Lovely Death

by Brandon Meyers

  The Cougar moved with such astounding speed that the road itself seemed to disappear, melting into the peripheral dome of blackness that followed his perception of this world. And then the dome itself could not keep up. It dissolved like a passing cloud through the window of an airplane. And when it did Nick saw the world for what it was: an identical version to the land of the living, except washed of all life and color. The things nearest to him, much like the road, moved at too fast a pace to even register as physical objects. They were just a blur. However, in the far distance, Nick spied a city, one with a few tall skyscrapers. Nick did not recognize the skyline, but watched as they approached the metropolis, and passed it, within the span of perhaps ten seconds. The horizon was a wide, stretching expanse, and the curvature of the earth’s terrain was even visible from this angle and speed.

  Nick tried to reason with himself, wanting to keep his conscious mind alert. He attempted to examine the newly revealed surroundings, tried to watch the clouds overhead. But his senses betrayed him, fading in and out of a fog. Finally, blackness enveloped him, subduing his waking senses and silencing the whine of the Cougar’s engine.

  And then he blinked.

  It could have been five seconds or an eternity, but when Nick opened his eyes the car had stopped. He came to with a start, realizing that he had been unconscious and that he did not know where he was. Obviously, he was still in the front seat of the car, but a look out the windshield revealed that he was now surrounded by another sea of wandering souls. The buildings surrounding him were two and three stories tall, with a lot of ornamental iron lattice. It was New Orleans. Specifically, it was the French Quarter, where Laura Scranton had revealed to him the location of the dark man.

  Nick looked down at his hands, saw that they were still mending themselves, becoming whole again. At the same time, there was a loud pop outside. At first Nick thought it was a gunshot, but the front end of the Cougar sagged, denoting a tire blowout. Both of them, actually. As Nick’s body continued to solidify once more, the vehicle paid the price without protest. The dashboard split, as did the seams of the upholstery. A massive crack spider-webbed its way across the windshield. And as Nick’s alertness sharpened to a fine point, he watched great swaths of rust creep up the hood of the car, like racing stripes of neglect.

  “I’m sorry, girl,” Nick said. He ran a soothing hand along the steering wheel, aware that this might very well be the final time he laid eyes upon it. “Thanks for what you did back there. Thanks for everything, really.”

  The axe waited with silent malevolence on the floorboard. It called to Nick to pick it up, and he obliged.

  The door squeaked angrily when he pushed it open and stepped out.

  Nick felt good. No, he felt better than good. For being a dead man, his body felt better, stronger, than it ever had. It was probably due to the final infusion of his now dilapidated automobile. Nick could not bring himself to look at her when he shut the door. He knew that she was just an immobile hull now and that wasn’t how he wanted to remember her.

  Instead, he directed his focus to the street.

  The crowd was so thick with gray, colorless souls that it could have been a black and white photo of Mardi Gras. Men and women of all ages—some in garments four hundred years out of fashion—drifted through the narrow streets, traveling in a manner that was both purposeful and meaningless at the same time. However, for as heavily congested as the roadway was, there was a wide semi-circle of blacktop in front of a corner building that was completely devoid of souls. Some kind of invisible force field kept them from moving into its space, maintaining a protective perimeter around the shop in question. The dark man’s place of business was directly across the street from where the Cougar had parked itself in front of a tiny fire station.

  Departed souls filled the streets as far to the left and the right as Nick could see. A handful even lined the ornate balconies of the buildings, those iconic pieces of architecture that the French Quarter was famously known for.

  The buildings themselves changed very little as he watched them. Where the structures of Chicago’s South Side had morphed and evolved, flitting back and forth through the ages of its history, these buildings stayed relatively the same. Some of the signage changed, hanging billboards flickering to neon window dressings and then back. Electrical conduit snaked into and out of existence along a few balconies, but the simple, narrow character of the brick two-stories remained unchanged.

