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Death is a Bitch
Copyright © 2012 by Cate Masters
ISBN: 978-1-61333-344-0
Cover art by LFD Designs
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
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Death is a Bitch
By
Cate Masters
~DEDICATION~
For Gary, always
Chapter One
Azrael gripped the podium and stared out at the immortals seated in the Hall of Ancients. He should have chosen a less imposing forum, one without the gigantic statues lining the walls looking ready for battle, and the sound system that projected his voice into infinity. He didn’t want them to view it as a formal gathering. Get on with it. “I called you here to introduce myself.”
Muffled titters sounded, and more than a few of the several hundred before him exchanged confused glances. Some shifted their wings in impatience.
Like you haven’t worked with them, beside them, for eons? “Of course, you already know me as the Patron Angel of Dying and the Dead, but now I’m officially director of the Department of Death and Dying.” It had only taken a few millennia. “I know you have pressing duties, so I’ll get to the point.”
He caught the eye of Death herself. Stunning, as always. And that gown…black as night, shimmering, conforming to her curves…. Stay on track. “I’m setting up individual meetings and you’ll receive word soon about your appointment. Thanks again for taking time from your busy schedules.”
Ugh. Awful. He’d have to improve his public speaking skills. He was much better one-on-one whispering comfort to grieving humans. His superiors would consider his lack of confidence a sign he wasn’t ready for this post, but he was. He’d been ready for centuries.
Death wasted no time. She rose and glided in the direction of the exit.
Hastening after her he called, “Death, may I see you?”
She stepped from the flow of the retreating crowd, lips pressed together. “Of course.”
Hm, not easily impressed. A good thing. He caught up to her. “I won’t keep you long.”
Her nod had a hurry up and spill it urgency.
“You’re top on the list of employees I want to meet with sooner rather than later.”
She squared her shoulders. “Why’s that?”
“I’d like to discuss your routine.” When her brows furrowed, he added, “I’ve long admired your work ethic. Very impressive record. But we need to adjust your methods.” Oh drat, it sounded like an indictment against her, not at all what he intended.
She pinned him with her intense gaze. Her caramel skin, smooth and luscious, set off her wide-set, almond-shaped eyes with irises black as obsidian. Staring into those eyes, some said they could see eternity. Azrael imagined it would take more than an eternity to learn everything he wanted to know about her.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t phrase it that way.”
“How would you phrase it?” She straightened to her full height. Tall—no, statuesque—but the perfect height for him. If he eased closer, slipped his arm around her….
He cleared his throat. “I have some ideas I’d like you to implement. To maximize efficiency.”
“I’m one of the most efficient and professional employees you have, sir.” Her emphasis on employees made him realize he’d unintentionally insulted her.
“Please, call me Azrael.” Ugh, that sounded smarmy. By her frown, she thought so, too. All he wanted to do was make her job easier. She’d always worked alone and almost never took a break. Certainly never a vacation. Bet she’s jaw-dropping in a bikini. On a deserted beach, the sun dipping low…his hand on her back doing the same….
“I really must go.”
“Great. I’ll be in touch.” He mentally winced. “I mean, I’ll send word about that meeting.”
She nodded, then practically fled.
Another thing he needed practice with: females.
***
Outside the forum, Hypnos fell in step with Death. “What was that about?” Death’s sister always sensed when something was amiss. Maybe the haze of sleep she spread to mortals gave her additional perception, or maybe because they were twins.
“No idea.”
Her sister nudged her. “Looked like he was trying to get cozy with you.”
“Are you kidding? He did nothing but insult me.” Maximize efficiency. Argh!
Hypnos smirked. “His body language said the opposite. He wants you.”
“More like he wants to replace me.” She glanced back at the exit. Everyone else had split. Azrael lingered in the archway, looking in her direction. He can’t be watching me. Hynos was always imagining flirtations where none existed.
“Bet you a mojito.”
“You’re on.” It had been too long since they’d gone to the bar. “Are you busy later? I could use a drink.” One little break wouldn’t hurt. Death wished she could trust others to fill in, but the two times she’d delegated to others ended in disaster. Tricked by King Sisyphus millennia ago during a blink of a break, and ensnared in his trap, she still suffered the sting of others’ jokes about it.
Hypnos yawned. “I’m always busy, same as you. But let’s meet at the Nethers anyway.”
“Great. I have to get going.”
“See you in a bit. Don’t stand me up.”
With a wave, Death flew off. “I won’t.” How pathetic. Sisters shouldn’t depend on one another for dates, but Type A personalities apparently were genetically encoded in their family, leaving little time for socializing.
