The Golden Age of Death (A CALLIOPE REAPER-JONES NOVEL)

by Amber Benson

  Freezay didn’t have time to feel bad about ruining the man’s face. Someone else was already grasping his shoulders and trying to knock him off his feet. Keeping his weight on the balls of his toes, he sent a back kick into the guts of the new attacker, his heel connecting solidly with the man’s solar plexus. Instantly the pressure on his shoulders slackened and he turned around to catch the shocked look on the other man’s face as he tried to draw breath, his eyeballs nearly popping out of his eye sockets.

  To his consternation, a third attacker descended on him now—this one bigger and more lethal looking than the first two combined. Freezay tried to fend the larger man off, but his blows only seemed to antagonize the giant. The fight—if you could call the undefended pummeling Freezay gave the giant’s chest—only lasted a moment or two and then Freezay was airborne, the man’s meaty hands gripping him around the middle and hoisting him heavenward.

  The giant began to spin in circles, his feet as nimble as a dancer’s, the forward motion making Freezay’s stomach lurch—and then the giant sent him flying. Unprepared for the abrupt dismount, Freezay’s back and head slammed into the brick wall separating his property from his neighbor’s and he saw black. But his vision cleared pretty quickly when he realized the giant was on the move again. Ignoring the throbbing in his head, he used the wall to drag himself back onto his feet.

  His front doorway was obscured from the road—and his nearest neighbors—so there was no chance someone would see the fight and call the police. Besides, the fog had already begun to roll in, coating the world in a thin film of cloudy gray. Even if the attack had happened farther out on the driveway, the likelihood of anyone noticing them would still be slim.

  Freezay couldn’t count on the kid to help him, either. The boy was merely a ghost without any ability to affect human reality. Which meant Freezay was entirely on his own. With that realization, he quickly decided that, yes, the best defense was really going to have to be a good offense. Rather than waiting for the giant to make his next move, he would have to get the jump on the big man first. And that meant he was going to have to make a full-frontal assault on the giant if he was going to have any chance of taking him down.

  He steeled himself for the pain he knew was about to come, and, head bowed, burst off the wall like a swimmer, crashing into the big man with enough force to knock them both off their feet. The giant didn’t know what hit him. He landed hard on his back, cracking the brick on the paved walkway. His body was so overgrown with steroid-created muscle he flailed like an upside-down turtle as he tried to right himself.

  Freezay used the pause in action to reassess the situation. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the ghost boy taking off down the driveway.

  Good luck with that, kid, he thought, then turned his attention back to the fight already in progress.

  The giant was out of commission and the goon with the ruined face had beat a hasty retreat, but Solar Plexus was still lying on the ground trying to catch his breath. Freezay walked over to him and placed his large black boot on the man’s chest. He pressed down, lightly at first, and then with more pressure. The man started wheezing, eyes wide with fear. He had red hair and a weasely face boasting two protruding front teeth that made him seem dopey—though Freezay knew looks could be deceiving.

  “Who sent you and what do they want?” Freezay demanded.

  His head was pounding and he’d somehow managed to knock a front tooth loose, so it wiggled helplessly in his gum as he spoke.

  Weasely Face shook his head.

  “Get…off…me.”

  Freezay increased the pressure and the man cried out as one of his ribs cracked.

  “I don’t want to dispatch you, but you’re pushing it, buddy,” Freezay said, shaking his head.

  Out of his peripheral vision, he saw the giant struggling to get up.

  “Don’t even think about it or I’ll come over there and put you permanently out of commission,” Freezay shouted and the giant ceased his struggles, a hangdog expression on his face.

  “Now, you,” he continued, grinding the heel of his boot into Weasely Face’s chest. “Tell me what I want to know before I crack another rib.”

  Weasely Face raised his arms in supplication and Freezay eased up with his boot. A shudder ran through the prone man’s body.

  “Supposed to take you…” he wheezed, “back to Death, Inc. Someone there wants to talk to you about something.”

  Freezay slid his boot off the man’s chest.

  “Why didn’t you just say that?”