  Under the soles of his Doc Martens, the road danced between cobblestone and pavement. Spirits strolled past, thick enough that their presence nearly masked the ground completely. Therefore the typically familiar blue tile street markers were invisible underfoot. On the opposite side of the intersection, a street sign flickered in and out of existence, marking the intersection as that of Decatur and Esplanade.

  The building appeared exactly as it had in Laura’s vision. It was a three story brick job that had been stucco coated and painted a bland sandy color. A similarly drab color comprised the canvas awning which surrounded the patio of the lower floor’s tavern establishment. To the far right side of the bar, inset between the adjoining building, sat a tiny, black, wrought-iron door. Unlike the spirits and the structures which surrounded it, the door itself was stolid and resolute. It was the black of blindness, an unblinking pupil of eternity. It had stood the test of time and showed no sign of intending to do otherwise.

  Beside the door hung a hand-painted sign. Nick already knew the words. They echoed through the gray light with bold menace.

  Goddard’s Shoes. All soles welcome.

  Nick shifted the weight of the axe, so that it rested against his shoulder. He felt the comforting solidity of the single-shot revolver shift inside the front pocket of his jeans. For a brief moment he considered moving it to the pocket of his leather jacket, but thought better of it. He licked his lips, knowing that the time was now or never. He had made it. The Black Tar Man had thrown his best at Nick and he had survived. There was no turning back now, and the thought never even crossed Nick’s mind. He had a job to do, one last task to accomplish. And then? He would find peace. Layla would be safe. It would be over.

  Nick took a step forward, still not daring a look back at the Cougar. His steps were confident and with purpose. As he walked, the bustling flow of spirits created a new route around him. Nick was careful not to look any of them in the eyes.

  When he had made it halfway across the street, he entered the vacant bubble through which no souls dared to pass. He paused. The door to the dark man waited for him, not twenty feet ahead. He set his jaw, prepared himself mentally for whatever horrors awaited him on the other side of it.

  Nick reached the heavy black door and took the knob in his hand. It opened without protest, unlocked, as if the infernal resident had been expecting company.

  The cobbler’s shop was every bit as tiny as the storefront suggested. It was maybe ten feet wide, with black-and-white, checkered-tile floors. The visible length was approximately three times that, divided in the middle by a tall wooden countertop. A vintage cash register, something out of Al Capone’s era, sat atop the counter along with a single pair of nondescript men’s wingtips.

  A few modest shelves were nailed into the wavy, wood-paneled walls. Not even half of them were occupied, displaying various pairs of refurbished leather shoes. The shoes, ranging from blacks to browns, all wore a layer of dust, much like everything else in the sad little shop.

  “Come on in and sit for a spell,” insisted a voice out of nowhere. It was the hoarse, heavy voice of a man with a lifelong cigarette habit.

  Nick took a cautious step forward, glancing side to side to make sure that no one was lurking in the shadows behind him. Aside from a pitifully lopsided coatrack, the front corners of the place were completely bare.

  When he moved deeper into the shop, Nick saw that there was a table set up behind the counter. It was long and narrow, and was apparently used as the cobbler’s workbench. Leather wor
king tools and many stained bottles of dye lined its top.

  And there, seated at the far end with a shoe and a polishing rag in hand, sat the Black Tar Man.

  “Have a seat, young man,” he insisted in a leaden tone.

  Nick was not sure what he had expected the man to look like, but it certainly wasn’t what he found. Sitting there at the table, eyes locked on the smooth buffing of a brown leather shoe, was a middle-aged man in excellent health. Given his locale, and the no doubt supernatural number of years he had operated out of this building, Nick judged him to be of French descent. He had snow pale skin and a narrow face that came to a fine point at his chin. His hair was dark brown, shot with gray at the temples. Even sitting, Nick could tell he was a tall man, and he wore it well, neither lanky nor hulking.

  “Who are you?” Nick asked.

  “Don’t ask questions to which you already know the answer, my friend.” He did not so much as glance in Nick’s direction. Instead, he addressed the newcomer as if he were an intrusive child, and not worth the effort of distracting himself.

