Death's Widow

by Lori Aisling

  Death’s Widow

  Lori Aisling

  Copyright © 2019 by Lori Aisling

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editing by the tolerant and ever-supportive Andrea Richardson

  Formatting magic brewed and spelled by coven mistress Nicole JeRee aka Swamp Goddess Formatting

  Cover art by the talented and creative duo of Joolz and Jarling- Uwe Jarling & Julie Nichols

  This one goes out to Stub. We all have one family pet that will always be part of our earliest memories. Our overly-large, intimidating, and deadly-to-his-prey Doberman Pincer indeed looked the opposite of a 'family friendly' pet.

  Yet when I reach back into the past for a glimpse of my earliest years, I remember looking up at a massive, crop-eared, black and tan dog; my small body nestled between his formidable front legs as I curled up against his broad chest. Stub was my friend, a sibling, and even in my child-mind, I knew there was nothing he would not to do protect me. He was my first glimpse at the unconditional love our four-legged friends offer so freely. So this one is for you, Stubby. I love you. And for my readers, you will soon find in these pages an example of such devotion.

  May we all be so blessed. Enjoy.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. The C Word

  2. I Lived

  3. Dreams of Decadence and Death

  4. Sixpence of Seattle’s Best

  5. Jane Austen with Tigers on a Gold Leash

  6. Explanations and Obsessions

  7. Crunching the Numbers

  8. Do You Feel Me?

  9. Timeless 101: Learning the Ropes

  10. You’re Going Down

  11. Fully Alive

  12. It’s Official

  13. Jet-Setting

  14. Multilingual Motivation

  15. Anagrams and Autographs

  16. Demons of the Light

  17. Cuddly Cupid

  18. Fake It ‘Til You Make It

  19. Love Me Like You Do

  20. Living the Best Afterlife

  21. The Other Shoe

  22. Wherever You Will Go

  23. Autopilot

  24. Gone Away

  25. Friends Or Foe

  26. Hidden Agendas

  27. This Might Sting a Little

  28. Descending Into the Dark

  29. The Red

  30. Two Heads and a Forked Tongue

  31. I Miss You

  32. Dipping Oil

  33. All of Me

  34. Love Hate Sex Pain

  35. Snake-Bite

  36. Wake Me with Whiskey

  37. Why Don’t You Do Right?

  38. Dog Lover

  39. Get Back to Work

  40. Shoot to Kill

  41. One More Miracle

  42. Devil’s Dance

  43. Going Under

  44. Better Than Me

  45. Seed of Memory

  46. The Pieces Fall

  47. A Price So High

  48. Twenty-One Guns

  49. Wasteland

  50. Lightning Crashes

  Thank you

  About the Author

  Also by Lori Aisling

  I watched the water droplets fall off my cloak to the polished mahogany floor as I shrugged it from my shoulders. Running my fingertips down the smooth length of the unknown, black fabric, I sighed and hung it from the sturdy, iron peg made specifically for that garment. Pulling the thick, hardwood door closed, my forehead pressed against the solid frame. Today had been rough and it wasn’t even noon yet. I wasn’t born into this life, this realm, this duty. Glancing back to the plush drape, I turned to make my way into the modern and well-stocked kitchen adjoining the foyer.

  Scooping fresh grounds into the filter, I loaded the coffee machine, impatiently waiting for the heady aroma of dark roast to fill the air. I indulged in few vices, but this was one of them. Listening to the gurgling, sputtering sound of my blessed elixir being prepared, I let my mind drift.

  Callon never told me how his duties came to be known- he said he just knew. When I inherited his responsibilities, only then did I realize what he meant. I had woken up from a dead sleep early this morning, pulled from a decadent dream of my true love, simply knowing it was time. I dressed and walked to the door where the hooded drape waited, secured on that damn peg. It was alive- the cloak, that is. Hell, maybe even the peg too, for all I knew. Slipping it across my shoulders, I secured it at my neck with its ancient pewter brooch before gathering my long, dark hair into a messy bun. Pulling the hood over my head, I walked out the door into what I now call my commute. It’s easier to give that plane of existence a benign name than to call it what it really is- Death’s Doorway.

  My name is Amara. I was bound eternally to my true love- the one person who completed me. He was taken from me and assumed dead, his massive duties put onto his only beneficiary. I was Callon’s mate- now his widow.

  I am Death.

  The C Word

  Interrupting the dense, drug-induced fog of my brain was the steady, high-pitched beat of the heart monitor next to my hospital bed. I hated that damn noise. To experience a decent rest with a never-ending ‘beep, beep, beep’ was an accomplishment I had yet to enjoy. Not that I didn’t sleep- it seemed that was mostly all I did these days. I would wake long enough to curse the machine, the stench of this god-awful sterile environment, and tolerate the pokes and prods of the many nurses who came and went on their daily routine.

