by Jory Strong
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Death’s Courtship
ISBN 9781419912870
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Death’s Courtship Copyright © 2007 Jory Strong
Edited by Sue-Ellen Gower.
Cover art by Syneca.
Electronic book Publication October 2007
This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Death’s Courtship
Jory Strong
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Aston Martin DB5: Ford Motor Company
Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia: Ben & Jerry’s Homemade Holdings, Inc.
Cialis: Lilly ICOS LLC.
eBay: eBay Inc.
eHarmony.com: eHarmony.com
Frisbee: WHAM-O, Inc.
Kharmann Ghia: Volkswagen Aktiengesellschaft
Ouija Board: Hasbro, Inc.
Viagra: Pfizer Inc
Xbox: Microsoft Corporation
Death
The Death card is part of the major arcana, the twenty-two non-suited cards in a tarot deck that represent the hero’s journey from a naïve simpleton, The Fool (card 0), to a state of being fully-integrated and actualized as represented by The World (card 21). Regardless of whether or not you believe in the cards when it comes to divination or meditation, they’re interesting to reflect on simply because each card in the hero’s journey of the major arcana contains themes we all encounter on our life path.
Card thirteen, Death, for instance, can strike fear into the heart of anyone seeing it appear in a tarot reading. But it rarely represents true, physical death. It is, instead, a card most often representing profound transformation, a leaving behind of something significant, separating, or confronting one’s deepest fears—all things we encounter and that impact our lives and shape us for better or worse.
Chapter One
“You’re wearing that?”
The specter that was Death looked down at the flowing white suit, the white shirt with its silky blue tie—all of which offset the darker tones of his skin and the midnight black of his hair superbly even if he did say so himself—though of course he didn’t.
Fashion was wasted on his brother. Was wasted on all five of them really. “Does it look as though I’m wearing it?”
But of course, his brothers couldn’t simply step aside and allow him to make his exit in peace. After all, how often did Death go on holiday?
Not that anyone would notice it. His brothers had been chomping at the bit, tugging on the reins for ages, each one of them thinking they could spice up the role of Grim Reaper, could put a new spin on it, a new twist, do it better than he could.
Well, here was their chance and more power to them.
“It looks like a pimp suit,” the youngest of them said from his indolent position in the doorway.
“Reminds me of Mr. Clean,” the twin who’d escaped being youngest by only a few minutes said.
“Mr. Clean. You mean the one in the commercial?” This from the brother who had started the conversational assault on Death’s clothing to begin with—the one who was calling himself Azrael at the moment, having fared no better when it came to being named by their mother than Death himself had.
Why none of his brothers could settle on a name for more than a year or so was beyond him. He’d done it, after all.
Death sighed. No wonder he was in need of a vacation. And really, he couldn’t have asked for a more perfect time to take one.
No global wars. No widespread plague, though the bird-flu on the horizon was a bit worrisome. Not that he could do anything about it anyway.
His role was rather well-defined and it didn’t include heading off trouble. He was a gatherer, a herder, a door opener, an occasional hunter. It was all quite tedious most the time. But he was born to the task and there was no “escape through death” for Death.
“Step aside, the business of managing death isn’t all fun and games, as you’ll find out for yourselves soon enough.”
Still a small fissure of worry opened inside of Death as the dark sea of his brothers parted, allowing him to exit into the courtyard containing the family vehicles. A pimp suit? A costume from a television commercial? Death shuddered and concentrated. The elegant suit became a thing of the past, replaced by black jeans and a shirt in the same blue as the tie had been.
From inside the house came shouts of laughter and Death’s humiliation was complete. They’d no doubt placed wagers on whether or not he’d change his clothing.
Well the last laugh would be his. His immediate future held no misguided souls, no disenfranchised spirits, no death. In fact, no Death. Unless he chose otherwise or his brothers made a mess of things, he could take whatever name he desired and be whatever he wanted to be. He was on vacation.
Death created an identity for himself. Atticus Denali. Not that he didn’t already have a name, he had a slew of them, all affixed to him by others, including a particularly atrocious one given to him by his mother. It was one of the reasons he’d taken refuge in Death. It was simple. Elegant. A name and a title. A clear definition of his role and his duties.
But a man on vacation was entitled to leave all that behind, especially when it wasn’t a working holiday but a true escape from the mantle of responsibility. Death chose Denali because he’d trekked in the Alaskan national park by that name and thoroughly enjoyed the cold snow of Mt. McKinley. He chose Atticus because unlike his brothers who thought culture was found in an Xbox, Death was a reader and Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird was a favorite.
The name, of course, was the easy part. The destination far, far trickier.
Oh, there were places he could go. Mount Olympus for instance. Valhalla. But those ancient haunts were all about wine, women and song, and Death was hardly the life of the party. No, despite the human world being essentially one trouble spot after another for Death, he thought that’s where he’d find the most enjoyment. And beyond that, he didn’t intend to let the energy he’d expended on preparation go to waste.