  Weasely Face coughed and sat up, cradling his side. It was apparent it hurt him to even draw a breath.

  “The President and CEO of Death, Inc., requested your presence personally.”

  Freezay nodded. He’d expected Calliope to come harass him about the job offer she’d made him up at the Haunted Hearts Castle—Head of Death Security or something equally as nebulous—though he wouldn’t have pegged her as the kind of gal to send out the Goon Squad to pick him up.

  “If Calliope wants to talk to me, she can just wormhole herself over here and say hi,” Freezay replied, offering Weasely Face a hand up, which the other man took hesitantly.

  Behind them, the giant had begun to struggle again like a bug on a pin.

  “Calliope?” Weasely Face said, his grip tightening on Freezay’s hand. “You must be mistaken, brother, there’s no Calliope…”

  “No Calliope?” Freezay echoed, confused.

  “There’s only Death and his name is Frank.”

  With that, Weasely Face grinned, revealing those dopey-looking buckteeth of his again. Then all pretense of submission dropped from his face as he reached out and slammed his fist into Freezay’s gut, penetrating the flesh and sliding into warm, gooey innards. Freezay blanched, the pain unbearable as he felt the goon’s fingers maneuvering inside his guts.

  “Fuck…off,” he wheezed.

  Which only made Weasely Face laugh.

  “Not so much fun when the shoe’s on the other foot, is it?”

  He began to tug on Freezay’s small intestines as if he could extract them in one long, sausage-y string.

  “You like the gift we left you?”

  “What…gift?” Freezay grunted, his body in agony.

  “The body in the bedroom.” Weasely Face giggled. “Poor kid didn’t know what hit him.”

  “Bastard,” Freezay growled—and then he spat at Weasely Face.

  The gob of saliva and mucus hit the goon square on the cheek, soft as a kiss. Weasely Face started, but the surprise didn’t last long and was quickly replaced by raw anger. Freezay watched the rage build inside of the other man, hatred boiling over as he reached up with his free hand and wiped the spittle away, smearing it against his jeans.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Weasely Face said—and now he was grinning, but there was no mirth in his cold, dark eyes.

  “Why not?” Freezay said, arranging his face into the smuggest expression he could muster.

  Trying to beat the smirk off of Freezay, Weasely Face backhanded him; the blow was hard enough to make Freezay’s head snap to the left with a sickening crunch—and then he saw stars as Weasely Face yanked at his guts with the hand that was entrenched in Freezay’s innards.

  “Too bad you didn’t know it was a ‘dead or alive’ kind of invitation,” Weasely Face said, his jack-o’-lantern grin splitting his face in two.

  The last thing Freezay saw before he blacked out was Weasely Face leaning in toward him, his hot breath sweet and sour as he spoke:

  “Sayonara, buddy. Long live the rightful Reign of Death!”

  * * *

  jarvis opened the door, once again expecting only the Realtor, but instead, found himself staring at a trio of very powerful-looking women. Obviously, he knew Clio because he’d been her father’s Executive Assistant (as he was her sister’s now) and had known her all her life, but the other two women were strangers to him. Though, there was something strangely familiar about
the girl with the long, dark hair and the livid scar running across her face.

  “Where are your manners, Jarvis?” Clio said. “Are we supposed to stand on the doorstep all day?”

  “Yes, of course, come in,” Jarvis said, flustered as he opened the door wider so the women could step inside.

  “I think you’ve meet Callie’s best friend, Noh, before”—that was why the girl looked so familiar; she’d just grown up since the last time he’d seen her—“and this is Jennice…the Realtor you called to sell Sea Verge?”

  The annoyed question mark at the end of her sentence was a not-so-subtle demand for answers.

  “Hi,” Jennice said, sticking out her hand for Jarvis to take.

  As her warm fingers slipped in between his own, he decided Jennice wasn’t at all what he’d expected from a Newport real estate agent. She was young for one thing—in her early twenties, if that—and she had a round, pleasant face. Her dark eyes were fringed with thick black lashes and her mouth was pleasingly full and bow shaped. She was wearing a long, cotton dress in a rich mulberry color that did nothing to accentuate her curves, but, instead, hung like a potato sack on her Rubenesque frame.

