His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1)

by J. Eric Hance

  “Jesus,” I gasped. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Stay alive, no matter the cost.”

  Even if that cost was life as a monster? My fear began to give way, again, to my anger. “I have no intention of playing at Grim Reaper.”

  The man nodded sadly. “Then you are dooming us all.”

  “Damn it,” I lashed out furiously. “Why couldn’t you just warn me while I was still alive?”

  He shrugged uncomfortably. “Rules. We are not allowed to interact with humans.”

  I shivered at the implication.

  “Agents are the bridge between the two worlds, Henry—more than men, but less than gods. Mortals with gifts beyond mortal men. Use those gifts, Henry, don’t reject them; they might just save your life, and the world along with you.”

  I shook my head, angry, scared and confused. Who was this stranger, who expected me to accept so much on faith? More than just an Agent, it would seem. “Who are you? No games this time; what’s your name?”

  He tilted his head to one side, thinking. “You don’t believe in me, Henry, so it’s difficult to answer your question. But you are right…you have to call me something.” The man winked as if sharing a secret. “You may call me Chris.”

  Thoughts swirled through my mind: questions, accusations, and needs. So many unknowns, so many different ways to go.

  “All right, Chris,” I said finally, “just tell me one thing.”

  “I will if I can, Henry.”

  “If I go along with you, if I play your game, do I get my old life back? Is there any way I can see my brother again, or…” I trailed off, unable to say her name.

  Chris responded sadly, shaking his head. “You are dead, Henry; there’s no life left to ‘get back.’ As for Steve—or Michelle—well, the future is a dark pool, ripe with possibilities.”

  Useless and cryptic, again. He wanted me to save the world, but wouldn’t give me a single straight answer, or a single damn idea of how to do it.

  “There’s one more thing, Henry.”

  Of course there was. “What’s that?” I snapped.

  “Don’t tell anyone about this meeting, or about me.”

  Wonderful, more damn secrets. “And why not, exactly?”

  Chris sighed heavily. “You’re playing a complex and dangerous game now, where a friend might be your enemy, and your enemy could really be a friend. I’m not even sure who you can trust. Say the wrong thing, to the wrong person, at the wrong time…they might just remove you from the board completely. And…”

  “I know,” I growled, “this time dead means dead.”

  Chris nodded.

  Everything had gotten so complicated so very fast. Be a Grim Reaper, without getting the damn manual. Save the world, with no clue when, or even how. Avoid the only person you can trust, and trust no one else.

  Well, at least there might be one difference I could still make tonight.

  Chris shook his head, as if reading my mind. “It is not your place to change one homeless man’s destiny.”

  Heat rose within me, equal parts anger and determination. I’d be damned if I would sit by and ignore this man’s need…watch an innocent person die, just because Chris didn’t approve. I’d never agreed to live by his rules…he hadn’t given me the chance.

  Spinning quickly on the spot, I lunged forward, rushing to close the distance before Chris could intercede.

  For a moment, my plan worked perfectly.

  Until, of course, I realized it hadn’t.

  Everything I expected to see upon turning had vanished: the tent, the overpass, even the homeless man himself struggling for breath.

  In dumbfounded shock, I stumbled to a halt. Before me lay an empty street; a three-story brick building stood on the far side. With an angry grunt, I turned to confront the man responsible. “Damn you, Chris…”

  Behind me was another three-story brick building. A nearby street lamp lit the area dimly. Two cars were parked by the curb.

  The rain began, once again, to fall.

  I yelled out in frustration.

  Chris was nowhere to be seen.

  IV

  Cat’s in the Cradle

  I looked quickly around, disoriented, trying desperately to figure out where Chris had sent me. The tops of Century Link and Safeco Fields were just peeking over the buildings to the west. I-5 was visible, in the distance, to the east. That meant I stood in the heart of the International District.

  Harborview sat high on a hill, roughly two miles northeast of me, on the far side of I-5. If I ran, it would take at least fifteen minutes to get back.

  Too long.

  He had, maybe, five.

  And if I could manage to make it in time, would I just be sent away again?

  I yelled a second time, kicking the tire of a parked car. Who the hell was Chris? And if I was supposed to save the whole world, why couldn’t I start with one dying man?

  And did he really expect me to believe I was the only one who could stop the apocalypse?

  The damn apocalypse!

  Now I was alone, without any place to go. To my family, I’d been dead six months. I couldn’t exactly show up at the breakfast table wearing a stranger’s face, especially if it put the people I loved in danger from some all-powerful, vindictive magical force.

  Not to mention the literal forces of evil.

  I’d even managed to lose that slip of paper from Joshua—the one with the address of my new home.

  An address in the International District.

  My body tingled with a mix of wonder and apprehension. It seemed unlikely that Chris had dropped me in Chinatown by random chance. The nearest street signs read “9th Ave S” and “S Lane St.” I couldn’t remember for sure, but that sounded right.

  Above each glass door, the gold paint was so badly chipped and faded as to be illegible. The one in front of me might read “928,” or it might be an Asian curse word.

  The only thing I remembered for certain was an apartment number: 3C. It stuck in my mind because it was the same apartment number as Michelle’s. I still couldn’t remember everything that had happened there.

