Touched by Death

by T. L. Martin

  “Why do you keep putting an ad out if you don’t want the help?” A small, disorganized stack of newspaper articles on the carpeted floor catch my eye, and I lean down to take a peek. The images are in black and white, and the edges are worn, frayed.

  “Not that I owe you an explanation,” he grunts, “but I don’t keep doing anything. Some of the people in this town think they know me and what I need, and they won’t stop with the bullshit ads. Not lucid, my ass.” He mumbled the last line, but I heard it loud and clear.

  “Look, Mr. Blackwood,” I call, straightening and craning my neck to peek into the next room. “I’m not looking for a friend. I just need the work. I’ll do what I’m being hired for, but otherwise . . . I keep to myself, you keep to yours.”

  He staggers back into the living room. He’s got another bottle of whiskey now, but he doesn’t bother to use a glass this time. Just takes a swig straight out of the bottle and walks toward me. “Well, isn’t that consider—” He finally takes a second to look at me, his wrinkled forehead crinkling deeper and tired, hazel eyes narrowing as though he’d just caught me in a lie. “What’d you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t.”

  He shakes his head and quietly barks, “Dammit, what’s your name, child?”

  I cross my arms over my chest in reflex, as though the movement will somehow make me seem stronger. “Lou . . . Tallulah Adaire.”

  He watches me for another minute with skeptical eyes, then eventually rubs a hand over his untrimmed beard and swivels around. He’s stumbling away again—this time, toward a set of stairs on the far-right corner—and I notice a limp in his step. He doesn’t seem to mind, seeing as he’s left his cane behind.

  I roll my eyes. Well, it’s been pleasant, but that must be my cue to leave. I spin on my heel and reach for the doorknob when I hear his garbled voice. “Housekeeping. Tomorrow, be here nine o’clock sharp for details. One slip and you’re out.”

  When I turn back to question, he’s already disappeared up the stairs. I’m not inclined to go after him for answers, so I step out into the brisk air and head toward the road, wondering what just happened.

  Whatever his problem is, though, it doesn’t bother me as much as I let on. Maybe it should. I know I’m selfish for this, but it’s oddly comforting to find another person in this town who’s got issues.

  I swear something flickered in his eyes when he finally looked at me. Could he have known Grams?

  The possibility alone makes my heart swell. I’ve seen enough pictures of her younger self to know how much we look alike: identical large brown eyes and fair skin, the same heart-shaped face, and we’re both above average in height. The only major difference is our hair color, hers being almost black, while my lighter, honey-brown strands come from Dad’s side of the family.

  Still, even with our obvious resemblance, the chances of him having been close to Grams are slim. We had just celebrated her ninetieth birthday the month before her passing, and Mr. Blackwood only appears to be around seventy, possibly late sixties. That’s a pretty big age gap.

  Regardless, I didn’t come here to pry into her past. I just wanted . . . Well, I suppose I didn’t really know what I wanted, what I expected to gain out of moving here. Comfort, perhaps? Some sort of closure?

  Maybe I just needed someplace to run to.

  Chapter 7

  The skies have cast a dark blanket over the town, and the temperature has dropped enough that my lips feel numb. A sharp breeze teases strands of my hair. This skinny road is nestled beneath a tower of trees on each side, their naked branches looming over me. I lift the scarf above my chin and pick up my pace toward the inn.

  It’s faint at first, the whisper of warmth that brushes over the back of my neck.

  When my skin starts to tingle, the heat building up behind me, I slow my steps. Just a few seconds later and I can feel it completely, the presence I’m growing more familiar with, and I come to a halt. I’m shivering slightly in the cold, itching for the coziness of my room, but I can’t seem to get my legs to take another step.

  The heat behind me brushes closer until I can almost feel his body against mine. His build blocks most of the wind, and his warmth has my muscles relaxing from the frigid breeze. I want to melt into him so I can feel safe and sound, let the impossible heat he radiates relieve me of the evening’s chill. But of course that’s crazy. He’s a stranger. A ghost. A . . . I have no idea what he is, and that might be what terrifies me most.

