Apparently our would-be assailant hadn’t considered a two-foot-tall intruder.
A loud ringing filled my ears, but I could still hear pieces of wall crumbling, falling to the floor.
I mouthed a single-word question to Elliott: Reloading?
The cat dipped his head down between his shoulders in that odd shrugging gesture.
Just great.
“If ya ain’t dead, ge’ da fuck oudda my house.”
The words were slow, thick and slurred. It sounded more like a rumbling truck engine than human speech. There might have been an accent, but through my ringing ears it was impossible to be certain. If molasses could growl through a mouth full of marbles, it would have that voice.
I considered my options. It was unlikely I could wait the shooter out. According to Elliott’s brief orientation, if he was going to drop dead on his own, I wouldn’t be here at all.
I needed a glimpse of the situation beyond the entry wall. Standing up to look through the large shotgun blast hole seemed a poor choice. What remained of the wall was not wide though, the edge only inches from where my head had fallen.
Grumbling under my breath, I crawled slowly along on my side until the scene beyond was revealed.
The living room was overtaken with mountains of garbage; open food cans, consumed microwave dinners, and depleted bags of dried goods filled the space in molding, haphazard piles. An army of insects scaled the peaks, working every surface for any scraps. It was easily the remains from months’ worth of meals.
In the center of the putrid refuse, a large recliner held a behemoth of a man. He was at least seven feet tall, and easily five hundred pounds. His hair was gray and grizzled, his skin dark brown with a sickly green hue.
I didn’t need my Sight to see the three gaping gashes down the length of his left forearm, or the straight razor discarded on the floor at his feet. His hand hung limp and useless, the tendons severed by at least one of the gashes. The pea-green recliner was stained black down most of its left side, as was the cream shag carpet around the man’s feet.
His aura was midnight black, but its thickness throbbed erratically between a hair’s width and many inches. The color suggested to me that death was certain; the wavering thickness implied the timing was less so.
I wondered silently who this man was.
The Sight answered my unspoken question.
A puff of black smoke appeared, and coalesced into an image of this behemoth talking on the telephone. “Yep, dat’s it, Scott White.” The image vanished in another puff of black.
I jerked, surprised.
That could certainly prove to be useful.
I started asking more questions, and the answers came in additional scenes amidst black puffs of smoke. Scott was sixty-two. He’d been a hermit now for six months, not once leaving his home; I couldn’t get any answers as to why. His hoarded supplies ran out just a few days ago. Unable to face the world, he decided to take his own life. When the first attempt failed, he tried a second; eventually, still single-mindedly focused, he tried a third.
The monster before me was impressively committed to his own death. Down deep, though—so deep he hadn’t even known about it—there was an even more impressive survival instinct; it was strong enough to overcome the pool of his life’s blood being spilled down his chair onto the carpet.
Too bad he’d waited so long to find it.
Mr. White now struggled to pump his shotgun one-handed.
I silently asked, again, what had driven him into hiding. No answers came. It’s possible I just asked the wrong question.
But I didn’t think so.
The questions that worked regarded either his identity, or his death—things directly related to the job at hand. Every question about why he’d become a hermit had failed. That made sense, in a way, since it didn’t impact what I was doing now.
The limitation was still frustrating as hell.
Having seen enough, I crawled away from the edge, propping my back against what remained of the wall. I needed a few minutes to think. If there’s a Reaper Manual somewhere, I bet it has a chapter for situations like this: “You and Your Zombie.”
Or, perhaps, an old fifties-style, black and white instructional film: “So Your Assignment is Bat Shit Crazy.”
Elliott looked to me for guidance. Unfortunately, I had none to offer. I’d rather hoped he would have some ideas.
Where were his thirty years of experience now?
The sound of a pumping shotgun finally cut through the silence, followed by Scott White’s deep, ponderous voice. “Hey, asshole, ya dead yet?”
If he fired again, I was a sitting duck. I needed to keep him from pulling the trigger, or maybe trick him into shooting at something else. Looking around the entry for inspiration, my eyes fell on a closet at the far end of the entrance.
A closet with an open door.
I indicated the door to Elliott with a nod of my head.
He looked quizzically over his shoulder, and then back at me. Confusion was evident in his expression.
I held up three fingers, slowly lowering one at a time, and then pointed again at the closet.
Elliott’s eyes grew wide. His head snapped quickly back over his shoulder to the closet, slowly returning to face me. The cat tentatively nodded his understanding.
He mewed softly under his breath.
I can’t say that I blamed him. In the semi-dark, Elliott’s white-dust-covered fur would be impossible to miss as he darted across the intervening space.
In fact, I was counting on it.
Holding up one finger, I shifted around into a crouch. Sliding my right leg back, I lifted a second finger. After a long, deep breath, I raised the third.
With a loud yowl, Elliott raced toward the closet.
I gave my companion a second’s head start before darting around the entry wall’s far side. Leaping over a barricade of garbage, I hit the floor behind Mr. White’s chair just as his shotgun filled the small room with thunder.
“Ya son a bitches. I’ll kill ya both.”
