Scythe

by M K Mancos

  He glanced at the report. The small hairs on the back of his neck started to tingle. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “If I’m lyin’ I’m dyin’.”

  He swiped a hand down his mouth and continued to stare at the papers, not believing for a minute they could have been so lucky. Or unlucky. It all depended on how one looked at the situation. The same fingerprints were found in the Franklin home as were found on the medical alert bracelet on the guy in the alley. Coincidence? Could be. But if it was, Josiah was going straight down and buying tickets to the Mega Millions Lottery.

  The thing was it meant less than nothing. At least in the old man’s case. It could mean something in the drug-related death of Ms. Franklin.

  Oh, man did he ever want to know where Blondie and the gorilla went after they fled the alley.

  “Ow! Shit.” Keely stuck her finger in her mouth and tasted blood. How did women do this on a daily basis? She stabbed the needle back through the silky black cloth and made a few more stitches. Too bad she didn’t have a sewing machine, but then she’d probably be even more lost with it than she was with the simple needle and thread technique.

  The hem probably wouldn’t be straight, but who in the hell was going to notice that in the dark. And hopefully no one would see her anyhow.

  She finished tacking the ragged ends of the robe where she’d cut it off by half, and tied off the thread.

  Her hand was still a little sore, but not as bad as it had been. She’d dropped a full bottle of Johnnie Walker at the bar yesterday afternoon, after she picked it up wrong and it pressed against the burn mark. The glass shattered on the tiled floor behind the bar, causing the patrons to cheer her gracefulness.

  She’d taken a bow then set to sweeping up the mess. For the rest of the afternoon, she’d sworn she had a contact high from the potent scent of the alcohol that had soaked into the foam slip guard.

  At least she’d only been burned and Samson hadn’t let her get caught by the cops. The last few nights he hadn’t taken her into stealth mode. They hadn’t needed to. All their clients had passed on without incident. Keely was the one who needed to reconcile her new career with what her plans for the future had been.

  She wadded up the modified robe and set it on the table. The course catalog for graduate school sat on the table as well. She would probably only be able to afford one class in the coming semester. Registration for the summer semester had already started and the pickings were slim. The classes she needed weren’t scheduled for the times that were convenient for her. Sure, she could ask Nico to change her schedule and put her on the later shift, but she doubted Samson would let her scythe the dead in the daytime. He’d already pretty much nixed that idea on the first night.

  But Keely had never been a defeatist. She’d figure something out, even if she had to tell Samson that it wasn’t working out. Why should she put her plans on hold because heaven had lost some of their staff to outside influences? It really wasn’t her problem, she was still alive. However, having felt the real and powerful pull of the soul as it left the body, she could no longer deny that the fantastic was possible.

  Samson walked in from the living room and pulled out a chair.

  “I really wish you’d learn to knock,” she said. “What if I were walking around naked?”

  “It wouldn’t matter, my dear. I’ve seen it all before.”

  “Well, you haven’t seen mine.” She stood and picked up the robe then headed to the bedroom to change. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

  She closed the bedroom door behind her. Regardless if he’d “seen it all before”, she wasn’t into giving peepshows to agents of death. That fell into the category of general squick.

  She changed out of her jeans and T-shirt and put on a pair of black leggings and combat boots. A little black lace camisole went on under her robe, which now only came to mid-thigh. She fastened a thick black leather utility belt around her waist, with a special pouch for the sickle.

  Dressed and ready to face another night of sending souls to their reward, she stepped out of the bedroom and heard the immediate in-drawn breath from Samson.

  “What have you done to your robe?”

  “I made some modifications. I’m tired of tripping over the damn thing and the pocket isn’t practical.” She walked over to the end table by the sofa and retrieved her black driving gloves. The thick leather covering had Velcro fasteners on the back and no fingers. When used in conjunction with the rubber sheath she’d fashioned for the sickle grip, the arc of electricity no longer fried her palm on contact.

  Samson followed her into the living room and stared at her from feet to head. “Scythes have always worn the full cowl and robe as our uniform.”

  “Well, there’s a new death in town, Sam, and she’s gotta be able to move and groove on the job.” She finished fastening the gloves and grabbed the sickle, sticking it down in the pouch and snapping the cover closed. She felt like Bruce Wayne donning his cap, cowl, and belt and turning into Batman.

  Samson flapped his mouth as if not knowing quite what to say.

  “Are you going to stand there all night or are we going to get this done?”

  He rolled his eyes heavenward as if silently asking for deliverance from his position as a preceptor.

  “Where’s the scroll? Are you hoarding it like gold or something? Hand it over.” She had better things to do than stand around and discuss her wardrobe. Besides, what did it matter what she wore as long as she performed her duty?

  They left her apartment without any further discussion of her clothing and hurried through the first two clients. Both were senior citizens. The first was a patient in a nursing home, the second a little old lady who lived with her granddaughter. That had been a little trickier than the first.

  If there was one aspect of the job Keely hated, it was the breaking and entering phase. Though it saddened her to see people die like that little old man in the alley, from a Scythe standpoint it worked much better for her.

