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

by Amber Benson

  “It’s how Callie and I met. We were part of the Strange Brigade at the New Newbridge Academy. There were a bunch of us odd kids, kids who didn’t quite fit in with the rest of the student body, and we just sort of found each other and became friends. Actually, less like friends and more like family, really.”

  She returned her gaze to Jarvis, giving his hands a quick squeeze before letting them go.

  “So because of my abilities, I can see that your soul doesn’t fit in this body. It pops out in all kinds of weird spots,” Noh added, poking at his side. “Like here.”

  “That tickles,” Jarvis said, backing away.

  “And here and here,” she continued, ignoring Jarvis’s skittishness as she pointed to his neck and head.

  “Is that a bad thing?” Clio asked.

  Noh shook her head.

  “There’s absolutely nothing to worry about, but it’s just a very, very curious phenomenon, something I haven’t really seen before.”

  “Thank God,” Jarvis said, sighing with relief. He didn’t need any strange body issues cropping up in what was already proving to be an untenable situation.

  “You can go on with your story now,” Noh said, her whole face lighting up as she gave him a shy smile—and Jarvis thought she was truly beautiful in that moment.

  “Thank you,” he said, returning her smile. “As I was saying, it started with the duel. We all know Calliope had promised Marcel, the Ender of Death, she would meet him in one-on-one combat. The promise was given so he would back off and give her the space she needed in order to stop the Devil and Thalia from staging their coup on Death, Inc., and Heaven—”

  Jarvis suddenly found his mouth was dry as a bone, and he paused here to take a mug of tea from Clio.

  “And then, later, at the annual Death Dinner and Masquerade Ball, Marcel called her out on her promise. Obviously, she was scared of meeting him in battle—we all know she’s an incompetent fighter—but she knew she had to keep her promise,” Jarvis said, sipping on his tea as his mind wandered back to that fateful day. “But it was the only way to keep Marcel in his place…”

  five

  CALLIOPE

  “But it’s the only way to keep Marcel in his place,” I said as I slid the body armor Jarvis had given me around my midsection and fastened it in place. “At least for a little while.”

  Jarvis nodded, his gangling frame wrapped in a heavy fur parka so thick I had a hard time seeing his face because of all the fluff. I shivered in my own lightweight wool-lined Zero-Loft jumpsuit, wishing I were wearing a similar ginormous parka. But since I needed to be free to fight, a parka of any kind was not in my future. Jarvis had kindly created a special warming spell for both of us so we wouldn’t freeze—add to that the molded titanium body armor I was now fastening myself into—and I was as warm as I was gonna be, given the situation.

  The situation being a battle to the death with Marcel, the Ender of Death.

  Lovely.

  We were meeting in a location of his choosing, but only because he’d been “kind” enough to let me push the date a little. Originally, we were supposed to do our “battle to the death” the day after the annual Death Dinner and Masquerade Ball, but Jarvis had felt this was a tad hasty and wanted me to postpone. The only way Marcel would agree to the postponement was for him to get to choose the duel’s location. Neither Jarvis, nor I was pleased about this, but what could we do? I’d been impulsive and now I was going to pay for it.

  In Antarctica.

  Why the wily Frenchman had chosen this desolate spot—Ridge A, it was officially called—I had no idea, but it would definitely not have been my duel spot of choice. If I’d had my druthers, I’d have staged the thing at Barney’s, so at least I could die amongst the designer clothes I loved. But, alas, the choice of venue was not mine and I’d ended up in “cold town” instead of “clothes town.”

  Jarvis, ever the fastidious Executive Assistant, had done his research on Ridge A and had gleefully told me the average temperature hovered around negative ninety-four degrees Fahrenheit—well below the point a normal human body could withstand without some supernatural help.

  That was how I’d ended up in the crazy-ass jumpsuit, really wishing I’d peed before we’d wormholed it out of Sea Verge. Of course I would never give Jarvis the satisfaction of letting him know he’d been right (as usual) and, yes, I should’ve hit the head before we trekked out to the middle of nowhere. So, I was just going to have to be a good girl and hold it.