I rose slowly to my feet, surveying the scene. The entry wall was completely gone, along with a sizable chunk from the front door of the house. Apparently confused by the diversion, Scott had managed to shoot right between us, missing both.
He was struggling again to pump his shotgun one-handed, cussing under his breath.
“Scott White, only you will die here today.” My voice rang out with a strange, power-laden authority I hadn’t expected.
The outline of the massive black man briefly blurred and…doubled. His soul struggled to heed a summons I never meant to issue, despite his body’s intent.
As the shotgun pumped for a third time, the soul retreated back within.
“You gonna die, fucker, ‘cause ‘parently I can’t.” With a great chorus of popping joints, Scott White rose unsteadily from his chair.
Ice water filled my veins. I stood not more than four feet behind his recliner. If he managed to bring that shotgun to bear…
“I’m here to end your suffering. Let go and be free.”
Uh…please.
A nasty smile turned the corners of his lips as he shuffled through a slow circle. He no longer moved like a living thing, but still managed to turn inexorably toward me. “Oh, I let go a’right, ya son a bitch.”
Given time, I might be able to reason with him. Unfortunately, time was a luxury I did not seem to have.
With a sinking feeling, I realized there was only one option left.
A quick jerk sent my scythe whistling through the air. I aimed for Scott White’s chest. There was no point in pulling my punches. Only one of us would survive; it was either him or me.
I intended it to be me.
I’d seen what the blade could do to glass, brick, concrete and steel. The smart money was on me. The scythe should split him cleanly in two.
Except that it didn’t.
The scythe blade vanished, like a phantom, within the gian
t man’s torso, leaving no mark on his skin. My swing stopped abruptly halfway through his body, as if catching on his spine. The force of the impact jerked Mr. White a full foot to his right.
He looked down at the handle protruding from his chest with wide, wild eyes. His voice sounded mystified. “Son a bitch.”
I tugged hard, pulling the blade free from his right side. A pale, translucent double of the big man hung impaled on the blade.
I’d literally ripped out his soul.
Soul and body stared at each other in shock. Both tried to speak…both failed.
The massive body collapsed to the floor, landing with a heavy thud that shook the walls.
Scott White watched, panic filling his eyes, as his body dropped. He muttered a final “Son a bitch” under his breath as his features grew ashen.
The soul disintegrated, leaving just a hint of its final scream echoing in the sudden stillness.
X
Night and Day
Green light flared up around Scott White’s front door, pulsing slowly.
Red for approach, green for retreat.
I let the Reaper drop away, one nausea being replaced by another as I examined what I had done. My mouth was dry and my hands dripped sweat.
Elliott hissed from the doorway. “Do not ever reveal yourself this close to death. It does not matter how natural the passing appears; once you are placed at enough scenes, people start asking difficult questions—making dangerous accusations—drawing preposterous conclusions. Careless Reapers cause no end of trouble, for themselves and others.”
I nodded wordlessly, unable to argue—unable to even speak.
The bell tolled again as the Reaper settled heavily around me and I felt doubly sick.
Elliott continued on, oblivious to my struggles. “Hospitals are particularly dangerous. You must never be seen at a hospital, except as the Reaper.”
I nodded again, but no words would come. Tears filled my vision. Scott was dead before I arrived, and he’d left me no choice, but I’d killed him all the same.
With one last look back, I followed the bouncing green light into the night. The three women in white had departed, but I didn’t stop to wonder who they were or where they’d gone.
The journey home was a blur. I took the bus, lost in thought, barely noticing my surroundings. The green light vanished a few miles north of Rainier Valley. Apparently, from that point on, it was safe to be seen.
The sun had been up for two hours by the time Elliott and I reached our International District home. I climbed the stairs, exhausted in body, mind and soul.
True to Emma’s word, the hallway was clear and clean. The floors, baseboards and walls all shone as if they were new. She hadn’t just cleaned my mess; she’d actually taken the opportunity to make that little stretch of building better for everyone. There wasn’t a single trace of eggs…or apple…or ham…or…
My stomach growled sullenly, reminding me I still hadn’t eaten.
Elliott’s head jerked up at the sound.
“Would you rather eat, or sleep first?” I asked.
The cat smiled. “Eat, always eat.”
A feline after my own heart.
We turned together and started down the stairs. It was pretty early, but it wouldn’t take too long to grab a bite and get back into bed.
There were raised voices coming from suite 2E, Emma’s massage parlor. I briefly considered checking in on her, but I was tired and hungry. Besides, I doubted very much that Emma would appreciate me bursting unannounced into her business.
Elliott hissed as we passed her door.
He’s all class.
The door burst open behind us. A man barged through, muttering “crazy bitch” roughly under his breath as he slammed the door. He was tall and lanky, with a slightly crazed look to his eye. He strode quickly down the hallway, practically pushing me out of his way.
“Oh, pardon me,” I said, sarcastically.
The man turned suddenly, grabbing my shirt collar with his left hand and balling his right into a fist. Blood was smeared across both his fist and his neck.
With a single, “Fucker,” he shoved me against the wall and stormed off.
I turned quickly back to 2E.
“What are you doing?” Elliott demanded.
