Death's Courtship

by Jory Strong

  “Do you hear that?” Bryn asked as howling winds gave way to a screaming, otherworldly guitar.

  “Yes, unfortunately,” Atticus said.

  The door opened and a bare-chested man staggered out, baggy shorts a blinding swirl of color against a surfer tan, his hands covering his ears. Through the doorway Bryn saw a ghostly rocker lost in the ecstasy of sound, his knees on the ground, his back arched so his head was inches above the floor, the guitar across his chest parallel to it.

  His eyes opened and widened, as if he was surprised by his increased audience, as if he knew why they were here. The music grew more frantic, more urgent. The distinctive scent of a smoked joint settled like a cloud around Bryn as Stoner slammed the door behind him, the sound a drumbeat in the last chord of music before silence reigned.

  “Dude! You came. You saw. You heard,” Stoner said, his focus on Atticus.

  Sheri stepped forward so she was next to Bryn. She waved her hand in front of Stoner’s face. “Reality check here. Who did I say I worked for this week? Who did I say I was going to ask for help?”

  Stoner blinked. Once. Twice. “Oh, right. Yeah. Got it. A cool chick.” His eyes found Bryn’s. “Babe! Thanks for coming around. I’m short on cash but I can show you a good time.” His gaze moved down, settled on her breasts for an appreciative moment before moving on, his double blink an indication he’d registered that her hand in Atticus’ meant they were a couple.

  With an exasperated sigh Sheri once again waved her fingers in front of Stoner’s face. “Did you make those calls? Did you find out anything?”

  “Oh yeah. Yeah.” Stoner used his thumb to point toward the closed door. “Dude just found out his band was going on tour, opening act. Had some friends over and partied to celebrate only he overdosed in the living room and everybody was too wasted to notice for a couple of days.”

  “Does that help?” Sheri asked Bryn. “Do you know how to get rid of him?”

  Bryn nodded. “The ghost needs to be convinced that a better, bigger gig is waiting at the end of a ghostway.”

  “Oh man,” Sheri breathed. “This is so mind-blowing.”

  “We might as well go inside,” Bryn said, hoping the music wouldn’t start up again.

  It was a useless thought. As soon as the door swung open they were held in place by noise so loud it shook the house, loosened small chunks of drywall from the ceiling and showered them down between the doorway and where the singer screamed into a microphone.

  Bryn pulled her hand away from Atticus’ so she could cover her ears. Sheri and Stoner did the same.

  With each chord of music the ghost appeared to grow more solid. When the last note sounded he grabbed the guitar’s neck and proceeded to use the instrument as a club, smashing it against a low stage and speakers that hadn’t been there moments before, metal strings squealing as wood shattered.

  “Dude,” Stoner said. “It’s shades of The Who. But nobody trashes the stage anymore.”

  In a blink of an eye the damage was undone and the guitarist was reaching for the same instrument he’d just destroyed, slipping the strap over his shoulder. As his fingers settled on the frets, Bryn opened her mouth, but before she could try to reason with him the heavy engine noise of a bus overridden by Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven blared from behind her.

  “No way,” Stoner said.

  “Yeah, way,” Sheri said, both of them turning a split second before Bryn.

  Amazement left Bryn gaping as she watched the ghost bus pass through the Aston Martin and come to a stop in the middle of the front yard. Its windows were tinted black to match the color of the body.

  “The Coachman,” Atticus muttered and Bryn’s attention moved to the lettering on the side of the bus—white, finger bone segments spelled out Charon.

  A door opened on the bus. Stairs slid out and were immediately covered by a blood-red carpet. Atticus groaned as the next-to-the-youngest of his brothers stepped out wearing a cowboy hat and dressed in a black rhinestone-studded suit.

  Sheri said, “He looks totally country, Bryn. Is that Johnny Cash?”

  “Bummer, man,” Stoner said. “I was expecting Zeppelin.”

