And I needed him, at least as much as he might need me.
Joshua’s hand slid down to my wrist, grabbing it, as if reading my mind. “That includes Steve, Henry…Steve most of all.”
I growled low in frustration. “He thinks I’m dead!”
“You are dead,” he snapped, before regaining his composure. “Listen, remember that magic we talked about, the one that makes all of this possible…the one powered by faith?”
I nodded, uncertain where Joshua was going.
“Facts kill faith, Henry. When someone learns the truth, they no longer need to believe; when they don’t believe, the magic weakens. One person might not make a difference, but that kind of knowledge inevitably spreads.”
The grip on my wrist tightened, but the feeling was…wrong. Instead of warm flesh, his fingers were strangely thin, hard as stone, and very, very cold. The touch sent inexplicable tendrils of panic straight into my soul.
“The magic will protect itself, by any…means…necessary.”
The grip on my wrist tightened again, biting harshly into my flesh.
I glanced down.
Instead of Joshua’s hand, I was held in an iron grip by fingers of pure white, skeletal bone.
I recoiled in shock, my voice coming out as a husky whisper. “He deserves to know.”
Joshua shimmered before me. His clothing melted away, revealing a jet-black suit wrapped in an even darker hooded robe. The robe drank in the very light, dimming the room; the fluorescent lights started to flicker, as if unable to handle the strain. Within the hood, a gleaming white skull stared out with a morbid, empty-eyed parody of a smile.
Joshua’s voice rolled smoothly from between the skull’s teeth.
“You’ve become the Grim Reaper, Henry. What comfort can that offer your brother?”
III
It’s the Journey
I’d like to say that I faced down that dark, foreboding specter, spitting defiance. Or maybe that I at least hesitated before turning tail.
I can’t.
My brain shut down, rational thought abandoned me, and instinct took over.
I ran.
I ran like a man possessed. I ran as if fleeing before Death himself.
Because, of course, I was.
Maybe I’ve seen too many bad horror films, but I half expected maniacal laughter to follow me as I sprinted into the hallway. In that, at least, I was disappointed. The only sound was Mrs. Winston berating Sam, oblivious.
Hitting the far wall hard, I shoved off in the opposite direction. I stumbled at the sudden shift in my momentum, but recovered on the run and continued at full speed down the hallway, only tripping twice over my unfamiliar feet. Within seconds, I burst as quietly as I could manage through the fire door at the far end.
Beyond was a metal stairwell which ran both upward to higher levels, and down toward the ground floor. I didn’t need time to think. Those same horror films had taught me an important lesson about stairs.
The idiot that runs up always dies.
I ran down.
Still at an all-out sprint, my stride consumed three steps at a time. I barely touched the landing at the halfway point, pivoting one hundred and eighty degrees on the toes of one foot. My legs were just slightly the wrong length, and I stumbled repeatedly; how I avoided breaking my neck I’ll never know.
At the base of the stairs, I found a glass door set in a wall of glass and steel. Outside, it was drizzling in the pitch-dark dead of night. Given the bright lights within, and the total darkness without, the glass wall showed an almost mirror-perfect reflection of metal stairs and the wide-eyed, panicked fugitive running awkwardly down them.
I detected no pursuit in that reflection, but I was driven hard by irrational fear. Lowering my shoulder, I prepared to power my way through the door, at speed.
It was locked.
I slammed up against it, then rebounded and stumbled backward two steps before falling hard on my ass. My new body was strong and capable, but I’d demanded a lot from it in my sudden flight. Between the hard impact and my abject terror, I was left gasping for breath on the concrete floor, a muscle burning in my side.
In a panicked frenzy, my eyes darted over the reflected images in the wall of glass, examining the stairwell for signs of a sharply dressed harbinger of death descending upon me. Fifteen seconds passed, then thirty. No one was following me.
I began to breathe more easily.
Rational thought slowly reasserted itself. If Joshua wanted to hurt me, he’d had ample opportunity while I lay unconscious. I laughed uneasily, now far away from the nightmare that had been revealed. If anything, I admitted, Joshua had used that glimpse of his true nature to drive his point home…a point I’d been stubbornly refusing to accept.
I was no longer, strictly speaking, human.
And I could never see Steve again.
If it only put me at risk, I wouldn’t care; I’d take any chance to see my brother, not to mention his wife Jamie and their two girls. But if Joshua was right, if it put them in danger…well, that was a different matter entirely.
There had to be a way, and I’d find it, but…
With a deep breath, I started to get up.
And my eyes fell on my reflection.
I shivered from a sudden chill. It still wasn’t me; I had no idea how long it would take to get used to that.
My clothing had changed, responding to base emotions during my frenzied flight. I now wore gray sweat shorts, a sky-blue t-shirt, white tube socks pulled up nearly to my knees, and a well-worn pair of K-Mart tennis shoes. I recognized the ensemble from my days in high school gym.
I’ve never claimed to be one of the cool kids.
With the barest concentration, my shimmering reflection switched from gym clothes to casual attire: jeans; loafers (with socks); an untucked button-down gray shirt open at the collar; and a long tan trench coat.