  What a shame to hide all that beauty under a bushel, Jarvis thought, his appreciation for the larger-bodied woman no secret to anyone who knew him. If his heart hadn’t already been attached to another, he would’ve most definitely given Jennice the masculine attention she richly deserved. As it was, he was taken, so all he could do was give her a warm smile and tell her it was lovely to meet her.

  “Thank you,” she said, eyes downcast with embarrassment.

  Luckily, Clio cut the awkward moment short when she noticed Daniel lurking in the hallway behind Jarvis.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, confusion ripe on her face.

  “Your crazy sister sent me something weird this morning, so I hightailed it up here to see what was going on.”

  “Where is she?” Clio asked Daniel, as she stepped into the foyer.

  Daniel shook his head.

  “She’s MIA, and Jarvis is keeping his lips locked.”

  Clio turned on Jarvis, raising an eyebrow in consternation. Jarvis knew he was in for the third degree because once Clio had her mind set on something she was like a pit bull, holding on until she got what she wanted.

  “Why doesn’t everyone go into the kitchen,” Jarvis said, gesturing toward the back of the house where the state-of-the-art kitchen was located, “and I’ll get Jennice started. She’s going to want to look over the house immediately, I’m sure.”

  Clio scowled at him, sensing some kind of subterfuge, but Jarvis only shook his head and looked over at Jennice, trying to telegraph to Clio his intention of removing Jennice from the others, so they could talk openly and not frighten the uninitiated Realtor.

  “I would love to take a look around the space,” Jennice said, pulling a tiny notebook from her pocket as she followed Jarvis over to the staircase that led to the second floor.

  “Off you go,” Jarvis said, shooing Clio and the others away. “Clio, why don’t you set the kettle to boil and we can have some tea?”

  Clio gave him an odd look, but finally nodded.

  “Sure thing, Jarvi.”

  She stressed the nickname he hated, and that she and Callie loved to use behind his back, knowing he would get the message: Let’s hurry this thing up.

  “I’ll be there in one moment!” he called after them, as they left him alone in the foyer with Jennice.

  “You’d better be!” Clio yelled back, before disappearing down the hallway.

  “I’m sure you don’t need my help,” Jarvis said, turning his attention back to Jennice. “It’s rather self-explanatory, I hope.”

  Jennice smiled at him.

  “I think so. I’ll do the upstairs first and then move to the lower floor.”

  “Excellent!” Jarvis said, as he watched her begin to climb the stairs, excitedly making notes in the notebook she’d brought along with her.

  He turned to go, but Jennice caught him before he could get too far away.

  “The crown molding is just gorgeous,” she breathed, pointing to the ceiling as she turned to smile down at Jarvis. “Do you know anything about it?”

  Jarvis returned the smile and nodded. He was an encyclopedia when it came to Sea Verge.

  “All the molding in the house was hand carved especially for Sea Verge in Brienz, Switzerland.”

  Jennice made a notation in her notebook.

  “Thank you,” she said, turning back to admire the crown molding again. “You know, it’s all the little details that are so important in making a good listing.”

  No one can be that excited about crown molding, Jarvis thought, but apparently Jennice was the rare exception.

  “Have fun,” Jarvis said, but Jennice was already moving up the stairs, lost in the grandiosity that was Sea Verge.

  Satisfied that Jennice would be out of their hair for the duration, Jarvis turned and followed the sound of raised voices back toward the kitchen.

  “Well, neither Noh nor I have spoken to her,” Clio was saying as Jarvis entered the room, catching her in the middle of filling a silver teakettle she’d pulled down from one of the cabinets.

  “Yeah, she’s been incommunicado for a while now,” Noh agreed, as she watched Clio set the kettle on the stove to boil.

  Even though it was the most modern room in the mansion, Jarvis still loved the huge, open-plan kitchen at Sea Verge best of all. There was just something about the space that caused him to relax as soon as he’d crossed over its threshold, stepping into the dewy, yellow warmth from the overhead lighting fixtures.