  An icy presence in the doorway had them stepping back and off the stoop, parting as the ghost inside was drawn to the spectacle outside. One look at what was waiting for him and he stepped out into the sunlight, strummed his fingers over the guitar strings and yelled, “Are you ready to rock ‘n roll? Are you ready to party?”

  Without a backward glance he crossed the distance and scrambled into the darkened tour bus as Stairway to Heaven became The Rain Song. The man in black took his hat off in a sweeping gesture so much like Suriel the Trumpeter’s parting move that Bryn wasn’t surprised at all when a tarot card fluttered to the ground.

  She stepped forward and retrieved it, once again finding herself in possession of the Death card.

  “Parting is such sweet sorrow but we’ll meet again,” a voice similar to Atticus’ said. But when she glanced up, the coachman’s back was to her, the red carpet and stairs dissolving as the door closed and the bus drove away, disappearing within seconds.

  “Awesome, dude. I mean, dudette. Totally awesome,” Stoner said. “You guys want to come in for some fresh tunes and a brewski?”

  “I think we’ll pass,” Bryn said. “We’ve got to grab some breakfast.” She risked a glance and a raised eyebrow at Atticus.

  “Bryn and I need to be on our way,” he said.

  “That’s cool. No problem.” Stoner stepped back inside the house and, after a quick goodbye to Sheri, Bryn and Atticus were driving away.

  “This one is different,” Bryn said, studying the Death tarot card. “It looks newer. No that’s not right. It’s old, but maybe not as old as the last one. The design seems more modern and the colors are almost psychedelic.” She snickered. “I can almost imagine Woodstock in the sixties and a woman wearing no bra or panties doing a reading between bong hits and bouts of free love.”

  Atticus laughed. Not that he didn’t intend a stern lecture regarding trespass and the unauthorized use of his possessions when he saw one of his brothers next, but it was hard to be mad when Bryn seemed to take such delight in the calling cards they were using.

  Her eyebrows drew together in puzzlement. “I just wish I knew what was going on, especially with the cards. Yesterday I said I thought your being there is what made the difference, now I’m sure of it.”

  “Not just me. It’s the two of us together. Nothing like this has happened to you before in dealing with ghosts, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can say the same and I’ve certainly seen my share of the dead.”

  Bryn sighed and looked down at the card. “Do you think this is a message?”

  “I suspect it’s a little something to amuse Death.”

  Surprise lifted Bryn’s face and Atticus wanted to kick himself.

  “You make it sound like Death is an actual entity.”

  “A hazard of the trade.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “I never underestimate the power of belief.”

  Bryn blinked, her thoughts rearranging themselves, her reality shifting. She didn’t know for sure where the ghostways led, but she’d always suspected a person’s belief system played a part in what happened to them after they died.

  Was it such a stretch that people might also create a personal vision of Death? She’d felt certain Atticus’ presence was responsible for the strange ghost encounters, so wasn’t it equally possible his belief was strong enough to give form to some supernatural power that might have been there all along, opening the ghostways but invisible to her?

  Still, Bryn shivered when she thought about the manifestation’s words as he turned to leave and how closely his voice resembled Atticus’. Parting is such sweet sorrow but we’ll meet again. Death might be inevitable but she really didn’t want to think about dying, especially now, when she felt more alive than ever before.

  Bryn slip
ped the Death card into her purse. “You called him The Coachman.”

  “Charon the Coachman,” Atticus clarified.

  Bryn nodded, remembering the name on the side of the tour bus.

  Atticus said, “Charon originated with the Greeks. He was seen as a stern old man who piloted souls across the Lethe, the river of forgetfulness, on a ferry. In later years he drove a sleek black coach pulled by black horses and came into the human world to retrieve souls. As you can see, he’s upgraded. One can only wonder if the manifestation as Suriel the Trumpeter made him leery of pulling the horses from their pasture in this modern era.”

  Bryn snorted, then gave in and laughed, enjoying the expression on his face, as well as his wit. She loved his humor. In fact she loved everything about Atticus so far.

  When she could finally contain her amusement, she asked, “How in the world do you know about Charon the Coachman and Suriel the Trumpeter?”

