His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) (5 page)

V

Rules of the Game

I stared at the feline enigma from the open doorway.

Elliott sat still, returning the stare. While my face undoubtedly displayed incredulous shock, his merely looked bored. Finally, with a quiet grunt of impatience, he broke the silence.

“Would you mind coming inside so that we may continue our discussion unmolested?”

There was, of course, only one possible response to that.

“You’re a cat.”

Elliott rolled his eyes and stood. He stretched in that long, slow, sinuous way reserved for felines and attractive women. Flipping his tail in the air, he strutted away from me toward the blue couch. “I am afraid you are repeating yourself, Reaper.”

I watched his progress from across the room. He might sound human, and even display human traits, but his movements were marked with a fluid, unmistakably feline grace. In the end, Elliott was more cat than man.

At least, I think.

“A
talking
cat.”

Elliott shook his head and mewed softly. It was the first truly catlike sound he’d made. I once read that no matter how proficient someone becomes at a second language, their natural tendency is to curse in their native tongue.

Winning friends and influencing people wherever I go.

Elliott’s body tensed just before he leaped casually to the back of the couch. After kneading the fabric to his satisfaction, he turned to face me, settling onto his haunches. “That is one of many reasons I would prefer that you come inside. If the wrong people overheard our conversation, it might prove inconvenient.”

I glanced instinctively outside the door. No one was visible. Even though the single bulb on the stairs lit the hallway poorly, there weren’t many places for an eavesdropper to hide. Of course, there might be any number of neighbors concealed within their apartments.

Stepping inside, I closed the door. It dutifully locked behind me.

“Excellent, Reaper, we are making progress. Now, come and sit.”

I grumbled sourly, stubbornly refusing to comply.

Ever have one of those days? You know, the kind that starts with waking up in a damn morgue to find out you’ve been dead six months; then learning that you’ve known a Grim Reaper your entire life; then, of course, finding out you’re one too; and then meeting a mysterious supernatural…
entity
…who insists you’re the savior of mankind—assuming you can hide long enough from the literal forces of Hell; and then, finally, ending up in small, dark Chinatown apartment where a talking black
house pet
starts giving you orders.

Of course you haven’t.

My head started to pound and the room spun. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take before my brain decided to abandon me completely to a straitjacket and a rubber room.

Which might just be a welcome change.

I stumbled to the couch, where I collapsed more than sat. I didn’t even care if the cat thought I was doing it at his behest.

Up close, Elliott was indistinguishable from any other house cat—save for his enormous size. His black fur faded to dark brown along the chest and abdomen, which had not been visible across the room. There were small tufts at the tips of his ears and between the toes of his paws. His fur was meticulously groomed, and his teeth shone a bright white.

He clearly took care of himself.

“You have me at a disadvantage, sir.”

“They’re called opposable thumbs.” I waggled my thumbs at Elliott.

The large cat mewed again, then rolled his eyes and grumbled in a more human display of his emotion.

I regretted my flippant remark almost immediately. Elliott wasn’t what I expected—how could I have reasonably expected this? But like it or not, he was my best source of information and perhaps my only source of help. I’ve always used humor and sarcasm as a shield, but I might have to lower those shields if I was going to get out of my current…predicament.

When Elliott finally spoke, he did so slowly—as if addressing a slow child. “You know my name; I do not know yours.”

“Oh, right. My name is Henry.”

Elliott raised…well, not an eyebrow exactly; the area above his left eye, I suppose. His meaning was, nonetheless, still clear.

I hesitated, feeling angry and confrontational. Still, I had no reason to withhold my name, especially if I wanted his help.

“Henry Michael Richards.”

“I see.” The large cat looked out the window into the night, his expression unreadable. After the silence stretched out for several minutes, he finally turned back to me. “Tell me, Reaper, why did you choose to be an Agent?”

I laughed out loud, the sound angry and harsh.

