Be the Death of Me

by Rebecca Harris

  He returns to his plush office chair. “No doubt you’re already aware that Foster can often be . . .”

  Challenging? Beautiful? Everything I could ever want?

  “. . . a pain in the ass. Particularly when it comes to taking orders,” he continues with a slight grimace. “I’ve already spoken to her about the importance of this assignment. Clearly, it has gone in one ear and out the other. Which is why,” he says, folding his hands on his desk, “you and I need to work together on this.”

  “Work together?” I stammer after a minute of silence. “I thought we . . . I mean, we are working together, sir. I’m a Guardian now.”

  “Calm down, Tucker,” he holds up a hand for silence. “I’m not questioning your devotion to the job. I’m merely asking for a favor.”

  “Sure,” I tell him, hoping I don’t sound overly eager. “Anything. Just name it.”

  “You’ve already stumbled across what is certainly the strangest occurrence I’ve heard of in my time as head of this department. Rest assured I will be personally looking into the situation.”

  He clears his throat and gingerly fingers the snow white flower petals sticking out the top of his shirt pocket. “It’s one of the reasons I feel now is the best time to speak to you about what I think is a very serious matter. I never would have given Foster this assignment had I known the difficulties you two would be facing. Trouble seems to follow her without encouragement, and here it seems I’ve unknowingly added fuel to the fire.

  “You see, when the higher–ups of this organization asked me to recommend someone for promotion, I thought of you for two reasons. The first being that having someone from Sacrifice working as a Guardian would put the odds of success drastically in our favor. Surely you can understand how your specific talents might be of use in this line of work.

  “Secondly,” he continues without waiting for a reply. His eyes are so shaded, so dark they look almost black. “Certain people may lead you to believe that I am some sort of an unrelenting dictator, but I know my Guardians better than my superiors could ever dream. I know every agent, every file and history like the back of my hand. Which is why, through Foster, I now know you.”

  I don’t speak, just continue staring wordlessly at the man from whom there are no secrets.

  “You and I are very much alike, Mr. Reid. It may not seem like it now, but I was quite similar to you when I was young. Dependable. Determined. Loyal to the point of self–destruction. So I understand what she means to you.” His gruff voice has turned surprisingly gentle. “I understand that your relationship with her goes deeper than she realizes. You care for her well–being, and as such, her success. So I am asking you, Tucker, man–to–man, to do everything in your power to make sure this assignment ends well. Regardless of my, dare I say, volatile relationship with Foster, I cannot afford to lose a member of my team.”

  My ears perk at his choice of words. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, ‘lose a member of your team?’” I ask, resting my elbows on the tops of my legs. “Is something going to happen to Billie?”

  He remains silent.

  “Tell me!”

  This time he doesn’t hesitate.

  “They’ll take her.”

  There it is. The worst reply I could possibly imagine. There isn’t much to be frightened of once the worst has happened to a person. Yet the dead have only one worry in the afterlife, one fear. Being taken. The horror of it sticks in my throat with a staleness that captures my tongue. The thought of it happening to Billie makes me sick. I’m forced to turn away, feeling the muscles in my neck strain with the effort to remain calm.

  `“They can’t do that,” I growl through clenched teeth.

  “They can,” he says calmly. “And they will.”

  I’m out of my chair, pacing from one side of the room to the other in a matter of seconds. “How can you let that happen?” I shout, slamming my hand against the nearest wall. “She’s a Guardian! She’s one of you! You would just let them take her?”

  “I have no say in the matter,” he says, showing the smallest sign of genuine regret. “She’s squandered both her and our time by not taking her job seriously. Lives have been lost due to her recklessness and lack of attention, and as a result, there are many who feel she’s run out of chances. However, nothing is set in stone. If Foster takes this assignment seriously and behaves like a Guardian should, I doubt we’ll have anything to worry about.”

  I turn and start toward the door. “In fact, I’m pleased you feel this way,” he calls to my hastily retreating back. “Your fear of losing her can stop the worst from happening!”

