When Death Loved an Angel

by Cheree Alsop

  She stepped in front of him, blocking Death’s path to the bed. He stared at Nyra, amazed at her courage. “You’re being foolish.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” she challenged.

  “Yes, I do,” he said. On impulse, he pushed his arm from the shadows, showing her the names written upon it.

  Her eyes widened as she looked at the names etched in black along his pale skin. Gregan and Julia’s names stood in bold contrast to the others. Nyra reached out a hand. Death drew his arm back.

  “Is that the name of the woman you didn’t take?” she asked quietly. “The one under Gregan’s?”

  He nodded, his gaze clouded in darkness. “The names get darker every day that I leave them alive.”

  “Does it hurt?” she asked in a voice above a whisper.

  It did hurt. Gregan’s ached and Julia’s was a dull throb that was stronger than the day before. Death nodded without answering.

  “And the other names?” Nyra asked, her voice timid as if she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer.

  “They’re my job for the day. The list has to be fulfilled,” Death answered in an emotionless voice.

  She watched him, her eyebrows pinched together and emotions swirling in her eyes that Death couldn’t read. One surfaced, startling him with stark clarity. Pity. She pitied him.

  He took a step back. He hadn’t come for her pity. He hadn’t shown her the list so she could sympathize with him. He merely showed it to her because, well. . . . He hesitated. He didn’t know why he had shown it to her. He hadn’t shown it to anyone his entire existence. The list was his own, his to keep and his to complete. Why did he show it to her?

  “I’ve never left it incomplete before you stopped me,” he said quietly. His admission surprised him. He took another step back toward the wall, increasing the distance between them for both their sakes.

  “I’ve never asked for anyone’s life before,” Nyra replied, her voice as soft as his. “I didn’t think you would let him live.”

  Death rubbed the back of his neck but he couldn’t feel it in his form. He let out a breath he hadn’t needed to take. “I’m still not sure it was the right decision.”

  “But here we are.” Nyra gestured toward the bed. “You saved his life and the life of the mother.”

  He frowned, a terrifying expression on his face. “I didn’t save them. I just prolonged their death.” He shook his head. “I don’t save anyone. I don’t give, I take away. It’s my job. It’s the reason for my existence.”

  “You gave me faith again,” Nyra said.

  They were the last words he had ever imagined he would hear. He stared at her. She blinked, her eyes bright. “What did you say?” he asked, his voice betraying him with the slightest tremble.

  “When Gregan was hit by that drunk driver, I questioned everything I stood for,” Nyra said. She met his gaze and her tears broke free. “I wondered why I even existed if I couldn’t prevent something so horrible from happening. He didn’t deserve it. I had failed him.”

  The tears on her cheeks begged to be wiped free. Death ached to hold her, to comfort her the way he had seen mothers comfort crying children or husbands soothing the sobs of their wives. He lifted a hand. When he realized what he was doing, he dropped it back to his side. Darkness swirled around him, reminding him that she was an angel and he was Death.

  “When I saw you reaching for him, my whole world stopped.” Her voice cracked. She pushed on, “Then you hesitated because I asked you to. You left Gregan and the doctors were able to keep his heart going. You made me believe again.”

  “In what?” Death didn’t want to ask, but he had to know.

  Nyra waved her arm, taking in the room and the world beyond. “That there’s a reason for all of this.”

  Death no longer believed her. “There is no reason,” he said bitterly. “Nothing matters.” His voice lowered into an angry growl. “All of this is for nothing. You believe in your reasons all you want, but it doesn’t take Gregan’s name off the list, and it doesn’t remove Julia’s.” He met her searching gaze with an angry glare. She didn’t cower. He let out an explosive breath and walked away. Darkness obscured his vision, then he was through the wall.

  ***

  He was about to leave the hospital when his arm gave an unexpected tingle. He glanced down at the list of names. One stood out from the rest. Rosemary Abbot. As he followed the name, the path became familiar. His steps slowed when he reached the room. The word ‘Diablo’ whispered through the doorway. He crossed the threshold and met a pair of familiar blue eyes.