  “You might say it’s been handy in my line of work to know all the metaphors for Death.”

  She turned in her seat in order to study his face. “You have a hard job. I don’t think I could do it.”

  He shrugged. “I was born into the work. It’s all I’ve ever known.”

  Bryn rested her hand on his thigh, just inches away from where his erection strained the front of his trousers. “You want to know what I think?” she asked, unable to hide her smile when he took her hand and moved it to his cock.

  “Yes.” It was a groan forced into the shape of a word.

  “I think you’ve spent far too much time around death. What you need is a day outside, surrounded by nature and spent underneath a blue sky.” She glanced at the car clock. “Technically we slept through breakfast. Let’s skip it and have a picnic lunch. There’s a place just outside of town I’d like to share with you. It’s an old estate with a hiking trail that leads to this wonderful spot where you see the ocean. We can eat, and…”

  She rubbed her thumb along the ridge of his erection. Thrilled at the way his hips jerked and a moaned yes escaped.

  Chapter Seven

  The place Bryn described during their quick stop to gather lunch and a blanket was everything she’d said it would be and then some, Atticus thought as an ocean breeze brought the call of seabirds and the sound of the surf to the bluff where they lay, stomachs full, sun warm on their skins. Contrary to Bryn’s assumption, he spent quite a bit of time surrounded by nature and underneath the blue sky, often with a good book in hand.

  It thrilled him to learn that a love of the great outdoors was yet another thing they shared in common, and as he lay on his side, looking down at her, it was almost possible to forget that his brothers might be lurking unseen like voyeurs at a peep show. Almost being the word that momentarily kept his hand on her side rather than peeling her clothing off so he could make love to her.

  He was hard, his erection ever present, his penis thoroughly aroused and demanding relief. It appeared to be his natural state when he was with Bryn or thinking about her.

  Atticus glanced up and around, his expression apparently haunted since Bryn laughed and said, “We’re alone. As far as I know I’m the only local who has a key to the gate except for the lawyer. He’ll call me when the lawsuits over who inherits are decided and the place is sold. Until then I’m free to come here. The house has always been a big draw for local kids. Even without Caroline’s ghost, the place practically screams haunted but I’ve never seen any kids hanging around during the day. They save their dares for the night and these days they scare themselves since Caroline isn’t here.”

  “You liked her,” Atticus said, thinking about the silent film star Bryn had told him about and the antique framed photograph of a strikingly beautiful woman Bryn kept on one of her bookcases.

  “Yes. I think the estate lawyer had mixed feelings about hiring me to get her to leave. He’d grown up listening to stories about her from his grandfather and father. She was terrified of being forgotten, lost to a history no one cared about anymore. When I showed her the websites on the Internet dedicated to silent films and their stars, she wept.”

  Atticus nodded. “It’s hard for some people to let go of their fame or to accept just how fleeting it truly is.”

  “I think it was also hard for her to leave this estate,” Brynn said. “If I won the lottery, a miracle since I don’t play very often, I’d buy this place. I love it here. The gardens are overgrown and wild but somehow it seems perfect. The new owners will bulldoze over it in favor of landscaping. For sure they’ll raze the old house. That’s the California way for anyone with enough money to purchase prime real estate like this piece.”

  Atticus wanted to tell her he’d gift her with the estate as a wedding present. It was easy to imagine her joy and surprise, her pleasure. But this wasn’t his world to linger in.

  A hint of anxiety touched him. He had only six days left until his vacation was over and his mortal body surrendered. The thought of her hating him, turning away from him when he took her home with him was unbearable and yet the thought of leaving her behind, of waiting for her to die in order for them to be reunited was equally unthinkable.

  “Do you have family?” he asked, wondering again who would grieve for her.

  Bryn hesitated before saying, “No.”

  He wanted to probe, to find out if there were things left unsaid, a reconciliation she’d regret if it was left undone, but the sentences didn’t form easily. Emotion had never played a role in his work. He was not the judge of good or evil, right or wrong. Neither was he priest or confidant. He was completely impartial, his role defined as gatherer, herder, door opener, and occasional hunter.