  “Goddard.”

  “Very astute. I applaud your literacy.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Nick said. He slid the axe an imperceptible inch higher on his shoulder as he addressed the man who refused to look at him.

  “I know damn well what you meant, boy. And as I said, you already know who I am. To know a man’s intentions is to know his identity in full. All else is superfluous and a waste of breath.”

  Nick clenched the axe, feeling the weight of its magical power steady his anger. He was fully prepared to attack this man, to end the madness of this journey once and for all. But there were questions to be answered. Goddard was not an immediate threat, and Nick felt that his positioning over the man would be more than sufficient if an immediate action response became necessary.

  “What is it you want?” Nick asked.

  This drew a smile from the articulate craftsman. He held the shoe aloft and inspected it in the light. “What I want is a societal return to stylish sensibility. Not men walking around with neon plastic and canvas strapped to their feet.”

  “And how’s that going for you?” Nick said.

  Goddard shrugged. He kept his eyes on his work. “Those boots you’re wearing, despite resembling the clodhoppers of the laboring class, appear to be of fine construction. I’d say that all hope is not yet lost for humanity.”

  “It’s funny you should bring up humanity,” Nick said, ignoring the backhanded compliment, “given what you are.”

  “You’ve no idea what I am, boy. Nor what I’m capable of.”

  Nick considered this a moment. “That’s where you’re wrong. I know exactly what you are. You’re just an asshole, a selfish, conceited prick who takes advantage of distraught young women. You’re a cancer.”

  “Said the pot to the kettle. At least I’ve got the earnest backbone to deny nothing. Can the same be said for you?”

  “You eat souls,” Nick said with disgust.

  “Again, I won’t deny it. But then again, why should an immortal such as myself defend his name against a peon womanizer? And a dead one at that.”

  “That’s right. I died so that I could meet you. I gave up my life to come here and kill you.”

  Goddard snorted. “Take your horseshit bravery elsewhere, boy. I know as well as you do that you didn’t have the fortitude to end it yourself. Your little bitch did it for you. If you’d have done the job proper, none of this road-chase business would have been necessary. You’d have been sent directly here. I must say, it was fascinating to see that vehicle move. I’ve never encountered a vessel like it before.”

  “What can I say? I’m one of a kind.”

  The Black Tar Man shook his head. “Hardly. You’re uncommon, but far from a rarity. Don’t let the flattery of a fat, fortune-telling negro overinflate your ego. You’re a dead man. And that car is now nothing but a white-trash lawn ornament sullying the streets of my city.”

  “If I’m just some worthless nobody then why did you try so damn hard to get to me?”

  “Because you are mine, Nick Aragon. It was a package deal. And I did not say you are worthless. However, the trouble you’ve put me to, your value is mightily diminished.”

  “I’m happy to have been a pain in your ass.”

  “I don’t doubt that. Which is why I will take exceptional pleasure in bleeding you dry.”

  The nonchalance in the man’s voice was enough to make Nick’s skin crawl. It was spoken as simply as if he were explaining his intention to take out the trash that morning.

  “How?” Nick demanded. “I never signed on for any of this shit. How the hell can my soul have been collateral in this when I’d never even met you before? Monique said you attacked killers.”

  “Again with the negress.”

  The dark man licked his lips. He laid down the polishing rag and wiped at the supple leather of the shoe with his bare thumb. His fingers caressed the thing gently and when he did, Nick detected a faint tremor in the man’s hands. As he studied Goddard he also saw deep bags beneath the soul eater’s eyes. He did a convincing job of masking it, but the signs of exhaustion were visible, no matter how minutely detectable. Apparently he had indeed expended a great deal of energy trying to capture Nick back on the road.

  “The souls of killers are forfeit, just as their bodily freedom is in life. I will not pretend that my motivations are in any way noble, but you cannot argue that the souls I claim will be long mourned in either life or death.”