  Slowly, I turn my head. Despite knowing I can’t physically see him, I need to face him anyway. It’s killing me, moving so slowly, but I’m afraid he might disappear again before I get any answers. Or am I afraid to discover he isn’t real? I can already glimpse him from the corner of my eye, and the fact makes my breath catch in my throat. Holy freaking fiddle sticks, I can see him.

  He’s taller than I thought, maybe 6’4”, with thick, slightly wild, dark brown hair. By the time I’ve unfrozen my legs and managed to turn the rest of my body around, my throat’s gone dry and I can’t take my eyes off him. With chiseled cheekbones, a prominent jaw, and nothing but taut, sculpted muscles beneath his fitted black T-shirt . . . he is all man. How he is not freezing in nothing but a T-shirt and jeans is beyond me. My gaze lazily wanders back up to his face. I swear my heart stops when I look right into his eyes, and I hear my own gasp.

  Dark pools of grey and black fill the irises.

  I’ve seen those eyes before. Except this time, there’s no hint of the green I’d glimpsed then. No hint of color at all. Only darkness.

  He stares downward, watching me just as intently as I’m watching him—perhaps even more so. His eyes are impossibly hard, a mixture of ice and steel, and I don’t see how the hands that touched me so delicately before could belong to the same person.

  At 5’8”, every bit of a size seven in women’s clothing, and with an athletic frame formed from twelve years of volleyball, I’ve never been considered a petite or fragile girl. But right now, standing beside his imposing build, I certainly feel like I’m both of those things.

  I squint, trying to focus, but the outline of his frame begins to blur. Am I seeing this right? The edges of his shoulders, his hair, they’re wavering, blending in with the shadows of the night. His eyes narrow as he watches me, then his gaze follows my own. The moment he notices his flickering form, his face twists into something fierce and, before I realize what’s happening, he’s gripping my arms and shoving me backward. Just when I think my back’s about to slam into a tree, he controls his movements enough to gentle the impact into something I hardly notice at all.

  I’m sandwiched between the sturdy frame of his body and the tree, with his arms on either side of me, blocking me in. My breaths are ragged, and my cheeks are burning hot with the adrenaline coursing through me. He’s both tall and broad enough that the only thing in my line of sight is his chest.

  The heavy, uneven sound of his breathing is coming from above my head. It quiets, like he’s struggling to get it under control, and he doesn’t move a muscle for what feels like an eternity. With his hands planted on the tree, he backs away from me, breaking contact between our clothes yet still close enough to feel his warmth, his invisible grip on me.

  When I look up, my eyes skimming his shoulders and hair, he’s not blending in with the background anymore. Just like the night of my accident, I find myself wondering . . . is he solid enough to touch?

  Without thinking, I reach up and graze his wide shoulders, just above his collarbone. My fingers tremble against him. His body heat seeps through the fabric of his shirt like it’s not even there, zipping through my fingertips and down my chest, until it warms the pit of my stomach like bourbon. Something white and rough on his skin catches my eye, poking out about half an inch from the top edge of his T-shirt. A scar. It looks so much like mine, reminding me of the other night, when he touched it. Touched me. It’s just below his collarbone, and I lightly run my thumb across it.

  His enti
re body stiffens, from his shoulders to his legs, and his Adam’s apple bobs once in his throat.

  It’s not much, but it’s the first real sign of vulnerability I’ve seen.

  My hands look so small and delicate on him. I realize I’m lingering a little longer than I’d intended, and I snap my fingers away. Eventually, I look back up into those steel eyes.

  “Who . . . what are you?” I whisper.

  He doesn’t speak for a long while, and I wonder if he even can. He’s never said a word to me before. Then again, I’ve never spoken to him until now either.

  “I think you know.” His voice is a low, quiet hum, but there’s a rough, husky tone to it that leisurely travels down my spine.

  I think I do, too, but it doesn’t make sense. “I saw you . . . that night in the lake.”

  He says nothing, his eyes roaming over my face, but I know I’m right. It is him.

