How to be Death

by Amber Benson

“Shit,” I mumbled under my breath as we overtook them, my brain screaming at me to run as far away as possible from this potential heartbreak disaster. Panicking, I tried to imitate Jarvis’s pleasant smile of greeting, but I was so miserable all I could manage was a half-formed grimace.

  I must’ve slowed down—heartache turning my legs to jelly—because Jarvis dug his nails into the sensitive skin of my naked arm, the tiny talons enough of a threat of potential violence to keep me on my feet.

  “Good evening,” Jarvis said, nodding to Daniel as we passed.

  “Good evening,” I echoed morosely.

  Daniel started to say something, but was interrupted by his date’s chirpy voice:

  “Hi, Calliope!”

  Coy batted her long eyelashes at me then took Daniel’s arm and cuddled against it, closing her eyes with pleasure. I swallowed hard, my eyes searching out Daniel’s, looking for reassurance that this was some kind of a joke, that Coy was just a very cruel figment of my own imagination, but I got nada. Daniel refused to even look at me.

  “We shall see you inside,” Jarvis shot back then trundled me past them as quickly as he dared.

  Jarvis could’ve let go of me then, but he didn’t. He continued to hold on as we made our way up to the front entrance of the building and passed through the wooden door leading into the foyer. He didn’t hold on to me because he was worried I would run away or cause a scene and embarrass myself, but because he knew his strength was the only thing keeping me on my feet.

  There was no time for talking once we stepped inside. I may not have been involved in the details of the Death Dinner, but Jarvis was, and we were immediately swept up in the preparations. Upon our entry, a tall woman with a head of bushy blond hair and a long, pointy nose sashayed into the room, a white apron tied around her waist, her mouth set in an unbroken line. She was holding a typewritten menu in one hand and a bunch of springy golden marigolds in the other.

  “Taste this,” she said, stuffing a marigold bloom into Jarvis’s unsuspecting mouth.

  “Hmmm,” he said as he chewed, then nodding his head in approval, he swallowed the bloom, the marigold’s spicy flavor having withstood his expert appraisal.

  “You like them.” It wasn’t a question.

  “For the salad?” Jarvis asked the woman, who pursed her lips and gave a barely perceptible shake of her head.

  “Garnish for the cold carrot soup.”

  Jarvis thought about this for a moment then acquiesced.

  “I approve.”

  The woman hadn’t seemed worried, and I expected she thought Jarvis’s approval was already a foregone conclusion. Without another word, she turned on her heel and departed, the folds of her black Mao jacket flapping behind her as she marched down the hall.

  “Was that Zinia Monroe?” Runt asked, her question laced with excitement.

  “That’s exactly right, Runt,” Jarvis said, patting her head. “It’s amazing luck on our part because Mr. Ali has been wooing her for years to be his personal chef. Then, only four months ago, out of the blue, she sold her latest restaurant to a Japanese conglomerate and finally accepted his offer.”

  “How do you know who she is?” I asked Runt, but I thought I already knew the answer.

  Clio and Runt were Food Network junkies. Neither one of them could cook worth a damn, but on a number of occasions I’d found them sitting in front of the television in Clio’s room, watching celebrity cooking shows until their eyes crossed.

  “She makes the most amazing Mexican hot chocolate cake,” Runt said, her eyes glazing over as she described the dessert. “Layers of rich, runny chocolate flavored with cinnamon, sitting atop a flourless cake base—”

  “I gotcha,” I said, my stomach starting to growl. “Although you can’t have actually tasted this cake if you only watched her make it on TV.”

  The sound of Zinia’s low-pitched voice, coming from farther down the hall, cut into our conversation.

  “Jarvis de Poupsy, are we going to my kitchen or not?”

  “I really don’t like leaving the two of you like this,” Jarvis confided, looking worried. “I should go to the kitchen and make sure everything is in order before Zinia has my head, but I could always—”

  “We’re okay,” I said, interrupting him before he could offer to bottle-feed Runt and change my diaper. “Go do what you need to do. We can look after each other.”

  I was starting to calm down from my Daniel-Coy run-in and I didn’t need Jarvis hovering over me like a recalcitrant mother.

  “Are you sure?”

  I could sense him waffling, so I pushed a little harder.

  “I’m fine,” I said, hoping to reassure myself while I reassured him. “Besides, I can always scream if there’s a problem.”

  Jarvis didn’t like that idea at all.

  “No screaming,” he said, running a hand through his thick hair. “Just send Runt to find me if things get out of hand.”

  I saluted him.

  “Will do, Captain Kangaroo.”

  He cleared his throat, not enjoying being called “Captain” anything, let alone Captain “Kangaroo,” but he sensed I was starting to revive—the beauty of the Castle was working its charms on me—and decided now was as good a time as any if he was gonna take his leave.

  “Just follow the hallway and it will lead you directly to the drawing room,” Jarvis called over his shoulder, pointing down the hall. “Have a cocktail and relax!”

  Runt and I watched Jarvis’s retreating back, both of us wondering when he’d been replaced with this Stepford Wife version of himself. I was not known for my ability to hold my liquor, so the guy had to be either really worried or really distracted (or both) if he was encouraging me to partake of an alcoholic beverage.