  “How old were you when you first realized you could see ghosts?” he asked.

  “I was in third grade when I really understood. Always before I’d felt something, and sometimes there’d be a quick movement at the corner of my eye or a place in the room where the light seemed strange, but in third grade my teacher was killed in a car wreck. She came to her funeral and wept. Then as we were filing out of the church I looked back and saw a ghostway open. She stepped into it and disappeared. I thought maybe she was going to the cemetery.” Bryn laughed softly. “Then when I didn’t see her there, I thought she must have gone to heaven, shades of Star Trek with a voice-over saying, ‘Beam me up, Scotty’.”

  “Did you tell anyone what you saw?”

  She tensed in his arms and he was afraid she wouldn’t answer. Finally she said, “My parents.”

  “It didn’t go over well?”

  “No. It was blasphemy to them. They don’t believe there’s an afterlife until Judgment Day arrives.” Bryn reached up and ran her forefinger down his nose before tracing his lips. “Your turn. Tell me about your brothers.”

  The question jolted him, had him glancing around before he could stop himself. Her laughter sent heat to his checks and pulled his lips into a wry smile. Atticus looked down and met her eyes. “They’re a bit of a trial. I keep expecting them to appear out of nowhere.”

  “You’re close? You must be, to live and work together.”

  “They think me dull, a stick-in-the-mud,” he found himself blurting out.

  Bryn’s fingers made short work of the buttons on his shirt. His cock pulsed and his hips jerked when her fingertips brushed over his hardened nipple.

  “Dull? A stick-in-the-mud? I don’t think so,” she teased, her smile filling his heart with such joy, such contentment that he knew he’d move heaven and earth to ensure she’d always look at him with affection.

  “Bryn.” It was a pledge masquerading as a plea. His hand covered hers. An erotic shiver slid through his belly and penis, pulled his testicles tight to his body. Desire divided into two equally powerful needs and held him motionless, savoring the exquisite electric current each stroke over his nipple produced, even as his cock demanded its share of her attention.

  Atticus leaned down and captured her mouth with his. Her name was a silent litany, the sound of his heartbea
t, the throb in his penis.

  When the kiss ended he sat and shrugged out of his shirt, panted as Bryn did the same, making a provocative show of slowly undoing her blouse and slipping out of it.

  Hunger drove him to lean over and nuzzle her breasts before she could remove her bra, to suckle her nipples through the thin, ultra-feminine garment until she was writhing, pleading with him to let her take it off.

  He lifted his face. Recaptured the beaded nipple as soon as it was bared.

  More. All. The need to taste her, to be inside her, finally gave him the strength to leave her breast.

  He shed the rest of his clothing. Was glad her shorts and panties disappeared as quickly.

  Lips. Breasts. He paid homage again with his mouth and tongue. But when he would have positioned her on her back so he could trail kisses down to her soft, swollen folds, she said, “I have something I want to try. Something that’ll be even better for both of us.”

  Atticus let her push him to the blanket. Near mindless pleasure engulfed him as soon as he knew what she intended.

  Lips. Nipples. Abdomens. Similar but different. Masculine versus feminine as she knelt above him and kissed downward.

  He bucked when her mouth reached his cock. He clutched at her hips and held her in place so he could run his tongue through her wet slit and over the exposed head of her clitoris.

  Sensation bombarded him. Orgasm threatened with each touch of her tongue, each pull of her lips on his penis.

  He lapped, thrust, sucked at her wet woman’s flesh until she shuddered in release first, her ecstasy staving off his own. Primitive male instinct took hold of him in the wildness of the setting. He forced himself away from Bryn’s feminine cleft and positioned her on her hands and knees.

  She parted her thighs instantly, lowered onto her elbows, sending a bolt of lust through Atticus. He palmed the satin globes of her buttocks, was completely mesmerized by her cunt, its lips parted, inviting, begging for him to mount her and thrust his cock inside her.