  “Are you an . . .” I want to say angel, it’s at the tip of my tongue, but something about his eyes stops me. So cold. Empty.

  As though reading my mind, he gives a small, steady shake of his head. “I’m no angel.”

  The way he says it, deep and slow . . . the hints of truth tinged with darkness behind his voice, it makes my breath shake. He’s so quiet I can’t tell if he’s even breathing, but I can see the clench of his jaw, the tightening of his muscles rippling from his arms to the defined lines of his stomach.

  An angel he certainly is not. I can’t say where it comes from, but somehow, I know. I know what he is.

  “Death.” The word floats out of my mouth like a puff of air, drifting in the wind so softly I hardly hear it.

  A quiver runs through the tightness of his chest as he watches me take it in, his heavy silence speaking louder than anything words could say. I’m trying to get my voice to work so I can ask what it means, what he wants from me, when the hard outlines of his body fade. This time, he drops his arms from either side of me.

  That’s all it takes for the icy wind to return, hitting my skin like daggers and serving as a harsh reminder of where I am. I start to reach out to him, not sure why I’m missing his warmth, his touch, only that I am. He takes a step back, leaving me shivering.

  The more he distances himself, the more he seems to fade. Until, suddenly, he’s gone.

  It burns. It cuts. Like fangs, it bites into these wrists that are not mine.

  But still, my hands tug relentlessly against the rope that binds them, yanking and writhing until warm blood trickles down my fingers.

  The screams, they won’t stop. The tortured sounds pierce through the hall, up the stairs, and into the shadows of this pitch-black closet, straight into my ears. Fear and rage consume me until any other sense of emotion runs numb. The fear is for little Tommy, but the rage . . . oh, the rage is for the monster.

  Rip.

  My hands break free. I don’t stop to look at the bloody mess they’ve become; I can’t even feel the pain anymore. I tear at the rope tying my ankles together then slam my body against the door, knocking it open on the second hit.

  It’s easy to follow the screams, even though they’ve become more like whimpers now. They lead me to the kitchen, where the monster has little Tommy tied to a chair, arms bound behind him, head hanging low. Even though Tommy’s almost ten years old now, he looks so much smaller like this. Too small.

  The monster has a knife. It’s pressed against Tommy’s right arm, slicing a shallow line through his skin. It’s not the first cut tonight, either. Fresh slices line his left arm. Blood, red, so red, slides down his arms, drip drip, and onto the ground.

  I don’t pause to think before I reach down to untuck the pocket knife from my right boot. It’s not there. Goddammit. The fucker must have snagged it after knocking me out earlier. I take advantage of being unnoticed as I scan the room, searching for a substitute weapon, and contemplate the most efficient form of attack.

  “What’s the problem?” the monster sneers, grabbing ahold of Tommy’s brown hair and yanking it back until their eyes are forced to lock. “Thought you’d like this. Ain’t you boys attention whores like your mom?” He shoves Tommy’s head before releasing it, then smirks. “Guess you can’t help it, huh? It’s in your DNA, built in from the smug Italian blood she gave you. Wonder what she’s gonna think of your new tattoos.”

  A fiery heat blazes behind my eyes at the sight. It boils and burns, flames coursing down my throat, past my chest, until scorching fire fuels every inch of me.

  He. Will. Burn. For. This.

  And I won’t wait for the Devil to make sure of it.

  Body shaking, I gasp for air. Confusing images flood my mind, dreams clashing with reality, drowning me to the point I can’t breathe. My hands claw at my throat.

  Blood . . . red, red, so much red. The bathroom tiles, they swim in it. Dad. His body, so limp, so lifeless. The gun, it still touches his partially curled fingers. His heart, it’s bleeding. Really bleeding, just like he always said it was. Those nights I’d find him shivering, when he’d stir and cry out in his sleep. He always said his heart had been cut open. He always said it bled raw without her. And now, right before my eyes, it did.

  Daddy, no! My eight-year-old self couldn’t comprehend it then, and my twenty-two-year-old self can’t comprehend it now. What did you do? What have you done, Daddy? Please, don’t leave me. Please, come back for me . . .