  At 28 years old, I was in my prime. Well, I should have been. Fit, healthy, and enjoying a successful career in publishing- I was living my dream. About eight months ago, I came down with what I thought was the flu. I wasn’t sleeping well so I was tired all the time. I would wake in the night drenched in sweat, battling a fever. Thinking it was a stubborn ‘bug’, I stumbled through my workdays, the fatigue making it hard to concentrate. Worried I would begin to miss deadlines, I took a week off to rest and recoup, but by Friday, I was worse. I noticed odd bruising I couldn’t explain away, although at the time I thought nothing of it. I made an appointment with my childhood doctor to figure out how to kick this tenacious virus- or whatever the heck it was. Seeing my doctor’s sympathetic gaze from behind his polished desk when I returned for my test results was my first clue the news wasn’t good. AML, or Acute Myeloid Leukemia, were the words that rocked my world and made me lower my head to my knees, struggling to breathe as panic threatened to take me for a stroll.

  Like most people in my dire situation, I vowed to ‘beat the disease’, proverbially beating my chest and announcing to the Doc I would win. I was strong! I was young! I was...dying. As gently as he could, the doctor explained to me the importance of ‘getting my affairs in order’ and enjoying what time I had left. He gave me six months. Sucker. I was on month eight, dammit, so there. I win.

  It’s crazy how people respond to you when you are terminal. The red-headed pit viper who worked two desks down from me at the publishing house became my new best friend. Her sympathetic gaze and the constant barrage of untested internet ‘cures’ were unending, my cell a constant vibration announcing the next miracle. However, my ‘real’ friends just kind of drifted away- uncomfortable at my rapidly deteriorating frame, black eyes, and shaking hands. Shit, the guy I was in a qua
si-serious relationship with forgot my fucking phone number, apparently. Or maybe he was abducted by aliens. Either way, he vanished and before I was permanently hospitalized I came home to my comfy apartment to find his overnight bag and any sign of him long gone. I had no siblings and was never really with my extended family so after a few months, it was just me, my parents, and the c-word. My mother was a fake-baked diva with a much younger husband she was constantly trying to keep reeled in, and he took a lot of her time. Between the Caribbean vacations she bank-rolled, plus her numerous ‘procedures’, her calendar was pretty full. She had been lifted, tucked, and botoxed so many times, the last time I saw her I think the puckered little patch of flesh at her throat was not a surgery scar to ‘even out’ the wrinkles, but actually her damn belly button. My dad was trying his best to be supportive, but he just didn’t have the slightest clue how to act around me anymore.

  I finally noticed the visitor at my bedside and mentally rolled my eyes. It was my father and if anyone needed to be in bed, it was probably him. He made his obligatory visit every week and more times than not, he was in the same state he was currently in: Drunk. He sat in a chair, slumped over my bed with his head resting on my leg and his eyes closed, a bit of drool soaking the white, cardboard-like blanket that covered my rail-thin frame. Dad had always struggled with booze, but once I was diagnosed, it seemed to give him a reason to indulge further. It wasn’t that my father was a bad man, he was just weak and always had been. I knew he loved me and my journey was hard for him: but frankly, this wasn’t helpful for either of us.

  “Dad,” I whispered. Getting no response, I jostled my leg and raised my voice as much as I could in my weakened state. “Dad!”

  Flinging his head back as he jerked upright to a sitting position, I watched a string of saliva arc its way from the bed to land in his hair. “Mar! I’m awake. I’m good, just didna wanna wake ya up,” he slurred.

  “It’s ok, Dad. I’m awake. You’re drunk- I can smell the brand name along with the quantity, for Christ’s sake. You didn’t drive, did you?”

  “It was just a nip to calm my nerves, Mar. This is hard on me too, ya know. You’re my little girl an’ I jus’ wanna help an’ I can’t. And no, I took a cab.”

  “Hey, Dad. Come up here with me for a minute.” I patted the spot next to me. He crawled up on the tiny bed, his head curled up next to my chest. His damn whiskey breath was enough to compete with the morphine in knocking me out, but dammit- he was my dad. I loved him and he loved me. Once I was gone, I wasn’t really sure what would happen to him, but I never wanted him to doubt his daughter loved him.

  I Lived

  I was so exhausted- just so, so tired. Everything hurt, I mean, how can your fingernails hurt? With my dad lying on the bed next to me I closed my eyes. In my dream-like state, I listened as the steady beat of the heart monitor shifted into an incessant drone. It wasn’t my first time hearing that sound since being permanently confined to the ICU; someone was always kickin’ the bucket. Goin’ the way of the Dodo. Bitin’ the bullet. I smiled at my internal monologue. Damn, I’m funny. I mean, honestly. If you can’t laugh at death when you are looking it in the face, then you need to do some serious self-evaluating.

  That’s when I heard the voice of the cheery, young intern named Stacy break my train of thought. “Oh, no, Gladys. Hurry! Get the cart!”

  “Ssh. Hush now, deary. There’s not a thing ta do for the lass,” dear ol’ Scottish Gladys said.

  “But it just started! You can save her, can’t you?”