  I’m gone before he has a chance to stop me, the echo of his words crashing around my ears like thunder as I run from the room.

  Billie

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask for what’s probably the twentieth time in ten minutes. “Because you don’t look okay.”

  “I’m fine, Billie. Stop asking.”

  Liar. I’m the absolute worst at reading–or caring in most cases–about others’ feelings, but even I can tell he’s far from fine. For starters, he refuses to look at me. His eyes haven’t drifted my way once since he practically tore out of the Captain’s office, running like a fugitive from justice.

  I try smiling. Smiles are contagious, or at least that’s what they tell me. Mine, however, has no effect on him. He seems impervious to my womanly charms.

  I’m not sure how I feel about that.

  “So,” I say as the silver, uber–reflective elevator doors open and we step inside. “Back to casa de Benedict?”

  He doesn’t answer, buried in his thoughts, lost to whatever battle is raging inside his head.

  “Hello? Earth to Tuck?” I croon, trying out the nickname.

  A face turns to look at me, but it isn’t his. It’s the face of a ghost, the ghost of a ghost. Torn, angry, frightened, it scares me more than I would have thought possible.

  It takes only an instant for him to see his own emotions mirrored in my eyes, and with a quick shake of his straw covered head, he’s back, free from care and fueled by reckless bravado.

  “Sorry,” he apologizes, lips pulling into a grin. “What were you saying?”

  Whatever was troubling him seems to have passed. Mr. Hyde is gone, and I’m left to try and figure out the Jekyll present. “I asked if we’re heading back to Mr. Ford’s house.”

  “Mr. Ford?” he laughs gently. “When did you turn into a middle–aged insurance salesman?”

  “Around the same time you temporarily lost your mind.”

  “I didn’t lose my mind,” he saays, pushing the already lit call button for the ground floor. “But to answer your question, yes. We’re heading back.”

  “Good,” I say after a minute of listening to nothing but the soft hum of the elevator as it carries us dirt–side. I’ve never understood, even after all these years, how the dead are capable of invisibility, walking through walls, protecting the living, basically reveling in the wonder of being all–powerful, and yet we still cannot build an express elevator. “So let me ask you something.”

  Tuck turns his shaggy head to look down at me. “Shoot,” he says.

  “You and I went to the same high school.”

  “That’s not a question.”

  “I’m aware,” I cut back in. “My question is, and please don’t take this the wrong way, but if we went to the same school, why don’t I remember you?”

  A bitter laugh bubbles its way up his throat. “We didn’t exactly run in the same circles.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you were popular, and I wasn’t.”

  Maybe it’s the blunt force with which he says it, but his words force me to cringe. He’s not telling me anything that isn’t true, but it still makes me twist and ache with discomfort.

  “We met a couple of times,” he goes on with an odd rumble in his throat. “You even talked to me once. Freshman year. You . . .”

  “I what?
” I say, genuinely curious. I can’t explain it but I feel as though I have to know.

  “I wasn’t having the best day,” he answers. “Some older kids from the wrestling team were messing with me, kicking my backpack around the hallway, playing keep away. And you just . . . appeared. You were small, even then. Couldn’t have weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet, and you walked right up to one of them and demanded they give my stuff back.”

  I stare up at him, but he’s lost in his memories, not seeing what’s around him.

  “I couldn’t believe it,” he laughs. “I don’t think they could either. But there you were, twigs for legs, a blue ribbon in your hair, and the most frightening scowl of righteous fury I’ve ever seen.” He pauses for a moment to smile. “They didn’t stand a chance.”

  Even I’m not heartless enough to tell him what I’m really thinking. That I don’t remember any of this. That the ribbon and the scowl and the story he’s clearly held onto don’t register. “Then what happened?” I ask, my own story a mystery to me.

  He buries his disappointment. “They gave me back my bag, and you and I went our separate ways.”

  “Separate ways? Why didn’t you try to talk to me?”

  “Come on, Billie. You know why.”