Too bad Hypnos’s impression fell so far off the mark about Azrael. Oh yes, he wa
s strikingly handsome. Appearance-wise, Azrael was an archangel beyond Michelangelo’s wildest imagination, an immortal who’d captured her attention on many an occasion, yet he always acted so stiff and formal. It put her on edge. Their little tete-a-tete, brief as it was, left her more confused about him than ever. Her pulse had raced when he called her name, but the conversation had left her deflated.
Adjust her methods. Argh!
***
Death stepped from the shadowy curtain of night along a deserted stretch of road and headed for the mangled hunk of cherry-red metal that used to be a sweet Z240 sports car. Stardust glinted in the black hair that dipped to her waist.
She kept a safe distance from the wreck. Inside, a thirtyish man slumped behind the wheel, the air bag deflating away from his near-lifeless body. Blood oozed from a nasty gash to his head. Should have worn his seat belt. Too late for life lessons, though. Those weren’t her expertise anyway. Just the opposite.
Leaves crackled in the underbrush beyond the nearby trees. Death gripped the silver charm bracelet on her wrist, her senses on high alert. Her finger poised near the hidden latch, ready to release a stream of lightning.
A deer. It stilled, its wide eyes fixed on her.
Seeing nothing else, she continued with a modicum of caution. Taking souls didn’t exactly make her popular, and after so many millennia, she should’ve been used to it. The bad jokes. The Halloween parodies. A scythe? Please. She’d never used cheap props. Only the finest weaponry. No mortal ever suspected the intricately designed baubles adorning her bracelet were anything more than ornamental.
Moonlight gleamed off the curves of the sports car, and she ran a gilded nail along its hood. She wouldn’t mind taking one of these babies for a spin. In its former condition, of course, before this guy took the curve too fast and wrapped it around a tree. Humans always rushed everywhere, sometimes straight into her arms.
The man’s moan signaled she had no need for weapons. This one would give her no trouble. She fingered his blond hair, matted with blood. What a shame. So young, and so handsome. He’d leave at least one lover grieving, no doubt.
His eyes fluttered open. When he looked up, recognition intensified the flicker of life in his eyes.
She needed no introduction. They always knew her, unmistakable in the glimmering black filament gown, its folds revealing a glimpse into infinity.
The stilettos usually earned a second glance, the four-inch heels glistening like fool’s gold. The butterfly tattoo spanning her upper arm likewise drew curious looks, which inevitably changed to horror when the souls recognized the face imprinted within that colorful ink: their own.
Some were even glad to see her.
Not this one.
“No, please.” His whisper quaked like every other part of him, except his stare, reaching into her, seeking redemption. It wasn’t hers to give.
Such desperation. Much as she hated to, she had to break it to him. “It’s time.”
With a groan, he shifted, a futile attempt to get away. “But I’m about to make a killing on my IPO. Things are finally going right for me.”
That doused any sympathy she had. Money? Had he no better argument for staying alive? She had her own killing to make. “It’s not up to me.”
Shrinking away, he begged. “Please. Can’t we make a deal?”
Suppressing a groan, she folded her arms. “Oh no. You had to say it.” This one wouldn’t be so easy after all.
Intentionally or not, he’d summoned aid. Now there’d be a senseless debate, and with a full schedule ahead, she wasn’t up for what awaited.
Another sports car roared down the winding road, the Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil” blasting into the night. The brakes squealed as the car slid to a stop inches from her. A whiff of sulfur suffused the balmy night air.
She knew who sat behind the wheel. Musky cologne never masked his stench.
“Hello, Damien.” Normally she enjoyed running into him. Being one of the few creatures older than herself, he was also one of the few who could make her feel girlish.
Damien sauntered up to her. “So nice to see you, D. You’re looking fabulous, as always.”
She could say the same. Time immemorial hadn’t faded his chiseled features, or his washboard abs if that tight silky shirt gave any indication. Charcoal-colored, to match his pitch black eyes, they set off his layered black hair. Stubble lined his strong jaw.
Sending him a smile, she stepped between him and the wreck. “Always a pleasure. Except when you interfere with my work.”
Damien gave a mock frown. “Our work, sweet cheeks. And might I say they’re looking extra sweet tonight?” His tongue rimmed his grinning lips as he stared at her derriere.
False praise didn’t soften her. She arched a brow. “No, you may not. Let’s get on with it.”
“Have a heart. The victim — what’s your name again?” He eased around her to the car window as if speaking to an old friend. If this guy had any sense left at all, he’d never count Damien in that category.