  “Her battle is finally over, girl. She signed a DNR last week an’ with all the pain she has endured, don’t ya think it’s better this way?”

  That’s when it hit me. ‘Holy shit! That’s ME! I’m the one buyin’ the farm! Bitin’ the dust!’ Hmm. This sure seems awful anti-climactic. But oh-no! There’s the light! That bright light everyone talks about on day-time TV shows. Holy fuck, it’s real! I watched as the room took on a crazy-beautiful golden glow that was almost uncomfortable in its intensity. “I know I’m on heavy drugs, but this is a little much. Are those friggin’ ANGELS?’ I thought as three very attractive, very real-looking winged men stood at the foot of my bed. Seeing movement on my left, the side not occupied by my unconscious father, I turned my head and fell into the most beautiful set of silver-grey eyes ever created. They were framed by a large black hood of the most unusual looking fabric. I just wanted to touch it- it looked so soft; like crushed velvet, but squishier. A gentle smile owned by an angel with those silver eyes, dark brows and a chiseled jaw made my belly do that little butterfly-thing it would do when your high school crush finally noticed you were alive. ‘Wait, that was fuckin’ funny!’ Ya know, because I’m not, now. I giggled at my own inside joke and the smile on the dreamboat next to me grew wider.

  “Hello, Amara. I have watched you for some time. I am so pleased you are feeling better. Good enough to laugh, even,” Mr. Bedroom Eyes said.

  “Oh, I was just laughing at myself. You know, I’m actually pretty funny if you get to know me. I know I’m dying, or dead, whatever. But...ya know...” I rattled on, nervous yet so intrigued at this vision of a man before me.

  “You aren’t dead, dear. You won’t die until I take your hand and pass you on to your guides, there,” he nodded to the trio at my feet. The threesome offered me dazzling white, perfect smiles when I looked at them. As endearing of a gesture as it was, I quickly looked back to the man at my side. “Is there anything you would like to ask me? Anything you feel is ‘undone’ in this life?” he queried.

  “No, not really. I have life insurance for my remains. I left some money for my dad and for the animal shelter, too. Mom has plenty from her grandparents’ estate and I already sold my stuff and vacated my apartment. Wow, I’m really rambling, but your eyes are so pretty,” I mumbled, feeling flustered. “Is this part of the ‘master plan’? To make people feel comfortable letting go by sending you? What’s your name?”

  He smiled again, a beautiful, soul-soaking smile I would take to my grave. ‘Holy shit, I did it again!’ I giggled and his silver orbs danced with entertainment while he watched me.

  “I am Death, Amara, and I’m here to ease your passage. Everyone sees what they want to see at this time. I am who you want me to be.”

  “Oh, I thought you were an angel. What’s your name?”

  “It’s of no consequence, love. Are you sure you have no questions for me?”

  “Yes, I do! I want to know your name. I need to know what to call you when I see you again.”

  His eyes flared with a heat I had seen before, not with the intensity he leveled me with, but I recognized it. Desire- and it was directed towards me. My stomach flip-flopped again. “You won’t see me again,” he whispered. “Hopefully for a very, very long time.”

  “What if that’s not what I want? What if I don’t want to go?”

  “Are you not ready to let go of the pain? Release yourself of this torture?”

  “I don’t mean that. What if I don’t want to go with them?”

  The grumble from the foot of the bed was audible but Death ignored them, his emotional gaze boring a hole right into my core. “I’m afraid that’s not how this works, Amara. I am not an angel and I can’t lead you to your next cycle. I am a simple instrument of release. Sent to help you move on, to assure you have accepted your death and transfer you to your guides.”

  I leaned my head back on the crappy, disposable pillows. I saw the attending doctor come into the room and walk up to my bed.

  “Someone move the drunk, please. I need to call this.”

  So, this was it. I was dead. My dad was passed out on my bed, next to his daughter’s corpse. This wasn’t going to help his sobriety one bit. And now three angels were waiting to take me to my next ‘cycle’, whatever the hell that meant, and all I wanted to do was get a cup of coffee with Death and get to know him better. Oh my God, fucking really?! What was wrong with me? The trio at the foot of the bed looked a bit agit
ated, shooting some pretty nasty looks at Death. What was their friggin’ hurry, anyway? This was my death, after all. Shouldn’t I be able to have my questions answered?

  “I want to know about you. Before I go with them, I want to know your name. Where you came from. What’s your favorite book?”

  Glancing back at the man by my side, the look he wore was pure astonishment. “Amara, do you not understand? This is your salvation. Those men are your future, I am your death. I know not what you see when you look at me, but please do not read more into this than what is truly present. This is your end on this plane.”

  “I know this. I’m dead, you’re Death and they are ‘spiritual guides’, if you will. What I see when I look at them is indeed my salvation. But before I tell you how I feel, I want you to tell me something first.”

  “My name…”

  “Yes,” I interrupted. “Your name. But also, tell me what you see when you look at me. You said I see what I want to see when I look at you but I want you to tell me how you view me. Please.”