It’d been particularly tedious gaining permission from the Oracle of Amun to become fully human for the span of his week-long vacation. Really! One would think that after centuries on the job he could be trusted not to run amuck like some new god who’d only just received the proverbial breath of life that came from human belief.
No. The human world it was. For some reason—not that he’d tried very hard to examine it—he couldn’t seem to shake the notion that’s where he needed to go for his vacation.
Death frowned as he mulled over the collection of vehicles. An elusive worry skittered along the boundaries of his psyche, a thought just out of reach.
He shook it off and decided on the vintage Aston Martin DB5, its early fame a result of the James Bond movies that were so popular in their day. With a slight nod of his head, Death slipped behind the steering wheel. It was the perfect automobile for Atticus Denali.
Decision made, he now faced the moment of truth. Where to go?
It was the last choice, the last bit of power he could wield until it was time to return home and take the mantle of Grim Reaper from his brothers, the now-acting Brothers Grim.
A laugh escaped at the pun. But Death knew that even if
his brothers had been present, they would have rolled their eyes and discounted his sense of humor.
Oh, they thought him lacking. Dull. A stick in the mud.
He’d come to think of himself as a stone under a constant drip of responsibility. And from that analogy was born the desire for a holiday.
Where to go?
Big cities held a wealth of entertainment opportunities. But they were teeming with bodies—literally. He’d often marveled at how desperately the dead clung to their overcrowded environments. One would think they’d be happy to let go and move on. They frequently weren’t.
The last time he’d been required to gather up a bunch of farmers and herd them in the direction of the ghostways was during the plague. And even then, it wasn’t a battle to get them moving along as it so often was with the city dwellers. A quick flash of the scythe and the farmers were on their way. They understood the cycle of life and death. They saw it around them every day. They accepted it as necessary, unlike city dwellers who seemed to think death was an option, something to be scheduled and rescheduled in one of those multi-tasking cellular phones they were so enamored with.
What would Atticus Denali choose? Death asked himself, trying to get into the new persona, his vacation identity.
And the answer surprised him. Land wherever he landed and wing it! Leave the destination up to chance.
The elusive worry returned, skittering along Death’s spine, momentarily reminding him of the nervous ghost stallion that had been retired when the idea of the four horsemen became passé. Just as well, really, the horse added an unpredictable element to the business of seeing souls on their way. Death shook the oddly unsettling sensation off as pre-holiday jitters.
Leave the destination up to chance? he mused.
Well, why not?
* * * * *
“Got a live one on the phone, Bryn! But you’re going to need to put a hustle on if you want to collect. Double your fee if you go right now!”
Bryn DePalo sighed, knowing it would be wishful thinking to assume the caller on the other end hadn’t heard the comment. But before she could reach the phone, much less wrest it away from this week’s temporary assistant, Sheri was reading back an address and saying, “She’s on her way. Cash due when services are performed. We don’t bill.” And then the receiver was slammed into its cradle with the energy of a victorious NBA player dunking the ball.
“Hot damn! This is better than telemarketing,” Sheri said and Bryn resolved to have yet another conversation with Marietta. To date she’d had five of them but she refused to lose her optimism. One of these days she’d be able to convince the woman who ran a temporary agency to stop sending “help” as a way of showing how grateful she was Bryn had managed to send the ghost of her abusive ex-husband packing.
It was all in a day’s work for Bryn, and though she often bartered her services for things she needed—the small office space with living quarters in a run-down, nearly abandoned office park being one of them—Marietta had paid Bryn in cash and as far as Bryn was concerned, the matter was settled. Unfortunately, Marietta didn’t feel the same way.
Sighing again, Bryn picked up the piece of paper with the potential client’s information written in large, bold, purple script. She didn’t bother reminding Sheri that her duties did not include answering the phone. Today was Friday and Monday would see a new assistant on her doorstep.
“You need backup?” Sheri asked.
Bryn rubbed her neck. The truth of the matter was she doubted she’d be going anywhere once she called the potential client back. “I’ll be fine.” She looked at her watch and felt a bubble of relief. “Hey, it’s close enough to quitting time. Why don’t you go ahead and get a jump on the traffic.”
Sheri surged from her chair with a jangle of bracelets. “You’re the best!” She opened the bottom desk drawer and pulled out a purple and green purse large enough to carry a medium-sized dog in. “Oh, by the way, lover boy called ten times. He finally broke down and asked for you on the last one. I told him you were seeing someone else and he needed to get a life.”
Bryn groaned. “Sheri—”
A laugh interrupted the half-hearted reprimand. Sheri shook her head and sent her multiple earrings swinging. “Don’t thank me, Bryn. It was no biggie. See you on Monday, maybe, unless Marietta thinks my services are needed more urgently elsewhere. Have a good one!” And within seconds she was gone in a cloud of perfume.