I hadn’t asked for the coat, but it was raining lightly and the robe apparently knew I would be going outside.
If, that is, I could get through the locked door.
I gingerly stretched my arm, which had already stiffened from the impact. With a tug, I tried the door again; it remained firmly latched. There was no bar to release it from the inside.
Glancing up the stairwell, I briefly contemplated returning to the morgue.
Yeah…not a chance in hell.
There must be a way through the door. Joshua had told me to come this way, after all, even if I was only following his directions by accident.
Locks will no longer hinder you.
Could the robe fashion a key? It certainly seemed simpler than an entire outfit.
I concentrated on an image of a key, holding it firmly in my mind. I pushed the image outward as politely as I could manage.
With a hint of mirage and a touch of warmth, the weight of the key settled into my hand. It was exactly how I’d imagined it, chips, smudged brass and all.
It didn’t work.
Apparently, the robe and I couldn’t manifest one from thin air that would just happen to fit the lock. Or if we could, I didn’t know how, and the robe wasn’t sharing.
I released the key and it vanished in a small puff of cold black smoke the instant it left my hand.
I stroked the door handle. I was death walking now, the Grim Reaper. It was an idea that sent a shiver along my spine, but I ignored the revulsion and anxiety; those problems would have to be dealt with later.
In life, one of the very few certainties is death. Benjamin Franklin once wrote, “In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.” No offense to Ben, but even a mediocre accountant can get out of taxes with a little creative bookkeeping.
Death, on the other hand, will never be denied.
It comes for us all in our time. You can’t trick it, reason with it, or buy it off. When your bill is due, death will find you, no matter how well you might hide.
Locks will no longer hinder you.
Even behind a locked door.
I stroked the door handle again, wondering if it could really be that simple. Was I the ultimate…skeleton key?
As with the robe, I tried sending my thoughts out politely toward the door, willing it to open.
The lock clicked softly as the bolt withdrew.
I smiled, briefly excited at my new discovery.
That excitement turned quickly to anger.
I had not chosen this new life…hadn’t even been offered a choice. No, it was worse than that—my right to choose had been stolen from me. Just like my life had been stolen, and now even my afterlife.
A few flashy tricks wouldn’t change the facts.
I was overwhelmed by an implacable determination. This new life, this thing that I’d become…I wouldn’t just stand by and let it happen. They’d tried to lock Henry Michael Richards in a prison, but I’d find a way to unlock that door, too.
They could keep their damn parlor tricks.
Turning up the collar of my coat, I stepped out into the familiar damp chill of a Seattle summer night. The door swung quietly shut behind me and relocked itself, leaving no evidence that anything at all had happened.
The offices of the King County Medical Examiner are on the grounds of Harborview Medical Center. Harborview is, unfortunately, situated in one of the least desirable areas of the city. Bad things have been known to happen to good people when they travel there alone on a dark night.
People like me.
On a night like tonight.
I kept my head down and proceeded quickly through the cool mist, west toward the freeway overpass. I-5 is the major artery that cuts the heart of Seattle in two, splitting the waterfront and downtown proper on the west from the communities to the east. While strolling on the downtown side of that artery certainly wouldn’t guarantee my safety, I’d feel much better than standing in the shadow of Harborview.
The hospital’s main entrance is only three blocks from the overpass. The night was still, and silent, but I couldn’t shake the feeling something was watching me.
That’s probably why I jumped at the unexpected rustle, sending my heavily beating heart into overdrive. I nervously searched the darkness beneath the freeway, my heart continuing to race as my eyes adjusted.
A ratty tent stood tucked against the concrete wall, the worn cardboard door hanging open. On its floor, a homeless man lay in a ball, shivering against the night. His eyes, unfocused, stared through the small doorway into the world, seeing nothing.
He lay wrapped in his long, tangled beard and layers of faded military clothing. Despite the air’s chill, sweat plastered his hair to his head and etched deep lines into the dirt on his face.
As I watched, a weak cough escaped his lips.
Then I blinked, and the world changed.
Dull orange lines marked the shape of the man’s heart and lungs, moving with the contraction of his organs. They flashed a bright, angry red as he coughed again.
Within the outlined edges were patches of inky black. As he struggled for breath, the black would hungrily leech small bits of the color from the orange, growing stronger while the man grew weaker.
An aura, for lack of any better word, outlined his entire body. A sickly, dark orange ribbon moved with him in perfect unison, perhaps a millimeter thick. It reminded me vaguely of the cheesy force fields in old superhero cartoons—the ones that always made me laugh.
It didn’t seem so funny now.
I stumbled backward from the strange, morbid light show.
The man’s eyes snapped into focus, staring out at me as if my motion had drawn his attention. He tried to rise, his hand held out in silent pleading. He collapsed back to the ground, racked by a violent fit of coughing. His aura faded to blood red.
I hesitated a moment, anxious and uncertain.
The cough grew in ferocity, curling the man back into a tight ball. I could actually see the orange outline of his lungs straining, thinning, and starting to fail.
My stomach lurched.
And then, finally, his right lung broke open. His coughing didn’t stop, but instead wracked his body in a sudden, eerie silence.