Hope lit the doomed man’s face. “Alan. Alan Archer.”
Impatient, she folded her arms over her chest. Nice ploy. Humanize the soul so she’d feel sorry for him. Relating to the guy was out of the question.
Damien went on. “Alan, yes. He’s about to make a fortune.” Damien’s body clenched at the last word as if racked by an orgasm. Not that the demon had any need of money, but he did like to spend it lavishly while partying.
“I’m very happy for you, Alan.” She hated to continue when the guy looked so pathetic. “I hope you left a will so your loved ones can enjoy it.” She drummed golden fingernails along her upper arms. Not the tacky gold of drug store polish, but true ancient gold. A trick Cleopatra had taught her.
Damien snaked an arm around her waist. “Come on, D. We can come to some sort of arrangement. Right, Alan?”
“Arrangement?” Alan weakened by the moment. He was losing blood fast, and the silver thread connecting his soul to his body thinned to nearly invisible.
Chuckling, Damien continued. “Absolutely. Sign over your soul to me, and I’ll make certain you’re around a good long time to personally enjoy the fruits of your labors.”
Damien’s hand slipped a little low on her backside for comfort, so she smacked it away.
“Stop it, Damien.” A double-edged warning.
Hopefully, Alan would have more sense than to fall for it. But then, most had no clue of the proportion between their short life during which they’d enjoy their ill-gotten gains, and eternity, when they’d pay the price for them.
Damien gazed into the distance, looking almost angelic. Death knew better. Sure, the demon was always fun to flirt with, but piss him off and he’d morph into a fanged gargoyle, a two-story python coiled to strike, or a walking mass of rotted, stinking flesh. Whereas she didn’t go in for special effects, Damien loved them.
The demon leaned close to the dying man. “Imagine it, Alan. You lounging beside the pristine water of your infinity swimming pool in the back yard of your mansion. Beautiful women in every chaise, begging to apply more sun block to your back, your… whatever.”
“Yeah,” came Alan’s feeble reply as he looked off into the distance, no doubt seeing the scene as described. Great. Now there’d be no talking him out of it.
“Enough,” she told Damien, and reached for Alan. “It’s time.”
Damien grabbed her wrist. “Not so fast. Give him a second to make his decision. He has the right, remember.” His canines glinted as his smile turned predatory. His grasp loosened when she relaxed against him, making her aware of his growing erection, a whopper. One of his few assets. Not that she cared to avail herself of it.
With a sultry pout, she murmured, “Careful, Damien. You don’t want to rouse my wrath.” She pressed a metallic nail to his neck, leaving a trail of dark blood.
He sucked air through his teeth. Thrusting her away, he hissed a curse in an ancient tongue.
Eas
ily regaining her balance, she resisted a hiss herself. Such high theatrics. Typical. Most demons played it to the hilt.
“Don’t reveal your true self to Alan just yet, Damien. You’ll scare the poor boy away.” Metaphorically. Alan might expire before he had the chance to decide. Then they’d all be in for a protracted session with the High Court of Pre-Judgment. If people thought the legal system on Earth a mess, a glimpse at the otherworldly proceedings would make them more appreciative, though lawyers in both realms incited fury, even in her. Normally, she was cool as a corpse on a morgue slab.
Straightening his collar, Damien smoothed his hair and visibly calmed. All sweetness, he clenched his teeth. “As might you.”
Fuming, she waited a beat before answering. If eternity had taught her anything, it was to bide her time. “I’d hate for you to waste your precious time. Alan’s, mine.” She bared her shoulder to reveal the tattoo. True to form, it bore a perfect likeness to the near-deceased.
Damien’s eyes twitched as he glared. “It means nothing.”
“You argue with the Decree?” Of course, the image on her shoulder shifted with each mortal’s departure. Even now, new souls took shape in the tattoo, layering atop the old. Sometimes the tattoo felt like a curse, the weight of so many souls a burden too heavy to bear. But the image served as irrefutable proof.
Damien narrowed his eyes and smirked. “Alan invoked his right to challenge the Decree.”
So tedious. Sure, he’d delayed the process. And her schedule. Oh, she hated to think about that. Her nails dug into her palm. “Damien….”
Her argument fell mute when the darkness shimmered blue and purple as if the Aurora borealis had descended to Earth. A column of dazzling white sparkles expanded within the colors. From inside the light, a stunning figure emerged, his immense wings folding behind him.
“Azrael,” she said. Thank goodness. The only one who could intercede in this mess, and yet the one immortal she cared not to see right now.
Death is a Bitch Page 1