  But, obviously, it wasn’t good.

  Should I go in? On one hand, I might be walking uninvited into another person’s home, someone who would be unlikely to welcome me. On the other…there was nowhere else to go.

  I pushed open the front door and walked inside.

  There was little of interest on the first floor. A row of tarnished metal mailboxes lined the wall to my right. Directly in front of the entrance was a flight of narrow wooden stairs leading straight up to the second story. On my left stood a worn and dirty yellow door, marked “Private” in chipped brass.

  I examined the mailboxes briefly. A suite number was painted on every door in precise black letters. Inset into each was a small plastic window revealing the occupant’s name. The units on the second floor were businesses. The third floor appeared to be private residences.

  Apartment 3C showed no name at all.

  Was the mysterious Elliott waiting there for me? Could he help me make sense of everything that was happening? Could he, just maybe, help me find a way out?

  Could I even trust him?

  The narrow steps creaked as I climbed to the next level. The ascent was lit dimly by a few bare, widely spaced bulbs, revealing the cracks in the stairs. I heard something scurry behind me; it was gone before I could turn around.

  My heart leaped into my throat, thumping its displeasure.

  The steps stopped at the second story, spilling into a long hallway. At the far end, another narrow staircase led upward. The doors on this level were painted a dark brown with large, frosted glass windows. Small, precise black letters, like the ones on the mailboxes below, identified the businesses within.

  I took note of the doors as I walked quietly along the hall. ‘Al’s Computers,’ with a dusty sign advertising web design, in 2A. 2B housed the ‘Law Office of Peter Kingston.’ Both suites on the
street side, 2C and 2D, stood empty. 2E, the last suite, was marked simply ‘Massage.’

  All of the windows were dark except that last one, where soft lights flickered within. As I walked by slowly, hushed voices and the occasional woman’s giggle could be heard. The sounds were overlaid by a quiet, nondescript music comprised primarily of harp and guitar. I tried not to contemplate the nature of a Chinatown massage parlor doing its business in the middle of the night.

  The back stairs were lit by a single bare bulb, leaving much of the ascent cloaked in shadow. My pulse raced, and I could feel sweat trickling down my back. I took several deep breaths, preparing myself, before moving quickly upward.

  On the third floor, the doors were painted the same brown as the ones on the second story, but these were solid wood—lacking the frosted glass. Large brass letters and numbers identified each door. A window filled the far end of the hall, looking out on a side alley.

  I found 3C easily, at the center of the floor, facing the street. The door was locked, as I’d expected. It might be my destination, but there was no indication either way.

  Was Elliott inside? Would he help me get back to a normal life? Or would I find an angry Asian man with a shotgun?

  Honestly, I wasn’t sure which I’d prefer.

  Taking a deep breath, I politely asked the door to open.

  The bolt withdrew with a soft click. On silent hinges, the door swung open several inches.

  Within, the room was dark, lit only by the dim streetlight I’d seen outside. Directly ahead, beneath the window, were a blue fabric couch, scratched end table, and a lamp. To my left, a two-burner stove, undersized refrigerator, and small sink comprised the apartment’s “quaint” kitchen. Through a half-open door to the right, I could make out the corner of a bed.

  The biggest black cat I’d ever seen sat in the middle of the room. He was easily thirty pounds, though his thick fur made it difficult to be certain. Large yellow eyes watched me casually; he did not appear bothered by my sudden appearance. I’d guess he was Maine Coon, but cat breeds have never been my strong suit.

  I’m more of a dog person.

  “Hello, Reaper, and welcome.” The voice was slow and precise, proper, bordering on condescending. It reminded me of a professional butler, or perhaps a maître d’.

  I couldn’t see anyone else in the apartment.

  “Hello? Are you Elliott?” I asked, hoping the speaker would step into view.

  “I am.”

  So much for subtlety.

  “Would you mind coming out here where I can see you?”

  The response carried a hint of amusement. “I am directly in front of you.”

  I was alone, except for the large cat in the middle of the room.

  The cat sitting directly in front of me.

  Seriously?

  “Elliott?”

  The cat nodded.

  I know many people talk to their dogs and cats, but I’ve never heard of a single one that actually talked back.

  “Has anyone ever mentioned you’re a cat?”

  “I am impressed Reaper; your powers of observation are truly astounding.” Elliott smiled, and there’s not much more disturbing than a thirty-pound, smiling cat.

  V

  Rules of the Game

  I stared at the feline enigma from the open doorway.

  Elliott sat still, returning the stare. While my face undoubtedly displayed incredulous shock, his merely looked bored. Finally, with a quiet grunt of impatience, he broke the silence.

  “Would you mind coming inside so that we may continue our discussion unmolested?”

  There was, of course, only one possible response to that.

  “You’re a cat.”

  Elliott rolled his eyes and stood. He stretched in that long, slow, sinuous way reserved for felines and attractive women. Flipping his tail in the air, he strutted away from me toward the blue couch. “I am afraid you are repeating yourself, Reaper.”

  I watched his progress from across the room. He might sound human, and even display human traits, but his movements were marked with a fluid, unmistakably feline grace. In the end, Elliott was more cat than man.