  “This Castle is spooky,” Runt said as we left the safety of the foyer and followed the curve of the hallway toward the drawing room.

  “Spooky, but beautiful,” I agreed as we crossed the intricately constructed Moroccan mosaic tiled floor, the tiny blue-and-green squares glinting like polished fish scales beneath our feet.

  Whitewashed plaster walls stretched elegantly above the heavy, brown wood wainscoting, while gilt-framed Dutch baroque realism portraits lined the hallway, each set of luminescent eyes silently observing our progress as their rounded faces glowed from within.

  The claustrophobic hallway gave way at the end of the corridor, and we found ourselves inside an octagonal room with ornately carved hardwood from floor to ceiling. Cabinets, their thick wooden doors blending seamlessly into the wood veneer walls, lined the circumference of the room, while beveled shelves were fitted above every cabinet, each one home to a flight of neatly shelved books. Some interior designer had probably fished the tomes out of an estate sale, carefully selecting them for the intact brilliance of their spines and nothing else. Even the ceiling had gotten in on the action; octagonal shapes resembling inverted, overgrown mushrooms were cut into the wood above our heads, making it feel as if we’d stepped into an upside-down wooden forest.

  A petite woman with a pixie face and fine, closely cropped silver hair that perfectly outlined her scalp—giving her head the appearance of a denuded skull—greeted us at the door, a massive tray of miniature antique cut-crystal sherry glasses filled with a jewel-hued, reddish-brown liquor balanced precariously on the fans of her upturned palms.

  “Sherry?” she said in a squeaky voice, her too big white blouse and black skirt making her resemble a country mouse. Eyes downcast, she proffered the tray at me, sloshing some of the liquid out of the glasses and onto the floor.

  “What is it?” I asked uncertainly as I took one, surprised at its heaviness.

  “It’s a Palo Cortado. A very rare sherry, but quite delicious,” said the only other occupant of the room, a rotund man with snowy white skin and a nasty smile.

  He was perched on one of the two red-and-gold upholstered love seats that sat in the middle of the room, happily warming his great bulk against the crackling fire s
omeone had thoughtfully laid in the wrought iron grate of the fireplace—probably the woman carrying the tray of sherry. He had on an expensive tailored tuxedo, but it’d been incongruously paired with a red bolo tie, making it look trashy, not classy. In fact, the shiny charcoal fabric was so slick and unforgiving that his hairless body resembled an albino sausage wrapped in a gray bun with a dollop of ketchup (the bolo tie) on top.

  To add to his odd taste in clothing, there was something cold and reptilian about the man. I almost expected him to flick out a forked tongue and test the air for my scent, but instead he gave me a frosty, gap-toothed smile, his bald pate glistening with sweat.

  “Sounds drinkable,” I replied, putting the glass to my nose and giving it a good sniff. I’d been burned once by a Midori Sour and it’d made me pretty finicky about what I put in my system, alcohol-wise.

  “It’s divine,” the reptilian man said, closing his eyes as he rolled his head from one side to the other, each movement eliciting a firm crack.

  I ignored the gross sounds by fixating on my drink. It smelled all right, Reptile Man was drinking it, and I’d selected a glass at random from the tray, so I figured it was okay to taste. With one casual flick of my wrist, I put the glass to my lips and let the liquor slide down my throat. Though the alcohol made it burn a little, the sherry had a warm, nutty flavor that titillated my taste buds.

  “Mmm, that’s good,” I said, starting to reach for another glass of the sweet liquor, but Runt’s tail slapped painfully against my calf, scolding me into setting my empty glass back down on the tray instead.

  “It should be savored, not downed like a shot,” Reptile Man said with a frown.

  I shrugged.

  “I’m not much of a drinker.”

  Reptile Man didn’t like my answer, giving me a disdainful sniff as he snottily sipped his sherry. Suddenly, from somewhere deep within the belly of the building, a clock began to chime the hour in long, elegiac peals, making my teeth vibrate. As I waited for the clock to suspend its doleful dirge, I counted the twelve booming strikes that meant it was now midnight:

  There would be no more magic for the next twenty-four hours.

  I searched inside myself, wanting to see if I felt any different now that magic had ceased to be relevant to my life, at least temporarily. But no, I felt no different than I did twenty seconds earlier when magic was still viable.

  “Well, that was loud,” I said as I walked over to one of the red-and-gold upholstered armchairs and sat down, the soft cushion cradling my butt. Runt followed me over to the chair and plopped down on the floor at my feet, her tongue protruding adorably as she panted.

  “That’s the end of magic for now,” the serving woman said abruptly, her words cutting into my thoughts. Curious, I looked over at her, but she took the opportunity to busy herself with the drink tray.

  “And the beginning of a whole new era of Death,” Reptile Man purred, looking meaningfully in my direction.

  I’d purposely chosen a spot out of touching range but just close enough that I could still comfortably carry on a conversation with my new “friend”—and boy, was I pleased with my choice. His lecherous gaze told me if I’d been any closer, he would’ve been trying to pat my arm or my leg—or any exposed body part he could reach with his sweaty white fingers.