  Their third client of the evening was a wealthy woman who lived at the Water Point Station Condos, where a doorman guarded the front entrance and all visitors had to be buzzed up.

  “Great. How are we supposed to get in there?” They stood at the corner of Alexander Hamilton Boulevard and Hudson Street, staring at the ominous structure.

  “We’ll go stealth.” The light changed and he started across the street.

  The sooner they went stealth the better. Even though they had walked the streets from one destination to the next, Keely couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being followed. Every time she looked over her shoulder to check, she didn’t see anyone behind them either on foot or in a car that looked familiar.

  She reached out and grabbed Samson’s sleeve. “I think we’re being followed.”

  “Take my hand.” He moved his arm so their hands locked as they came up to the far curb and stepped onto the sidewalk at the east end of the condos.

  The light changed again and a large tractor-trailer started to pull away, belching dark smoke into the air. It lumbered past them and obscured Keely’s view of the opposite side of the street. If they were being followed, they had a perfect opportunity to lose their pursuer.

  Keely grabbed Samson’s hand and that strange weightlessness came over her again. She looked down at her feet and, sure enough, they were no longer there.

  “That’s so cool,” she said and her voice came out as a tinny echo in her own head.

  “Be quiet until we’re inside. We may be invisible, but we can still be heard.”

  She doubted anyone could hear them over the hum of traffic on the busy road, but for once she did as she was told and shut her mouth. No sense in buying trouble.

  They reached the door, and Samson opened it for them. Keely checked back over her shoulder to ensure the doorman stayed at his post. He turned and started forward, not looking directly at them, but checking the lobby for anyone who got past him. Of course he would see no one
, but it didn’t stop Keely’s heart from racing and her breathing to accelerate.

  They hurried to the elevator door. The dinging of the bell had the doorman turning around again. He opened the door, peering into the lobby as Samson pulled her into the car and the doors closed behind them.

  “He’ll believe the elevator has malfunctioned.” Samson let go of her hand and they once again gained substance.

  “Okay, that takes care of the doorman, but what about getting inside the apartment? We can’t exactly go in there as maintenance.”

  He reached into his Mary Poppins-like pocket and pulled out a white cleric’s collar. “You’re going to wear this.”

  Keely shook her head vigorously. “No. Absolutely not.”

  “Yes, you are.” He thrust the fake collar back at her.

  She locked her hands behind her back. “No, I’m not.”

  Samson took a step forward and to the side, trying to get behind her. He grabbed her arm. “Yes. You are.”

  “You’ve lost your freakin’ mind. Do I look like man to you?” She unlocked her hands long enough to cup her breasts for show. “Think they’re going to take one look at these puppies and believe I’m a priest?”

  He started counting with his eyes closed again. This time it wasn’t for patience. When he got to five, he started chasing her around the small confines of the elevator. She squealed and took off, dodging left and feinting right. Being smaller than him had its distinct advantages. But not for long.

  He backed her up against the far wall of the car and fastened the collar around her neck. “Be a good little Scythe and wear the damned collar.”

  Hearing the curse come from his mouth made her turn very still. Surely a lightning bolt was about to split the building in two and strike him, well, dead. Heavenly beings should not be damning people, should they? It wasn’t right.

  “Stop it, you’re choking me.” Her voice sounded a little off where he pressed the collar too close to her trachea. “A little less pressure there, or can’t you control yourself?”

  He growled at her. “You make me think I’m being punished for something.”

  When he released her neck and stepped back, she put her hands up and readjusted the collar so it fit without choking her. “It’s probably your attitude. You have horrible people skills.”

  “Considering most of the people I meet are dead, people skills were never required.”

  The bell dinged and the doors opened. Samson held out his arm to indicate she should go first.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, Sam. They are so going to bust me.” She stepped off the elevator and started for the apartment at the end of the hall.

  Samson walked behind her like a well-trained boyfriend. She glared at him over her shoulder at the thought.

  At the door, she stopped and put her hand against his broad chest. “I don’t know why I have to be the priest. You probably know what words to say. I don’t have the first clue. I could accompany you as your trainee priest. It really isn’t as far from the truth as you might think.”

  He looked down at her. His scowl had only lessened by a fraction. “They will never question you.”

  She gaped at him as Samson leaned over to buzz the doorbell.

  Oh shit, she was on.

  The door opened and a tall man with sandy hair and tanned features looked at Keely and his eyes glazed over. Then he noticed the collar and sobered. “Reverend. Thank you for coming.”

  Keely held her hand out for him to take. “Please call me Batrille.”

  She hoped like hell he’d never watched the old Flying Nun show on a streaming service but she’d much rather use a fake first name than a title she had no right to claim. There was something inherently wrong with what she was about to do, she didn’t want any more points stacked up against her when her time came to be on the list.

  He gave her an odd smile then took her hand and pumped it up and down a few times. “Corbin Evans. I’m Bertie’s grandson.”

  “This is my assistant, Brother Benedict.” As in Arnold, but she wasn’t going to mention that fact to Samson, though from the look on his face, he guessed the meaning of his acquired name.