  “Rosemary?” he asked softly.

  She blinked. Instead of defiance, there were tears in her eyes. She shook her head, her movements frail. “I didn’t believe I would be happy to see you,” she said, her voice wavering. Her white curls were pressed to her head and she held a hand to her heart, covering the flower print of her hospital gown with fragile fingers. “But I feel it here.” Tears shone in the low light. “I feel the weakness.”

  Death’s heart gave an answering throb. He put a hand to it, trying to keep it from beating. Death had no use for a heartbeat. He was ready to stop pretending he had a heart.

  He crossed to her bedside, anxious to get it over with.

  She reached out a hand. He hesitated, then felt her thoughts crash over him.

  He saw her as a toddler reaching for a dog’s wet nose. Somebody shoed the dog away, but she wanted him to come back. The image changed, showing a pool of water. Kids laughed in the pool, waving for her to join them. She grabbed a thick rope and swung out; for a moment, she was suspended in midair, then she plummeted into the water and came up laughing. She was a woman ice skating across a frozen pond, her hand held by a young man who smiled at her, his gaze promising to take care of her and keep her safe.

  The next memory showed Rosemary at a funeral service. Two young children stood by her side. Death recognized the man in the picture by the casket. He tried to fight the memories. They swam over him again; blue and white flowers encircled the casket, matching the officer’s uniform the man wore. Death knew the man’s face. He remembered the feeling of the uniform beneath his fingers. He saw the bullet hole through the man’s chest, he heard him whisper ‘Rosemary.’

  Death fell to his knees on the hospital floor. He shook his head, trying to clear the images from his mind. Rosemary reached down for him. “I’m ready,” she said. “I want to go home.”

  Death put his hands over his head, trying desperately to sink through the floor, to be anywhere but at the bedside of the woman whose husband he had taken away.

  “I can’t do it,” he whispered.

  “You must,” she said. “Because if you don’t, who will?”

  He sat in silence for several minutes staring at the white tile floor and trying to will his heart to slow or stop altogether. He preferred the latter. It would be easier if he didn’t have a heart at all, especially if it was going to hurt so badly.

  “I need your help,” the woman said, breaking a silence so thick the sound of the monitors was drowned in it.

  “I can’t help,” Death replied. “I’m the devil, remember? A soul-snatcher, a thief?” he quoted to her, feeling every syllable like glass shards shoved into his chest.

  “You’re a rescuer from pain,” the woman answered, repeating his words. “I’m so tired of pain.”

  He shook his head, kneeling on the floor with his elbows on his knees and his hair brushing the cool tiles. “I don’t want to do it anymore.”

  When the woman spoke again, it was with desperate pleading in her shaking voice. “Then let me be your last. I need to go home.”

  Death rose slowly. He felt as though he couldn’t get enough air to breathe even though he didn’t need air. He wanted to lean against something, to hold onto anything strong enough to support him, but his form was insubstantial, merely shadows and the darkness that cloaked him. He felt like he would blow away; he wished it would happen.

  Rosemar
y’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “You’ve changed,” she said. “Where’s the brash arrogance you carried a few days ago? The man who wanted to take me even when it wasn’t my time? Where’s the darkness I saw in your eyes?”

  “I met an angel,” he replied, though he didn’t know why he told her.

  “Ah,” she replied with a nod as if that answered everything.

  “What does that mean?”

  She smiled at the desperation in his tone. Her false teeth were in a cup by her bedside, so the edges of her smile were softened, drawing a pang of hope from him that he dared not believe in. “Angels change people.”

  “They guide them,” he corrected softly.

  She shook her head. “Sheep are guided. Men and women are not sheep. Angels make them want to be better, help them to be. Angels know the very best of us and help us see our potential.”

  “But she despises me,” Death said, hanging his head.