  “I’m Calliope,” I said, changing the subject and trying to wipe the lechy look off Reptile Man’s face, but it was a no go.

  “I know who you are,” Reptile Man said softly, his voice a low hum. “But the real question is: Do you know who I am?”

  I had no idea who he was. Jarvis had given me a bound booklet with the names and pictures of all the dinner guests before we’d left, but I’d just kind of scanned it, something I was cursing myself for now. I’d figured Jarvis would be there to whisper names, etc., at me, but here I was totally on my own and clueless.

  I decided hedging was the best I could do given the situation, so I gestured for the serving woman to come closer.

  While we’d been talking, said serving woman had inched her way into eavesdropping range, the tray balanced precariously in one hand, the glasses tinkling uncomfortably. I was surprised they’d hired her for this job, not because she didn’t look adorable in her too large clothing, but because she didn’t seem to have much serving experience. Even I saw she was cruising for a bruising when those expensive, cut-crystal glasses ended up in sticky shards on the floor.

  “Can I have another sherry, please?” I asked, plucking one off the tray while Reptile Man only rolled his eyes.

  “Do I know who you are?” I repeated, nervously swirling the sherry in my glass just like I’d seen wine connoisseurs do it in the movies. “Do I know who you are?”

  Reptile Man leaned forward on the love seat, waiting to see where I was gonna go with this.

  “Please, elucidate, Miss Reaper-Jones.”

  I cleared my throat, feeling the effects of the first glass of sherry starting to stifle my good sense.

  “Well, I obviously know a lot of things, being the new Grim Reaper and all,” I offered. “So, it only stands to reason I would know who you are.”

  “Yes,” Reptile Man hissed. “Go on.”

  “I’m the President and CEO of Death, Inc., and since you’re here, right now, drinking that sherry you’re so fond of,” I babbled, “then you must work for me. And that is my final answer.”

  Reptile Man opened his mouth to reply—I could see the confusion on his face, his brain clicking away as he tried to make sense of what I’d just said—but I was saved from the executioner by the entrance of my dad’s old friend, Naapi.

  “Calliope,” he said, grinning widely at me. “I’m so glad you’re early. I would like to introduce you to my consort, Alameda Jones.”

  The lanky young woman on his arm stepped forward and I could see her underwear—or lack thereof—through the long silky dress she was wearing.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you,” the girl breathed, her frizzy golden hair bunched into a knot on the top of her head.

  She was of mixed race, with warm honey skin that glowed in the firelight and wide, full lips stretched taut over pearly white teeth. Her liquid caramel eyes took in my minidress and makeup, and I saw approval etched across them.

  “Lovely dress,” she said, coming over and grasping my hand as I stood to meet her. “Noisette? Am I right?”

  We grinned at each other, connecting on the shallowest of pretensions: fashion.

  “She’s amazing. Am I right?” Alameda continued, reaching out and touching the ruching at my back lovingly.

  “She’s unreal,” I agreed, starting to enjoy myself for the first time since we’d arrived at the Castle.

  “Who is this?!” Alameda said suddenly, her eyes snapping open with excitement. “Aren’t you just the most adorable thing ever!?”

  She dropped down to her knees, her fingers effortlessly finding the sweet spot behind Runt’s ears.

  “Is she a hellhound?” Alameda asked. “I’d heard you had one, but to see one outside of Hell … amazing.”

  “Her name’s Runt,” I said, crouching down beside Alameda, so I could give Runt a pet, too.

  “Can she talk?” Alameda inquired, then without waiting for my answer, she turned to Runt. “I’m Alameda. It’s lovely to meet you.”

  “Hi,” Runt said shyly, unsure about all the attention Alameda was lavishing on her.

  “I met your father once,” Alameda said, her voice all honey and dulcet tones. “Cerberus. A great man.”

  Runt gave a short yip and nuzzled her head into the back of my knee, hiding her eyes.

  “Wow, I’ve never seen her get embarrassed before,” I said, amused.

  “I knew you ladies would get on,” Naapi interjected as he stepped behind Alameda, helping her to her feet. I stood up, not wanting to be the only one on my knees, but I had a hard time keeping my balance because Runt kept burrowing her face into my leg, pushing me forward.

  Behind us, Reptile Man cl
eared his throat, displeased at being ignored for so long.

  “Hello, Uriah,” Naapi said absently. “I didn’t see you there.”

  Because he was such a large and creepy presence, it was hard to miss him, and I got the impression Naapi had been purposely ignoring him.

  “Yes, Mr. Drood and I were having a splendid conversation about sherry before you guys came in,” I said, pleased Naapi had supplied me with Reptile Man’s first name. It was easy to identify him after getting that piece of information. He was Uriah Drood, the all-powerful Head of the Harvesters and Transporters Union—and a slimy creepoid who I knew Jarvis detested with every ounce of his being.

  “I wouldn’t go that far, Mistress Death—” Uriah began, but any disparaging remark he was about to make was silenced by the arrival of my favorite goddess, Kali, her milky cream sari a blood-soaked mess.