  At least, I think.

  “A talking cat.”

  Elliott shook his head and mewed softly. It was the first truly catlike sound he’d made. I once read that no matter how proficient someone becomes at a second language, their natural tendency is to curse in their native tongue.

  Winning friends and influencing people wherever I go.

  Elliott’s body tensed just before he leaped casually to the back of the couch. After kneading the fabric to his satisfaction, he turned to face me, settling onto his haunches. “That is one of many reasons I would prefer that you come inside. If the wrong people overheard our conversation, it might prove inconvenient.”

  I glanced instinctively outside the door. No one was visible. Even though the single bulb on the stairs lit the hallway poorly, there weren’t many places for an eavesdropper to hide. Of course, there might be any number of neighbors concealed within their apartments.

  Stepping inside, I closed the door. It dutifully locked behind me.

  “Excellent, Reaper, we are making progress. Now, come and sit.”

  I grumbled sourly, stubbornly refusing to comply.

  Ever have one of those days? You know, the kind that starts with waking up in a damn morgue to find out you’ve been dead six months; then learning that you’ve known a Grim Reaper your entire life; then, of course, finding out you’re one too; and then meeting a mysterious supernatural…entity…who insists you’re the savior of mankind—assuming you can hide long enough from the literal forces of Hell; and then, finally, ending up in small, dark Chinatown apartment where a talking black house pet starts giving you orders.

  Of course you haven’t.

  My head started to pound and the room spun. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take before my brain decided to abandon me completely to a straitjacket and a rubber room.

  Which might just be a welcome change.

  I stumbled to the couch, where I collapsed more than sat. I didn’t even care if the cat thought I was doing it at his behest.

  Up close, Elliott was indistinguishable from any other house cat—save for his enormous size. His black fur faded to dark brown along the chest and abdomen, which had not been visible across the room. There were small tufts at the tips of his ears and between the toes of his paws. His fur was meticulously groomed, and his teeth shone a bright white.

  He clearly took care of himself.

  “You have me at a disadvantage, sir.”

  “They’re called opposable thumbs.” I waggled my thumbs at Elliott.

  The large cat mewed again, then rolled his eyes and grumbled in a more human display of his emotion.

  I regretted my flippant remark almost immediately. Elliott wasn’t what I expected—how could I have reasonably expected this? But like it or not, he was my best source of information and perhaps my only source of help. I’ve always used humor and sarcasm as a shield, but I might have to lower those shields if I was going to get out of my current…predicament.

  When Elliott finally spoke, he did so slowly—as if addressing a slow child. “You know my name; I do not know yours.”

  “Oh, right. My name is Henry.”

  Elliott raised…well, not an eyebrow exactly; the area above his left eye, I suppose. His meaning was, nonetheless, still clear.

  I hesitated, feeling angry and confrontational. Still, I had no reason to withhold my name, especially if I wanted his help.

  “Henry Michael Richards.”

  “I see.” The large cat looked out the window into the night, his expression unreadable. After the silence stretched out for several minutes, he finally turned back to me. “Tell me, Reaper, why did you choose to be an Agent?”

  I laughed out loud, the sound angry and harsh.

  He looked at me quizzically, clearly confused by my reaction.

  So
I told Elliott my story. I started with meeting Michelle at my brother’s New Year’s Eve party, and Joshua’s unusual interest in me that night. The night in Michelle’s apartment was still hazy, but I shared what I could remember. My return trip and night in the morgue was all too clear.

  “Wait,” Elliott interrupted. “You died only six months ago?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Here in Seattle?”

  Again, I nodded.

  “And you were returned without your desire or your consent?”

  I nodded for the third time. “Joshua found that concerning.” My own feelings were much stronger.

  Elliott growled softly. “To say the least. I have never heard of such a thing…it may be unprecedented.”

  I, of course, knew more—more than I wanted to know. Chris, though, had been very explicit.

  …a friend might be your enemy…

  Without telling him about Chris, I couldn’t talk about the dying man under the overpass—or anything after leaving the morgue—and I desperately wanted to talk about the man under the overpass.

  But I didn’t know Elliott yet, and really wasn’t sure if I could put my faith in him. Joshua seemed to trust the cat, but I wasn’t certain how much I could trust Joshua—a man I’d known my entire life, but obviously never really knew.

  I’m not a fan of secrecy and subterfuge, but for now, reluctantly, it might be best to heed Chris’s warning. I paused for a while trying to figure out what to say next, before lamely finishing, “and then I came here.”

  If my new, furry black companion noticed my hesitation, or the parts I skimmed over, he gave no indication. Elliott settled down on his paws to study me. The silence stretched on for what seemed like forever. Through the window, the birth of dawn had begun as a slow brightening of the sky.

  After several minutes, I started to think the cat wouldn’t say more; perhaps he expected something from me. I cleared my throat, but couldn’t find anything else to say.

  Elliott finally relieved my discomfort; he sat up straight and tall, looking down his short, feline nose as he cleared his throat. It was comically reminiscent of a college professor about to lecture his students. All he needed were glasses and a tweed jacket.