  “Come in. We’ve been waiting for someone from the parish to arrive. Where is Father Angelo?”

  “I’m terribly sorry, but he had an emergency and asked if I would come in his place. Is there anything I can do for you, or anything you would like to discuss, comfort I can give you and your family?” Keely let him steer her into the apartment and to what had to be the master bedroom.

  The family sat around the four-poster bed, sniffling into linen handkerchiefs and sitting in what could only be a death-watch. There had to be at least twenty-five or thirty people crammed into the room. She understood one wanting their family around them when they passed over, but they were so around her, she was being smothered by them.

  A single light burned on the bedside table. The soft glow had been muted by a piece of amber fabric draped over the top. Keely briefly wondered if the fabric was flame resistant or if they’d be calling the fire department before the poor old woman could take her last breath.

  Corbin ushered her to the bed. “She’s been in and out most of the day.”

  Keely looked down at the pale wrinkled skin and white hair of the client. Her family had obviously taken exceptional care of her during her illness. She was thin and frail, but neat and clean. This was definitely the way to go. Everyone who meant something to her stood in the room in love and support. She lay in the bed waiting for the inevitable end with so much dignity, it should have been measured as the gold standard for death.

  Corbin touched his grandmother’s shoulder and gave her a gentle shake. “Bertie, Reverend Batrille is here to see you.”

  Paper-thin eyelids fluttered open. “Who?”

  She would be in one of her in moments.

  Keely placed her hand in the middle of Corbin’s back and nudged him over. After he moved, she sat down on the bed and took Bertie’s hand in hers. “I’m here to give you comfort and see that you’re sent on to your Lord, as you requested.”

  Old hands, knuckles thick and bent with arthritis, held onto Keely’s with surprising strength. “You’re too pretty to be a man of the cloth.”

  Keely smiled and the hot burn of tears filled her eyes. She really had to do something about that marshmallow center of hers. The elderly had a way of getting to her like no one else could. “I’m a woman of the cloth, is that all right? Or would you prefer my assistant, Brother Benedict?”

  Bertie’s frail little hand squeezed Keely’s. “You.”

  “Very well.”

  Samson moved up beside her and handed her a surplice. Was she supposed to kiss the cross on it like she’d seen Catholic priests do before donning theirs? At this point it didn’t matter, she was as good as going down in flames. The bitch of it all was that Bertie deserved so much better. Every single person was entitled to have her religious beliefs respected at such a time. And here she was about to trample on them big time. A knot of shame formed in her throat.

  Samson handed her a Bible. If she was about to commit blasphemy, she sure as hell didn’t want to have the good book in her hand when she did it. She shoved it back at him and he returned the sentiment. It really wasn’t the time or place for one of their tests of wills. She took the Bible and gave him a look that said she’d have words with him later.

  As she rested the book in her hand, it fell open to a page. A card printed with the words, Last Rites, stared up at her. Samson hadn’t left her hanging, but she still wondered why he insisted she perpetuate this farce when he, as a heavenly being, could have performed it without having to worry about moral convictions and ethics.

  With the last words of the prayer dying on her lips, Keely looked to her client and noticed the contented smile ease from the woman’s mouth.

  “You’ll stay?”

  What could she say to that? The schedule would just have to wait. The family would expec
t her to stay and sit with the dying. It was the last act of a compassionate cleric to a member of her flock.

  Who was she kidding? Hypocrisy burned in her gut like acid. There would be a reckoning with Samson when they left here. There was no way she’d allow him to get away with forcing this on her and betraying these grieving loved ones.

  Time ticked away and lengthened into deep night. As the hours wore on, Bertie’s breathing became more labored. Life and vitality leeched from her skin, leaving a wax-like shell in its wake.

  Her face relaxed and the last breath left her body.

  Dignified sobs came from the family. Keely doubted they ever expressed sorrow any other way than with the utmost decorum. But she wasn’t there to judge, she was there to perform a service. With her back to the mourners, she shifted the golden sickle from her pouch and made a hard, quick slash across the cord and prayed it gave on the first strike.

  “What’s that?” Corbin had moved to the side of the bed and watched Keely as she placed the sickle back in her utility belt.

  “Symbolic severing of the earthly cares.” She stood, holding the Bible to her chest and held her hand out to Bertie’s grandson. “If you need anything, please feel free to contact the parish.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “I’m sorry, but I have other families to counsel tonight. Other clients to see.”

  He finally took her hand and shook it. “Thank you so much for everything, Reverend Batrille.”

  She nodded, not able to look him in the eyes. “God bless.”

  They left the apartment and headed to the elevators. Keely refused to speak with Samson until they were safely away from the property and on their way to the next address.

  A new doorman had come on shift while they were upstairs waiting for Bertie to pass. They left the building without having to resort to stealth mode, nodding a greeting at the man as they walked out.

  “Where to now, boss?” She turned and headed in no particular direction, not even sure it was the right way or not.

  “Downtown. West Paterson Drive.”

  Great. Her neighborhood.