  “You’re a bottom feeder. A leech.”

  Goddard raised a hand to interrupt. His gaze remained fixed on the leather working supplies laid out in front of him.

  “When that little bitch offered me her own willingly given essence, I had no choice but to accept. An offered soul is twice as fulfilling as a taken one. And I was, of course, more than willing to help her discover a way to unite the two of you together forever. It may be that her essence is now withered to rot, but yours will be as well, and in the end it will all have gone to the same place. So my end of the accord was kept truthfully and with success.”

  “All she had to do was make me kill her.”

  “Not true,” Goddard said with a small shrug. “She loved you. Not simply lust or infatuation. That woman, touched though she certainly was, loved you with every fiber of her being. And because of that, I was happy to inform her that she could offer me your soul as well. Such is the power of real love. It’s just that simple. And when I told her the wonderful news of your permanent bond in the afterlife, well…she did not hesitate a second.”

  When Nick processed Goddard’s words he felt as though he’d been kicked in the stomach.

  “But, I killed her. If you already had my soul…why did I have to kill her?”

  Goddard grinned. “You didn’t. It was purely for my amusement.”

  Nick shook his head. A tumult of guilt roiled inside him. He wanted to hate Laura for her obsession, and was sickened at the senselessness for which she had died, and needlessly by his hand. He was furious at her for her foolishness and damned gullibility. But he knew that Goddard was not the only man who had taken advantage of that. Any way you sliced it, the ultimate fault fell back on Nick’s shoulders. But Goddard, that motherfucking monster, had put the whole damned idea in her head.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Goddard said. “It wasn’t as if she wasn’t going to die a horrible death anyhow. This way, at least it was interesting.” He chuckled to himself. “And you honestly believed it was because you had a heart purer than any other man, any other killer, in the world? Let that be a testament to what bullshit any man is willing to swallow in the name of his own vanity.”

  “Look at me,” Nick said.

  “Come again?”

  “You heard me, you piece of shit. I said look at me. I want to see the fear in your eyes when I chop your fucking head off your shoulders.”

  “As you wish,” Goddard rasped. “I have
grown tired of this business anyhow.”

  Nick lifted the axe at the same moment the soul eater lifted his eyes. The ruby handle hovered overhead as he prepared to step into the downswing. Except the axe did not fall. Nor did Nick’s feet move from where they stood. They were unable. Not a muscle in his body was able.

  The dark man’s eyes had locked with his, and it felt like fishhooks had taken him by the eyeballs. He could not look away from the searing white pain that erupted in his eye sockets. Goddard’s own eyes had disappeared completely, sunken back into his skull in craterous pits of pitch black eternity. He was a vacuous hole, a well of dark despair, and those cavernous orbs were the point through which Nick would be dragged inside.

  Goddard opened his mouth, revealing an even wider portal into the unknown and Nick became aware of the fact that he was being sucked toward it. Despite the fact that his knees were locked, his Doc Martens skidded across the floor, drawing him closer to the waiting maw of oblivion.

  His knee collided with the table, impeding his movement. At once, the flesh of his right hand began to burn where it was touching the axe. His palm and fingers sizzled as the topmost layer of skin was branded. The axe fell from his grip, freed by the slack provided by his scorched flesh. It tumbled forward, guided to the ground by its weighty steel bit. When it hit the floor, the axe shattered as if it were a piece of crystal, breaking into a hundred tiny pieces. It was lost to him, as useless and gone as his living body. The only thing he could focus on was the scalding gaze of the Black Tar Man as he was drawn nearer.

  Nick’s arms remained in the same position they’d been in when he’d held the axe. His whole body was rigidly fixed as he skidded ever closer to his doom. It felt like his eyeballs would be sucked from his head at any moment, so great was the pressure pulling them forward. They would just spit out of his skull like little paddle balls, bouncing on the ropy flesh of his optic nerve. But despite its inanimate state, his body complied, inching forward against the gravity of this world.