  “Well, I believe you are as ready as you ever will be,” Jarvis said, handing me a titanium scythe that bore a razor-sharp diamond blade.

  “Do I really have to use this?” I said, taking the scythe and feeling its heft. “I think this choice of weaponry is a little too on the nose, even for my taste.”

  “It was Marcel’s choice,” Jarvis sighed—and I knew what he was thinking: Once again Calliope’s impetuousness had backed her into a corner.

  Of course Jarvis was right. If I hadn’t let Marcel rush me into setting a date for the duel, then I’d have had a lot more leverage.

  Instead, I was forced to cater to Marcel’s weird flights of fancy…like this stupid scythe. A scythe being the predominate weapon of choice in pretty much every artist’s rendering of Death.

  “I know. It’s all my fault,” I said. “One more Calliope Reaper-Jones cock-up.”

  Jarvis snorted, eyes bright within the fur of the parka’s hood.

  “You were well-intentioned,” Jarvis conceded, trying to make me feel better.

  “That I was,” I concurred, stepping away from Jarvis and giving the scythe a few practice swings. “Shall we do this thing?”

  Jarvis nodded.

  “Yes, I believe we shall.”

  I took a deep breath—wishing I was anywhere else—then I began to march toward what was a more than probable death, Jarvis trailing behind me, acting the part of my very reluctant “second.”

  Wanna talk about freezing your balls off? Well, this was a place where that phrase actually carried a little weight. The air was calm, but so cold I could totally feel the snot crystallizing on my upper lip. The visibility was amazing; clear enough to see the powdery blanket of white coating every spare inch of the place.

  I noticed the ice and snow wasn’t as slick as I’d expected. Of course, the special boots I was wearing added to my stability, but the ice pack would’ve been firm and maybe not too terribly hard to walk on even if I weren’t wearing them.

  “I see him,” I said suddenly, pointing ahead of us to where Marcel and his second were standing out in the center of the ice, waiting for us.

  Marcel’s second was wearing a parka similar to Jarvis’s so I couldn’t see who or what it was, but Marcel looked chipper, shifting his scythe back and forth between his hands. To my surprise, he was wearing only a leather singlet, which left his arms and legs totally exposed to the elements. I knew he was probably all spelled up to keep himself warm, but still, his lack of clothing was kind of intimidating…and distracting.

  If I hadn’t known Marcel, hadn’t experienced his bad behavior personally, hadn’t seen him do terrible things—like behead my father in cold blood—then I might’ve found his slim body very attractive. To the uninitiated, he was heartbreakingly beautiful, with blond curly hair and a cherubic face, all angelic and pure looking—but to me he was a lowlife, the skankiest of skanks, and the less I had to interact with him, the better.

  It made me ill just to look at his smarmy face.

  “You made it,” Marcel purred when we reached the appointed spot and stopped.

  “What were you expecting?” I asked. “A no-show?”

  Marcel laughed, spinning the handle of his scythe between his fingers.

  “Your predecessors have always been so humorless. You, at least are never at a loss for words.”

  I decided to take that as a compliment.

  “Thank you,” I said, giving a condescending little bow, which only made him laugh again.
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  “I must say you truly have proven to be more than a worthy opponent. When I first met you all those years ago, I would never have believed it.”

  I’d met Marcel—he was calling himself “Monsieur D” back then—when, as a kid playing hide-and-seek at Sea Verge, I’d unwittingly stumbled across a doorway leading into the deserts of Hell. Unbeknownst to me, my father had trapped Marcel there in order to keep me safe—and little did he or I know that my childhood visit would have such serious repercussions, proving to be the catalyst that eventually destroyed my father and sealed my destiny forever.

  Very heavy stuff, indeed.

  “You were selfish, shallow, self-involved, vain—” Marcel continued. “Yet, you have survived and flourished as the new Death. Even now it amazes me.”

  “Oh, shut up and let’s just do this thing,” I snarled, annoyed by Marcel and his condescending, backhanded compliments. “If I’m going to die, then I want to get it over with, okay?”