  I do. Freshman year was when I discovered the benefits of makeup and padded undergarments. I was quick to learn the art of social climbing, and my looks were a one way pass to the top of the ladder. That brief moment with Tuck was probably no more than a last ditch attempt at redemption, to prove to myself that I hadn’t already sold my soul for popularity. I doubt it mattered in the grand scheme of things. It was probably too late for me anyway.

  It’s funny. Looking back, none of it seems to matter now, those moments of yearning, craving to belong with people I thought mattered. No more fragments of glass, pieces of a broken mirror you can’t put back together and wouldn’t want to even if you could.

  My voice is no more than a whisper. “Was I . . . you know . . . ?”

  “No,” he looks me in the eye, somehow reading my thoughts. “No, you weren’t cruel to me. That would have required you to notice me, and you didn’t. You just . . . didn’t see me.”

  Without warning, I’m suddenly pushed beneath a sea of an emotion I haven’t experienced in years, buffeted against inescapable, smothering waves of guilt. I don’t take my eyes from his as I say the only words that need to be said.

  “I’m sorry,” I offer with a small shrug.

  The corners of his eyes crinkle with a grin, and I notice for the first time that the identical circles of hazel are enclosed by matching bands of shamrock green. “I thought you hated fake apologies,” he says.

  I smile back. “Who says I’m being fake?”

  I stare up into his face, so earnest, so eager. His mouth pulls into a smile, and I find myself studying his bottom lip. It’s fuller than its top counterpart, and for an insane, fleeting second, I wonder what it tastes like. God, I miss taste.

  The elevator comes to a halt, jarring noiselessly under our feet, breaking whatever strange connection was present only a moment before.

  “Onward?” he asks as we wait for the doors to open.

  I nod. “What’s the plan? We’re just going to talk to the guy? Play a little good cop, bad cop?”

  “I guess that’s our only option,” Tuck replies, sighing. “I can’t imagine what’s going through his head right now. He probably thinks he’s going crazy.”

  “That could actually work for us,” I suggest. “He can’t be in danger if he’s locked in padded cell, right?”

  He chuckles softly to himself. “Don’t be ridiculous. Let’s at least talk to him first before having him committed, okay? You never know. It’s been a few days. Maybe he’s forgotten the whole thing already.”

  “Yeah, that seems likely.”

  “Ok, maybe not. One question though,” he says as the doors finally slide open, releasing us from confinement. “Can I be the bad cop?”

  I take the end of his silk necktie between my fingers and lead him outside, a puppy on a leash. “Now who’s being ridiculous?”

  Benedict Ford

  Axe?

  Check.

  Mace?

  Check

  Crucifix?

  Check.

  I’m ready; physically, emotionally, mentally equipped. The darkness is my friend, the night, my closest ally. I’m Batman, Bond, and that guy from the Matrix all crammed into the body of a wiry, sleep–deprived seventeen year old. My senses are set to vigilant, finely tuned, my mind operating on all cylinders. I feel more awake, more alert than I have in years. I don’t know what I’m fighting against–thieves, murderers, spawn of Satan–so I’ve prepared myself in every way conceivable. I shudder as I remember the way they vanished, fading into the blackness like nightmares.

  Short, bark–like snores can be heard issuing from downstairs. It doesn’t sound like Gran had any trouble sleeping in spite of her alarm at the considerable amount of armory I spent the last few days carrying up to my room.

  “What are you doing with Frank’s hunting equipment?” she’d asked, referring to her deceased third husband’s old compound bow, and the twenty or so fiber–glass arrows I was busy dragging across the living room rug.

  “Nothing, Gran!” I’d shouted, hurrying the stairs, the bundle of old–fashioned weaponry and religious paraphernalia slipping from my arms.

  And now I wait. They’ll show up sooner or later, I know they will, hoping to surprise me, to catch me off guard. It’s been days. They probably think they’re clever, coming days later, waiting until I’ve let my guard down, when I’m in bed and they think I’ll be asleep. Well, who’s laughing now, huh? Let’s see what happens when they try to sneak up on me this time.