I pointed after our departing friend. “The man was bloody; I need to check on Emma.”
The door was locked, but it opened quickly at my request.
Inside, the room looked completely normal. There was an innocent-looking massage table. Candlelight flickered on the walls, and a small fountain bubbled in the corner.
Emma stood behind the reception desk, facing away from the door. She wore a skintight latex bodysuit which left quite literally nothing to the imagination. In her left hand she held a bright red apple, while her right thumbed through a filing cabinet drawer. Her phantom tail swished lazily behind her.
On the countertop lay a black riding crop.
“Oh, honey,” she said in an exaggerated southern drawl. As she turned, she led with seductively swaying hips. “Are you already back for more?”
When her eyes found me, she instantly relaxed with a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God, it’s just you, Reaper.”
I looked her over as best I could for injuries, but didn’t see anything. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” she responded, looking perplexed. “I’m fine.”
“That asshole, the one that just left…he was bloody.”
Emma’s lips curled into a small, wicked smile. “Yes, yes he was.”
“But, what…” I looked around, confused.
Emma’s smile widened. “Tom forgot his manners, so I reminded him.” She raised the apple to her lips to take a long, deep, slow bite.
“You bit him?”
“It was just a little nibble.”
“Oh,” I said, embarrassed. “Well, I’ll just…”
“Were you checking on me, Reaper?”
I shrugged awkwardly.
“That’s…sweet,” Emma smiled warmly. “Stupid as hell—I mean I’m a demon for God’s sake—but sweet.”
I looked at her phantom horns and tail, nodding. I didn’t see a negligee this time, but I suppose the latex bodysuit was seductive enough all on its own. “I certainly won’t forget that anytime soon.”
She cocked her head to the side. “What do you mean?”
“Well…” I started to gesture at her body, but pulled my hands back, tucking them under my arms. In her current outfit, there was no way to gesture anywhere without it feeling dirty. “The horns, the tail…they aren’t exactly subtle.”
She smirked, trying to look back over her shoulder while stepping past the counter. “Tail?”
“Yeah.” I nodded with a laugh. “Tail.”
She shrugged, still smirking. “So turn them off.”
“What?”
Emma patted me on the shoulder. “Didn’t you pay attention in orientation?”
“It’s all kind of a blur,” I managed lamely.
She rolled her eyes. “The Sight is just a tool, Reaper. You’re the one that uses it. You decide what you need to see.”
I concentrated on Emma, trying not to see the horns and tail. Sure enough, after a few seconds, they vanished. Standing before me was just a woman.
In a skintight, latex bodysuit.
“Hey, it worked.”
Rolling her eyes, Emma took another bite from the apple. “How did your first assignment go?”
My whole body stiffened. “It was…tough.”
Emma nodded, leaning against the massage table. “Mine was a politician, a real piece of work. He cheated on his wife, beat his kids, embezzled hundreds of thousands of taxpayers’ dollars. But he was powerful, and my bosses wanted him to vote a particular way on a particular measure.”
“You see, it wasn’t a difficult assignment, and it didn’t really matter if it succeeded. So it was a perfect job for the new girl. Took me about two weeks, but I got the vote
we wanted. Turns out the measure lost in a landslide, so his vote didn’t really matter in the end.”
Emma smiled crookedly. “About a week later, his wife received a large packet of pictures in the mail—her husband and me together. Nothing explicit, of course, but…enough. She wrung him dry in the divorce.”
She took another bite from her apple, chewing it slowly.
“This life forces us to do things, Reaper.” Her eyes locked with mine, and I could see a righteous passion that seemed incongruous with the demon I knew her to be. “No matter what we’re forced to do, though, we can always choose to do good.”
I nodded, her story managing to raise my spirits…even if only a little bit.
A bright white light flashed in my eyes. The door to the hallway started to pulse red.
With a heavy, genuine sigh, I stepped toward the door. “I’m afraid duty calls.”
Emma nodded, smiling. “Got a name yet, Reaper?”
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
“Well, choose to do good, oh nameless one.”
My bouncing red tour guide brought Elliott and me nearly to the mouth of an alley, just a few blocks from Green Lake. On a warm summer day like today, the three-mile shoreline path would be packed with joggers, cyclists, and dog walkers. A three-hundred-acre park surrounding the lake attracts swarms of people in search of recreation and relaxation. Outside the park, for blocks in all directions, popular local businesses draw a dense crowd to eat, drink, shop and socialize.
And I needed to pass unnoticed right through their center.
The red light began to bob uncertainly. It repeatedly darted forward just to jump as quickly back…enough times that I lost count.
It started to twitch erratically.
I did my best not to smirk. My guide probably didn’t have emotions and a personality, but it seemed best not to risk pissing it off.
It might just lead me out into traffic someday.
The light emitted a high-pitched, disgruntled whine, and then resolved into the floating red Reaper.
Once again, the bell tolled in my head as the weight of the Reaper visage settled on me. My scythe materialized in my hand. The blade didn’t shine quite as brightly as it had last night. I’m certain I could have fixed it with a thought, but it seemed more appropriate, now, slightly tarnished.
His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) Page 8