  “She might despise who you were those few days ago when you argued with an old woman about when she was going to die, but I really don’t think she would harbor the same feelings if she saw you now.”

  “I’m pretty sure she does.”

  Rosemary motioned for him to come closer. She lowered her voice. “Sweetheart, you have a job to do. It’s your job. I have family waiting for me on the other side. I just want to get to them.” She pressed a hand to her heart and winced. The monitor by her head gave a series of beeps. Her eyes widened. “I want to go before the nurses come in. I’m so tired of being poked and prodded. They mean well, but I’ve worn out this body. I’m ready to be done with it.”

  Death nodded. He let out a slow breath, feeling as though he needed to confess before he helped her leave. “I took your husband,” he said gently.

  Pain showed on Rosemary’s weathered face. She closed her eyes tight, but a tear escaped to slide from the corner of her eye into her hair. “He was only thirty,” she said. “Our life together had just started.” She sniffed, touching a piece of worn napkin to her nose. “He promised to be there for me.”

  Death nodded. “I’m so sorry. He didn’t deserve to go.”

  She opened her eyes and they sparked. “No, he didn’t. But it wasn’t your fault. It was the fault of the drug bust he got caught up in; the fault of drug lords who put guns in the hands of children.” She gave a tiny smile. “I’m glad if he had to go, he went with you.”

  Death blinked back tears, but they broke free. He reached out a hand. “I would be honored to show you the way home, Rosemary Abbot.”

  She smiled a crinkled smile and accepted his hand. Her fingers felt feather light, her skin as soft as a rose petal. Death’s heart gave a painful thump at the reminder of the name on his arm. He closed his eyes and showed her the path to the gateway. Her final breath escaped her lips in a sigh. A small smile showed the dimple in the left corner of her cheek. Death walked away, one less name on his list and a strange linger to his gait. His heart slowed, then stopped beating.

  Part of his soul, if he had a soul, stayed in the hospital when he walked through the doors and left the room behind.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ANGEL

  Nyra waited until Betsy showed up, then wandered down the street in the twilight. Gregan’s numbers were getting better. The doctors had confirmed the fact that afternoon; he was improving despite the odds against him. Nyra wanted him to get better, but she was afraid of what would happen afterwards. Would he still need her? If she was dismissed as his guardian, would they assign her to someone else? That’s what normally happened, but she had gone against protocol. She had argued with Death.

  A siren sounded in the distance. Nyra followed the sidewalk, listening to the sounds of laughter and talking from within the buildings she passed. She was about to turn a corner when the screech of brakes reached her ears. She spun back around in time to see a car veer across the yellow lines that separated the directions of traffic and crash into the corner of the building across the street. The crunch of metal, shattered glass, and a honking horn broke the calm evening. Nyra hurried across the road.

  A man leaned against the airbag. His eyes were closed and his head hung at a strange angle. Nyra feared he was dead, then he let out a groan and put a hand to his head.

  “Are you alright, Megan?” he asked.

  Nyra followed his gaze to the woman in the passenger seat. “Megan!” the man exclaimed.

  Megan’s airbag hadn’t deployed. She leaned with her head against the dashboard. Blood streamed down from a gash in her forehead.

  Help them, a prompting pushed Nyra.

  She rushed forward as the man struggled out of his seat. “Help!” he yelled. “Someone called an ambulance!” He ran around the car, but couldn’t pull open Megan’s door. “What do I do?” he asked, panic thick in his voice.

  Nyra set a hand on his shoulder. “Be calm,” she whispered. “Grab the sweatshirt from the back seat and hold it against her forehead. Don’t move her. She’s better off there until the ambulance arrives.”

  The man did as she prompted. His fingers trembled as he held the cloth against Megan’s forehead, but he fought back his panic.

  Megan let out a quiet gasp.

  “Talk to her,” Nyra whispered. “Let her know what happened.”

  “It’s alright, darling,” the man said. “We got in an accident. The brakes wouldn’t work and we crashed, but you’re going to be okay.”