  Marcel grinned, shifting his scythe into his right hand and giving it a playful swing.

  “If you insist.”

  “I insist.”

  Marcel waved his hand at his second and the parka-covered thing backed away. As much as I wanted Jarvis close by in case things got really bad, I knew I had to follow the rules of the duel.

  I gave Jarvis a nod and, bowing his head, he did as I asked, falling back just as Marcel’s second had done.

  When the two seconds had reached a safe distance, Marcel offered me his bare hand. I took off my right glove and met his bare skin with my own.

  “May the best man win,” he purred.

  “May the best person win,” I corrected.

  Marcel released my hand, so I could slide my glove back on.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  I swallowed hard.

  “Ready.”

  Marcel was quick as a flash, bringing his scythe down on me like a sword. Instinct took over and I jumped out of the blade’s way.

  “Don’t you think using scythes is a little on the nose?” I called out as I sliced at him with my “on the nose” weapon.

  Marcel shrugged, easily parrying my attack.

  “I thought it was fitting. Death coming to death by his own blade.”

  “Her own blade,” I corrected again.

  I was Death and I was a woman. Marcel needed to get that through his thick head.

  “Excusez-moi,” he shot back at me. “Touchy, touchy, Miss Death.”

  Distracted by my anger, I almost opened myself up to a killing blow, but luckily I was able to dodge Marcel’s scythe as it whistled by my head. Still, it was a close call.

  Too close.

  Wheeling around, I gathered all my anger and used it to launch a frontal assault. Raising my scythe behind me like a hockey stick, I ran at Marcel, catching him off guard. I had just enough of an offensive surprise to be able to shove the butt end of my scythe handle into his stomach, the blow sending him sprawling. He hit the ice hard, but rolled just out of my reach as I struck at him with the pointy end of the blade.

  I hit ice instead of the soft flesh I’d expected, and it jarred me, sending a shockwave of pain up my forearms.

  “Damn it! Stop being so wily,” I yelled, frustrated by my inability to get him.

  “Never!” he shouted, climbing to his feet and charging at me, a bull in a spectatorless arena made of ice and snow.

  I wasn’t prepared for his full body blow and I went flying, but was still able to twist in the air so I hit the ice with my side and not my back. I felt more than saw Marcel’s scythe as it plunged toward my head, the cold spray of ice letting me know I’d managed to jerk my face out of the line of fire just in time.

  Marcel swung his blade at me again and I borrowed his trick, rolling away so he couldn’t get at me. I quickly climbed to my feet, using the scythe pole to balance myself, but Marcel kicked it away, sending the weapon flying out of my hands. I didn’t give him time to pounce, but dove for my lost weapon, sliding across the ice on my hands and knees, grasping like a blind man until I felt the scythe’s handle, and yanked it back into my possession.

  “You have a terrible job,” I said, as I backed away from Marcel and his advancing blade.

  “Why ever do you say that?” he asked, his cheeks red from exertion. It made me happy to think I wasn’t making this easy for him.

  “Because you spend your whole existence chasing Death, trying to put a stop to the natural order of things,” I said, jumping back to evade the sweep of his blade.

  “It’s not so bad,” he said, swinging at me with the handle of the scythe. “True, it did suck to be trapped in Hell, tied to a fucking palm tree, but who doesn’t have a few shitty decades in their immortal existence?”

  Marcel’s immortality was very different from mine. His physical bodies came and went, but his soul, or ego, was always the same. I was tied to my corporeal form. When someone used my immortal weakness against me and I died, that was it. No more Calliope Reaper-Jones.

  If my arch-nemesis killed me today—aside from my one immortal weakness, the Ender of Death was the only other thing that could destroy me—then all the near-death experiences I’d managed to scrape my way out of these past few months would be for naught.

  It was kind of a bummer.

  “Whatever you say, Marcel. I’ve never been tied to a palm tree, so I’m just gonna have to believe you on that one.”