  Maybe it was the large center island encircled by a quartet of comfortable wooden stools, or its pristine white-tiled walls, or the gleaming appliances soaking in the sunlight that streamed in through the large bay window overlooking the backyard, but whatever it was, it inspired instant familiarity and a feeling of togetherness.

  “We’ve just both been so busy,” Daniel was saying—rather lamely, Jarvis thought—from his perch on one of the barstools.

  The sound of five teacups being set down on the counter drew Jarvis’s attention away from Daniel and back to Clio, who was now pulling a bag of English Breakfast tea from the cabinet and setting it beside a pretty white and pink-flowered enamel tea pot.

  Not for the first time, Jarvis noticed how much she’d begun to look less like a punk rocker and more like a normal teenage girl. The change had occurred in tandem with her starting to date the Hindu God, Indra, but Jarvis believed it wasn’t just love that made Clio change her style. She was growing up, maturing into a young woman, and the shaved head and ripped clothing just didn’t jibe with her more adult self—although she was still holding on to her chunky, black-framed Buddy Holly glasses for dear life, so she hadn’t completely changed her fashion sensibility.

  Still, Jarvis thought she looked rather lovely in the pale blue kimono dress and black skinny jeans she was wearing, Buddy Holly glasses only complementing the ensemble.

  “What’s going on, Jarvis?” Clio said, turning to look at Jarvis as she accepted the teapot from Noh and filled the strainer with the loose leaf tea.

  Jarvis opened his mouth to reply, but Daniel beat him to it.

  “Wrong question, Clio,” he said. “We already played this game and the right question to ask is: Why?”

  “Why what?” Noh said, brushing away bits of loose-leaf tea that hadn’t made it into the tea strainer.

  “Why did Calliope leave Sea Verge,” Jarvis said, all eyes now trained on him. “That is the correct question.”

  “Something’s going on here and you better start spilling it,” Clio said, as the kettle whistled and she removed it from the stove top, pouring its contents into the teapot before setting it back on the eye.

  Jarvis was prepared to be as frank as possible. Now that they were all assembled at Sea Verge, he knew he had to keep them here for the next twenty-four hours—some
thing that would not be an easy task once they’d heard what he had to say.

  “The ‘difficulty’ came to Calliope’s attention the day she met the Ender of Death for their duel,” Jarvis said. “Though the thing seems to have started long before that.”

  “Okay, can you be more ominous?” Clio asked.

  “I am not being dramatic,” Jarvis replied. “I am trying to be as accurate as I possibly can.”

  “Just go on,” Daniel said, shooting Clio a “cease and desist” look. “No one is going to interrupt you again until you’re finished.”

  Jarvis seriously doubted Daniel’s ability to control Clio when she was upset, but he decided to keep that thought to himself.

  “Wait,” Noh said, suddenly. “Before you start talking, tell me one thing.”

  Jarvis hesitated, not sure what the girl was going to ask of him.

  “Yes?” he asked, waiting for her to continue.

  She looked him dead in the eye, her gaze probing and intense, then she spoke:

  “Why are you in the wrong body?”

  This was the last thing he’d expected her to say.

  “I, well, I—” he spluttered, but Clio swooped in to save him.

  “How do you know he’s in the wrong body?” she asked Noh.

  Noh shrugged.

  “I can just tell.”

  She left her spot at the island, walking over to Jarvis and taking both of his hands in hers—and Jarvis shivered because her fingers were so cold.

  “What are you doing?” he asked when she suddenly lifted both of his arms up into the air.

  “Callie never told any of you what I do, did she,” Noh said matter-of-factly.

  When no one answered, she smiled.

  “I’m a clairvoyant…or, if I’m feeling more whimsical, I just say that I see dead people.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Clio said, picking up the teapot and pouring out tea into each of the mugs as though it were an everyday occurrence for human beings to see dead people.

  Jarvis had known Clio her entire life—and he didn’t think anything ever fazed her.