  An ambulance siren called down the street. “The ambulance is on its way,” Nyra said.

  “Help is almost here, Meg. Don’t you worry.”

  “Are you alright?” Megan asked, her words muffled as she leaned closer her husband.

  “I’m fine; it’s you I’m worried about,” he replied, his voice tight. “But you’re going to be okay.”

  Nyra stepped back as EMTs hurried to assist the couple. She didn’t leave until they were safely inside the ambulance. The last thing she saw was their hands entwined before the last EMT shut the door.

  The bell sounded. Nyra didn’t fight the pull toward the Place of Accounting, but when she reached the doors she waited until the other angels had gone inside, then she returned to the rose-covered alley and sat in somewhat peaceful silence until it was time to return to Gregan’s side.

  Chapter Seventeen

  DEATH

  Death sat on the subway. He watched people get on and off without a care for where he ended up. The harder he tried to ignore the names on his list, the more they burned and throbbed. He listened to the conversations and pretended for just a moment that he was one of them, a person among a crowd, forgotten in his familiarity. He was part of the mass, on route to someplace where others would welcome him. He bowed his head and studied his hands, wondering what it felt like to be welcomed.

  “You weren’t there a moment ago.”

  Death looked up. A boy of about six watched him with wide eyes. His mother sat on the bench across from Death oblivious of their conversation. “What was that?” Death asked politely.

  “One minute the bench was empty, then you were there!” the boy exclaimed.

  Death realized that he was in living form. He looked around quickly, wondering if anyone else had noticed. When nobody seemed remotely interested in their end of the subway car, he leaned closer to the boy. “I’m magic.”

  The boy sat back with a big grin.

  Death’s arm gave a sharp throb. He looked down. One name in particular tingled.

  “Hold still, Stevie,” the mother scolded.

  Death’s blood ran cold. The name Steven Montgomery gave another throb. When the little boy’s mother turned her attention back to her magazine, Death leaned closer. “Does your last name happen to be Montgomery?”

  He didn’t need the boy’s enthusiastic nod; the answering tingle in his arm made him feel nauseous.

  He sat back and wrapped his arms tightly around his chest. He was supposed to take the life of the little boy in front of him. It wasn’t as if he should just go up
and touch him. Something was going to happen to take the boy to the edge of dying; Death would then finish the job.

  If he only knew what it was going to be.

  As if the question unlocked some part of his mind he had never accessed before, images swam over Death with an intensity that held him completely still.

  He saw the subway slow, then the doors opened and people exchanged places in the car. A man in a gray hoodie holding a paper bag stepped into their car. Before the subway train started moving, the man pulled a gun out of the bag.

  “Give me your purses and wallets,” he yelled.

  People rushed to obey. Several pulled off rings and watches, familiar with the drill. Death kept his attention on the little boy and his mom. Stevie’s mother fumbled with her purse and dropped the contents of her wallet all over the floor of the car.

  “Pick it up!” the robber yelled.

  The mother hurried, reaching for a dollar bill and several quarters. Stevie helped by holding open the wallet. His mother put in the last bill. She tried to take the wallet from Stevie, but he turned to give it to the robber. She stumbled and fell against the man in the hoodie. His finger tightened on the trigger. The sound of the bullet in the enclosed space of the subway car ricocheted sharply as if a dozen had fired instead of one. Red blossomed across the front of the boy’s dinosaur shirt. His mother screamed.

  “I asked if you’re going to watch the game,” Stevie asked, his face in front of Death’s. “My dad’s going there. We’re watching from home.”

  His brown eyes were so big and hopefully. There was something about Death that interested him. The innocence of his expression stole something from Death. Was it his resolve, his tenacity? Death rubbed the back of his neck. It was his drive. He couldn’t do it anymore. He gave up.

  The subway began to slow. Stevie’s mother waved the boy back over to their seat. Death watched the doors open. His hand tightened on the arm of the bench when the man in the gray hoodie stepped through.