guys. There will be meetings and I’ll have to order more surveillance gear... You are really putting a damper on my week, but I promise you, I will find out what happened in that hospital. Without your cooperation, I can’t protect you. So the next time I see you and your friends, you will be in handcuffs, and by then...it’ll be too late to talk.”

  She scraped some snow with her boot and gave him one last sad look before she turned and walked away.

  Salem leaned heavily into his bus seat. Draugr weren’t supposed to feel physical fatigue, but he certainly felt exhausted. Between the possibility of Cheetoh decapitating him and Agent Peterson charging Cecile with necromancy and having him and Cheetoh imprisoned or killed by reapers, it looked like it was going to be a long winter.

  And it would be the moment that he finally had some time to himself that the Nameless One would appear in the seat next to him.

  While Salem admired and respected Cecile, her mother was truly terrifying.

  He could feel the goddess before he saw her. The only time he felt cold was when death came close enough to feel as though she were breathing down his neck. A draugr may be the horror of other people’s lives, but the death goddess was the horror of his.

  Salem gripped his seat as she materialized beside him, her massive form dwarfing the Viking.

  He stiffened but watched the rest of the passengers in a panic, wondering if they’d just seen her materialize out of nowhere.

  “So, you had a visitor. What did she say, slave?” the goddess asked coolly.

  Salem ignored her condescending tone. “The agent asked again about Rafal and implied that if we do not cooperate, she will arrest us.”

  The goddess didn’t say anything for some time.

  As the bus made a turn, she said, “I do not think she will be a problem much longer,” and then faded out of human existence.

  Salem sighed and sat back, wondering if his life would always be like this.

  DEATH AND STATISTICS

  Professor Ishita was a lovely woman, but there was nothing she could do to keep me interested in statistics. I’d stopped listening half an hour ago. I had no idea what my professor was talking about.

  The only data I took a momentary interest in were the outliers; those pieces that always went against the rest. The outliers understood me on a spiritual level, so I gave a silent nod to it before I stopped caring.

  Ishita tried her hardest, with fun statistics on pop culture and collectibles—even beer—but I couldn’t focus.

  When class was dismissed, I wasn’t surprised when she called me over.

  “Ms. Armel, I see you found class as engaging as ever this afternoon.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “Yeah... I seem to be having a difficult time focusing lately. This semester has been a little...stressful.”

  Ishita closed her notebook and put her hand on her hip. Her expression was firm, yet sympathetic. “You’re an adult now. From here on out, it’s nothing but stress, but how about we make it a little easier on you? Why don’t you stop by my office hours on Thursday and we can go over this material, just you and me? Sometimes, some one-on-one can help with focus. Otherwise, I’m not sure you’ll pass this course but I’m sure you already guessed that, based on your recent grades.”

  “Yeah.” I did know I was failing, but the truth was, I was struggling to care. A part of me knew I should care, somewhere in this mess, but it was a pretty s
mall piece of my pie at the moment.

  “I’ll stop by your office hours,” I told her, undecided on whether I’d actually attend.

  “I know these years are hard. School, work, and adjusting to life on your own, but you’re a smart girl, Cecile. You’ll blow past the rest of these idiots, whether you pass my class or not—that being said, as your professor, I’d really like to encourage you to succeed.” Ishita gave me a kind smile.

  She put her hand on my shoulder and escorted me out. I stiffened, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “I’ll see you Thursday,” she said and walked off.

  “See ya,” I replied, though she was out of earshot by that time.

  I was never not going to be awkward.

  Shit. It was cold.

  Winter in the mountains was something I would never get used to. I often dreamed about moving down the mountain and closer to the ocean. Where I could settle for a raincoat instead of putting up with the hard winter bite from the high-altitude winds, but that wouldn’t happen until I finished school.

  Maybe I could move to a tiny fishing village...see some whales and seals...

  “Cecile!” Salem called, startling me out of my musings.

  I looked up and realized I wasn’t far from the restaurant. It must have been the end of his shift. The draugr ran over to me, dressed like an Abercrombie model. His blond hair was swept artfully to the side under his olive green tuque, and his jeans and jawbone put him right on a catalog cover. He was handsome, I had to give him that.

  As he jogged up to me, I noticed his breath didn’t cloud in front of him as a living man’s would.

  He smiled as he approached and asked, “How was your day?”

  “Oh, you know, same old. Failing classes I no longer care about. You?”

  He tilted his head, attempting to process whether or not I was joking, but replied, “Not bad. Always a good day to make money. Work is good for the mind and body.”