Bryn reclaimed her desk chair and made the call. Busy. She waited a few minutes and repeated it. Busy.
Her stomach tightened with worry. Money was short and she couldn’t afford to get a reputation for not showing up. A small laugh escaped. As though being called a “ghost exorcist” wasn’t a bad enough label.
Still, the small article in one of the freebee newspapers had generated some real business. It had also led to a lot of prank phone calls and several that were downright creepy. Those had made her wish she did have backup, maybe a tall, dark and handsome guy who could also serve as her boyfriend.
Right. Boyfriends were harder to come by than clients and often carried more baggage than the ghosts she sent packing.
“Lover boy,” as Sheri called Mark Bildner, was the perfect example.
Bryn wanted someone who could accept her as she was, could accept what she did for a living. Mark had, but only because of his fixation with his mother’s ghost. And despite the daily calls and the weekly delivery of flowers, she wouldn’t go out with him again. She’d made that clear enough times that her conscience didn’t bother her when she screened her calls and dropped the flowers he sent off at a local nursing home.
She sighed, reminded herself it wasn’t as though she never got asked out, she did. She just hadn’t met the right man and she didn’t see any point in pretending to be something she wasn’t or denying what she was.
Been there, done that, Bryn thought and a familiar knot of pain formed in her chest along with images of her parents—conservative, church-going people who’d been content not to have children but were given an unexpected “gift” late in life—a gift that had, by their own admission, turned into their worst nightmare.
Bryn tried the phone number again. It was still busy.
She pulled a map program up on the computer and typed in the address. It was far enough away she needed to get moving if she were going to make it there in a reasonable amount of time, but not so far it would be a huge waste of effort if she reached someone on her cell phone and ended up turning around part-way there.
Regardless of what her mother and father had accused her of in the chilly conversation that sealed their estrangement and finally allowed her to move to the west coast with no regrets, Bryn had no interest in “feeding the paranoia of mentally sick individuals” or “stealing from the misguided and lost”.
Either there was a ghost that needed to be sent on its way or there wasn’t. She wasn’t a shrink or a counselor. She wasn’t a witch or a con-artist.
She was just someone who wanted to use her strange, sometimes scary talent to make a difference. Because as terrifying and heartbreaking as dealing with disenfranchised spirits could be, the thing that gave Bryn nightmares was the image of herself as a ghost, a specter trapped in a bleak eternity by regrets.
“I’ve got to stop thinking about them,” she muttered, recognizing the downward spiral that was always triggered by thoughts of her parents.
Bryn got in her car and drove, singing along with the radio in order to keep her mind cleared of worries and unhappy memories.
She tried the phone number one last time as she turned onto the street where her prospective client lived. Still busy, but this time she flipped the cell closed and tossed it onto the passenger seat.
“Well, ready or not, here I come,” she said, relieved that the neighborhood looked respectable. The houses were old, most of them single-story, the stucco painted in peach, blue, green or white. The yards sporting browned patches of grass and a couple of trees, most with
an overabundance of fruit scattered and rotting at the base—the major downside to fruit trees planted for shade.
Bryn checked the address and the name attached to it, Claudette Haddon, then found the house. It was on the far corner, the paint a little more faded than the rest, the yard a little worse for the summer heat, the curb in front of it blocked by cars.
She slowed her car to a crawl, winced at the sound of loud music blaring from the side yard of the house next to Claudette’s. There was a moment of blissful silence, followed immediately by band members arguing, then more noise, the changes agreed upon not improving the song.
Bryn rounded the corner and did a u-turn, came back to park across from the house. She grimaced as she climbed out of the car and got the full effect of the music. Must be a determined ghost to stick around and listen to this. Or a trapped one.
An elderly woman wearing an old-fashioned cooking apron opened the door before Bryn could knock. The expression on her face was so grateful Bryn braced herself, knowing how easily and quickly the expression could give way to disappointment or anger.
“You came,” Mrs. Haddon said, tears forming at the corner of her eyes, her hands reaching for Bryn’s hand and clasping it between warm, boney fingers that shook slightly though her grip was strong enough to pull Bryn into the house.
Relief surged through Bryn as she felt the faint tendrils of a phantom breeze marking the presence of a ghost.
“Do you need part of the payment up front?” Mrs. Haddon asked. “I don’t have all of it. I’m afraid I don’t drive anymore. My son usually takes me but the bank is nearby.”
Bryn cringed and shook her head. Dealing with the financial aspects of what she did was the worst part of it, made even more horrible by Sheri’s earlier “help”.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Haddon, my assistant isn’t supposed to answer the phone. Can we sit down somewhere and talk about the haunting first? Then I can give you a better estimate of the fee.”