  I blocked his next attack with my scythe handle, his diamond blade skittering off it—and that’s when I saw my opening: Marcel’s forward momentum had left his lower extremities totally vulnerable. I didn’t hesitate to take my shot. I struck out at him with my left knee, catching him right in the balls. I heard a guttural croak come from deep inside of him, and then he dropped to the ground, a look of unimaginable pain washing across his face. I slid the edge of my scythe under his chin, pressing the sharp part of the diamond blade into his throat, drawing a necklet of blood just above his Adam’s apple.

  He stared up at me, eyes bloodshot—and I thought I saw a spark of amusement in his gaze.

  “Stop!” I heard someone shout behind me.

  I turned in the direction the voice had come from, still careful to keep my blade firmly pressed against Marcel’s throat.

  “Do not kill him, Mistress Death!”

  It was Marcel’s second, running across the ice toward us. Not one to be left out of the action, Jarvis was jogging back to us from the opposite direction. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he must be worried this was some kind of ploy to distract me and give Marcel the upper hand.

  “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill him,” I yelled back at Marcel’s second, whose identity was still obscured by the parka. “Give me one good reason!”

  “Because your very existence might ride on this man’s life,” the second said as she threw back the hood of her parka.

  I gasped, shock filling my gut as I realized Marcel’s second was none other than Anjea, the Vice-President in Charge of Death for the Australian Continent—and an employee of Death, Inc.

  My employee.

  “Anjea? What is the meaning of this?” Jarvis cried as he reached us, his own shock as palpable as mine. He put a protective hand on my shoulder, but did nothing to encourage me to release Marcel.

  “Jarvis De Poupsey,” Anjea said, nodding her head at Jarvis, her long, unkempt hair bouncing in approval. “You have the voice of reason within you. You will understand.”

  She was a commanding presence, though her papery mocha complexion and thick Aboriginal features looked bizarre set against the icy backdrop of the Antarctic tundra. The tiny brown owlet on her shoulder, her familiar, I supposed you called it, nuzzled against her neck.

  “I shall try to understand,” Jarvis said, but he looked uncertain, confused by this surreal turn of events.

  Anjea bowed her head, the soft folds of skin below her eyes and at her neck the only indication of her true age.

  “You may release him now,” she said,
gesturing I should let Marcel go.

  “Why should I do that?” I asked, knowing Marcel wouldn’t have hesitated to take my head off my shoulders, were the situation reversed.

  “What does your heart tell you to do?” she asked, looking deep into my eyes, almost as if she were trying to read my mind.

  I’d only had limited dealings with the Goddess, but even in the little time I’d spent with her, she’d proved herself to be wise and selfless. I tried to do as she asked, tried to listen to what my heart was telling me, but it was so hard to hear its voice when my brain was screaming at me that this was the man who’d murdered my father.

  I drew a shaky breath.

  What did my heart say?

  My heart said I just wanted to be left alone to do my job in peace.

  I hesitated a moment longer, feeling the power of the blade as it sang to me, begging me to take Marcel’s lifeblood, but then I did as Anjea asked, lifting the blade from Marcel’s throat.

  He scuttled away from me on all fours like a retreating crab. When he was clear of my reach, he lifted his hand to probe his wounded neck, his fingers coming away bloodied. I expected him to shoot me a nasty, hate-filled look, but, instead, I was surprised to find him appraising me, a newfound respect in his eyes.

  “You were right, after all,” he said to Anjea, his voice full of wonder. “She is the balance.”

  “The balance?” Jarvis and I both said at the same time.

  “It was divined at your birth that your existence would herald the beginning of the next Golden Age,” Anjea said. “This was why your mother was convinced to give you up, though she was despondent over it. It was for your own protection.”

  I’d only recently learned the woman who’d raised me wasn’t my real mother. It’d explained a lot about my personality, why I didn’t quite fit in with my family, and why my sisters and I were so different. It was kind of a relief to know I wasn’t the black sheep of the family, that there was someone more like me out there. Still, it’d been tough to reconcile all the years I’d spent without my real mother in my life.

  “She really wanted me?” I asked Anjea, unable to help myself.