  But he doesn’t answer.

  Of course he doesn’t.

  Because he’s drowning in red.

  Chapter 8

  I’m still in bed when the room’s alarm clock blares in my ears. My skin’s damp, eyes wide as I stare mindlessly at the white ceiling. I can still feel the fire running through my veins—hot, burning flames of rage mixed with despair. Rage toward the monster in my dreams; the devil I wanted to make suffer just as much as those boys did. And despair . . . despair from the unwelcome memories of Dad that came racing back without warning.

  The temptation of sleep wove in and out throughout the night, trying to corner me in my own mind and lull me away. I couldn’t do it, though. Couldn’t close my eyes. What if I saw red again? What if that’s all it takes to bring Dad’s lifeless gaze back into view?

  So I just lay here. Looking at the vast expanse of white above me. People think it’s a bright and hopeful color, white. A promise of fulfillment. What they don’t realize is it’s a trick. A trap. It lures you in so effortlessly, and once it gets you, that’s when you see the truth. It’s just as empty as the rest of us.

  Maybe that’s why I usually prefer to bury myself beneath the blankets, surround myself in black. At least with black, you know what you’re getting from the start.

  I don’t know when it happens, but eventually, my mind wanders away from last night until it finds its way back to him.

  Death.

  A shudder ripples through me, shooting from my fingers to my toes and making my heart rate pick up at just the thought of his steel eyes boring into mine. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make sense of the reactions he pulls from me. It doesn’t matter that he let me go that night in the lake, something still draws me to him, a subtle force tugging at my soul. It’s not logical, not sound, yet it’s there all the same.

  Questions and theories burst through my mind, one after another, until it feels as if my head will explode. Of course the loudest voice of all is screaming, You’re losing your freaking mind, Lou! but I prefer to ignore that one.

  How could I see him yesterday, while other times I only heard or felt him? How does he just appear like that in the first place? And, more importantly, why? Also, that scar . . . I’d only glimpsed a small part of it, but how in the world would Death himself have a scar? I wouldn’t have thought someone like him could be marked in such a way.

  Then again, I’d never have thought someone like him could have existed in the first place.

  I kick off the covers, rising from the bed in a zombie-like fashion. I’m eying the room suspiciously when I walk to the bathroom
, as though maybe if I narrow my eyes enough I’ll be able to see him. It doesn’t matter that I know he’s not here, that I can’t feel the heat he radiates; I have to believe I have some sort of control in all this, even if it’s from something dumb like squinting my eyes until I can hardly see.

  I’m on autopilot while I freshen up for my first day with Mr. Blackwood. I slip on a pair of jeans and a loose sweatshirt, then tug my boots over my ankles and give my hair a quick brush through. My face looks like something out of The Walking Dead from such a rough night, but I don’t care enough to try covering it up with makeup.

  Claire’s face is hidden by a curtain of blonde hair when I descend the steps. She’s hunched forward, using a manicured finger to scroll through her pink-cased iPhone. It’s because of her I’m on my way to work right now, and I figure the least I can do is be more considerate than I have been. Besides, the clock hanging on the wall behind her tells me I still have fifteen minutes to kill before I need to start walking.

  I stop when I reach her, resting a hip against the desk’s faded oak. I’m just about to greet her when I hear a sniff and she brings a tissue to her nose. If not for my own unfortunate bonding experiences with crying lately, I would’ve brushed it off as a cold.

  “Claire?”

  Her whole body jolts at the sound of my voice. “Lou!” Her face brightens when she spots me, but her nose is tinted pink and her eyes are swollen. “Good morning. I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

  There’s something wrong and unnatural about seeing innocent blue eyes gleam with repressed tears, and it makes my stomach drop. I want to ask what happened, but I don’t. I won’t pretend it’s my business, force her to address it with me, or make her uncomfortable. Instead, I offer a small smile and keep my voice soft. “Don’t worry about it. I haven’t been here long.”

  Her lips curve, but the smile doesn’t match her eyes. “It’s great seeing you up and about so early.”