His outline faded to black.
I might not know exactly what the aura meant, but black was obviously not good. Even without these strange visions, the situation was pretty obvious.
Slim as it was, I might be his only chance.
I stepped forward.
The rain stopped.
Perhaps I should rephrase that. It’s not like the clouds parted and the moon suddenly shone down on us. I mean that the raindrops actually stopped falling, hanging unsupported, literally frozen in midair.
The homeless man stopped as well, mid-convulsion. Stiff as a statue, he seemed carved from stone—a shrine to the violence of his obviously fatal condition.
“Your intentions are noble, Henry, but this man is not your responsibility.” The voice came from behind me. It was strong, but gentle; while its tone was firm, it did not lack compassion.
I shook my head stubbornly, refusing to face this new stranger. “The hospital is only a few blocks away. If we can get there in time…”
The man grabbed both shoulders and forced me to turn with an inhuman strength I hadn’t expected. He looked young. He wore jeans faded and torn from heavy use; sandals showing the wear of many long miles; a short-sleeved, black t-shirt; and a deerskin vest, creased and travel-stained.
His hair and beard were light brown without trace of gray, both slightly longer than “clean cut.” His skin looked tight and smooth. Despite his youthful features, though, his deep blue eyes felt vast, and indescribably ancient.
In large, blocky white letters, his shirt read, “W.W.I.D.?”
Floating inches above his head, my newly enhanced vision revealed an ethereal, glowing circle of gold.
I gasped.
Was he another Agent? An angel, perhaps?
“No, you can’t,” he said. “Look at him, Henry; he’s dead either way. Moving him now would just kill him faster.”
I’d had enough of magic and mystery for one night. Here was another person trying to steal my choices from me—a person I’d never met, who had the audacity to already know my name.
I could save whomever I damn well pleased.
“Why do you care?” I snapped out. “Who the hell are you?”
He smiled benevolently, unfazed by my abruptness or obvious frustration. “I am many things to many people, but never more than what I seem, or less than what is required.”
Right; because that explained everything.
Except for the useless, cryptic part.
I crossed my arms angrily, refusing to say or do more until he answered my questions.
The stranger sighed, visibly bracing himself. “I’m the one who brought you back.”
Surprise and rage flashed through my body, jerking me backward. After the initial shock faded, my anger began to boil over. I advanced on the man, my fists clenching.
He bowed his head and dropped both arms, making no attempt to defend himself. He said simply, “I’m sorry. You have every right to be angry, but I had no choice.”
The words hung heavy with authenticity, and a deep sense of regret. My feet stumbled to a halt, though my rage continued unabated. “Why the hell not?”
The man looked up, his intense gaze freezing me in place. Emotion seethed in his eyes, but looking into them, it was impossible to doubt his sincerity. “A great war rages, Henry…just as it has raged since the beginning of time. Light and dark, order against chaos, good versus evil—the fundamental conflict of existence.”
He added somberly, “And all of humanity hangs in the balance.”
I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. What had this man gotten me into?
“There is an agreement, though…” he continued. “A treaty, if you will. It has kept the peace, after a fashion, for thousands of years. It sets forth many, many rules for both sides. Certain of those rules were…bent…
to take your life. I bent them again to give it back.”
“As a damn angel of death,” I snapped.
The other man nodded. “Yes, and again, I am very sorry. But I needed you back, I needed you back quickly, and I needed you back here, in Seattle. It was the only option available to me.”
“Why?” I asked. “What’s so special about me?”
The response was slow and soft, but carried a heavy weight. “If I had allowed your death, Henry, evil would ultimately prevail. The world you know, and all the people in it, would end in fire and torment.”
My anger fled before the shock of that. “Excuse me?” My mind worked frantically to make sense of his words. “How exactly would I stop something like that?”
The stranger grumbled softly. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that question; the rules forbid it.”
“Seriously?” I snapped. “You’re going to drop a bombshell like that, and then give me nothing?”
The man shrugged.
“Okay, fine,” I growled. “But you brought me back, so what happens now?”
He smiled sadly. “Perhaps the same, perhaps not.”
Gee, great.
“So glad I could help.”
“Listen, Henry…with you alive there is, at least, a chance. Alive, you will have an opportunity to make a decision, to take an action; at that moment, you can potentially stop the horror that is coming. With you dead, all hope is lost.”
I shivered. “But you won’t tell me what that decision is?”
“I’m afraid I cannot.”
“Then why the hell come here at all?” I bit off the end of each word harshly. “Why tell me anything?”
“Well,” the stranger said, “to warn you.”
I shivered again, fear slowly overtaking my anger. “Warn me about what?”
“So far, the enemy doesn’t know where you are, but believe me when I say the full might of Hell itself is on the hunt. When they find you—and they will find you—your life will become far more difficult.”
“They’ll kill me again, won’t they?”
“No. They can’t attack directly. It’s forbidden, Henry.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “So I’m safe, then?”
“No.” He shook his head emphatically. “Very much no. They can’t attack you, but they can trick others into doing their bidding…just as they did before. Only if they kill you now, I can’t bring you back this time; there is no do-over.”
His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) Page 3