  The hours slip past, creeping by without end. Every minute feels like an hour, every hour like a day. My eyes become heavy and sore, each blink longer than the one previous. A tree branch scrapes angrily against my window, and through the darkness an owl hoots in impatience.

  “I know what you mean, buddy,” I agree, crossing my arms over my chest and pressing myself into a sitting position against the headboard. The twelve cups of coffee must be wearing off. Still, I refuse to let my eyes close for even a minute. I can’t sleep. I can’t! Who knows what will happen if I do?

  Don’t fall asleep.

  I begin repeating the words over and over again in my head, a mantra against the drowsiness.

  Don’t fall asleep. Don’t fall asleep. Don’t fall . . . asleep. Don’t fall . . . asleep. Don’t . . . fall asleep. Don’t . . . fall . . .

  “Will you look at this place? It looks like the prop room for Gladiator.”

  “You know how the living can be when they’re scared, Billie. He obviously panicked.”

  “Yeah, but where did he even find a battle axe?”

  I jolt awake, banging my elbow painfully against the nightstand. It teeters into the strategically placed wall of weapons I’d spent all night positioning around the mattress, knocking them over one by one like a row of deadly dominoes. They clatter noisily to the floor. My hand grasps frantically for the kitchen knife stashed under my pillow. The blade slices through my skin, and I drop it to the floor with a pained cry. With my fortress of artillery overturned, and my hand cut and bleeding, I reach for the only option I have left at my disposal.

  I lunge for the crucifix hanging over my bed, tearing it from the wall and brandishing it at the glowing figures like a sword.

  “Who are you?” I gasp, eyes bloodshot and unblinking. I climb to my feet, standing over my mattress like Quasimodo defending Notre Dame. “What are you doing here? What do you want? Answer me!”

  “Whoa, easy man,” the male intruder says. He doesn’t so much as flinch at my threatening stance. “Just calm down, okay? And quit waving that thing around before you hurt yourself.”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down!” I swing the heavy, wooden crucifix in front of me in an arc, daring them to come closer.
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  A second later, as if acting on its own accord, the cross tears itself from my hand, shooting out of my grasp and soaring across the room where it lands with a soft plop atop a heap of dirty laundry by the closet door. I stare at the spot where my makeshift weapon has landed. I certainly hadn’t meant to throw it. Maybe it was an adrenaline rush.

  “Whoa!” his blonde comrade breathes in surprise. “Holy hell, Tuck! What was that?” A look of strange realization flickers across her face. “That’s it! That’s what you can do! I’m right, aren’t I?” I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I have to admit, if I ever was going to be assaulted, I definitely wouldn’t mind it being attacked by this creature in front of me. She’s wearing the same outfit she wore the last time I saw her, a t–shirt and a pair of great fitting jeans. Her blonde hair is almost white, shimmering like water around her neck and shoulders.

  Her friend turns to look down at her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he winks.

  “HELLLLOOOO!” I shout, drawing their attention. “I don’t mean to interrupt here, but who the hell are you?” I force myself to focus on something other than the goddess in front of me. I whirl on the boy, feeling certain I can control my thoughts around him.

  He takes a gradual, though deliberate step in my direction. Even though I’m unarmed, he holds his palms in front of him like a police negotiator. “My name is Tucker,” he begins slowly. “This is Billie.” He nods his head at the girl. “I need you to calm down. We’re not here to hurt you, I promise. We’re Guardians.”

  “I’m a Guardian,” the pretty blonde mutters under her breath.

  They may as well be speaking another language. Guardians? The word means less than nothing to me. “I don’t care who you are! Just get out!” I shout.

  “Then why did you ask?” The one named Billie rolls her eyes and sighs in exasperation. “Seems a little stupid to ask a question you don’t want to know the answer to.”

  “Billie, please don’t make this worse,” her towering friend whispers, glancing back at her.