He looked at me quizzically, clearly confused by my reaction.

So I told Elliott my story. I started with meeting Michelle at my brother’s New Year’s Eve party, and Joshua’s unusual interest in me that night. The night in Michelle’s apartment was still hazy, but I shared what I could remember. My return trip and night in the morgue was all too clear.

“Wait,” Elliott interrupted. “You died only six months ago?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Here in Seattle?”

Again, I nodded.

“And you were returned without your desire or your consent?”

I nodded for the third time. “Joshua found that concerning.” My own feelings were much stronger.

Elliott growled softly. “To say the least. I have never heard of such a thing…it may be unprecedented.”

I, of course, knew more—more than I wanted to know. Chris, though, had been very explicit.

…a friend might be your enemy
…

Without telling him about Chris, I couldn’t talk about the dying man under the overpass—or anything after leaving the morgue—and I desperately wanted to talk about the man under the overpass.

But I didn’t know Elliott yet, and really wasn’t sure if I could put my faith in him. Joshua seemed to trust the cat, but I wasn’t certain how much I could trust Joshua—a man I’d known my entire life, but obviously never really knew.

I’m not a fan of secrecy and subterfuge, but for now, reluctantly, it might be best to heed Chris’s warning. I paused for a while trying to figure out what to say next, before lamely finishing, “and then I came here.”

If my new, furry black companion noticed my hesitation, or the parts I skimmed over, he gave no indication. Elliott settled down on his paws to study me. The silence stretched on for what seemed like forever. Through the window, the birth of dawn had begun as a slow brightening of the sky.

After several minutes, I started to think the cat wouldn’t say more; perhaps he expected something from me. I cleared my throat, but couldn’t find anything else to say.

Elliott finally relieved my discomfort; he sat up straight and tall, looking down his short, feline nose as he cleared his throat. It was comically reminiscent of a college professor about to lecture his students. All he needed were glasses and a tweed jacket.

“I have never given a Reaper their orientation before,” he began, “but I doubt it can be too difficult.” Elliott glanced out the window as the first rays of morning sun broke over the Seattle skyline. He was highlighted in that clear, pure light.

“Death is largely automatic; the soul departs as the body fails, and moves on according to the beliefs the person held in life. In those very rare cases that someone truly believes in nothing—is unable to accept even the possibility of something more—the soul disperses, returning to the magic that forged it.”

Elliott paused dramatically. “There have always, unfortunately, been exceptions.”

His attention returned to me and he took two steps forward, closing the gap to an intimate distance. “A small percentage of deceased souls do not make the crossing on their own. They linger around the deceased body, or they move in the wrong direction entirely. Some simply refuse to die at all. Reapers exist to deal with these lost and stubborn souls.”

An uncomfortable weight settled in the pit of my stomach. “What exactly do you mean by
deal
with
?”

“Usually nothing too dramatic. Most need a few simple words of encouragement…a hand pointing the way.”

The weight grew ever so slightly heavier. “Usually?”

“Well…” Elliott dipped his head briefly down between his shoulders—apparently his feline approximation of a shrug. “There is occasional need for a Reaper to be more…
forceful
.”

“Why…” I stopped for a moment, swallowing; my mouth and throat had grown very dry. “Why not just leave them alone?”

“Left unattended, such lost and stubborn souls become the stories that have long haunted mankind. Vampires, mummies, zombies, ogres…many horror movie monsters have very real origins, and most of them began life as a soul that failed to cross over at their time.”

The weight blossomed into a frozen boulder, chilling my entire body to the core. “What if I refuse?”

Elliott took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as his tail swished. “Excuse me?”

“I didn’t agree to this. What if I refuse to be a Reaper…refuse to offer words of encouragement…refuse to be
forceful
?”

Elliott paused a moment, apparently dumbfounded, before he abruptly started grooming a portion of his chest hair. Maybe it was the way he gathered his thoughts, or he felt a need to build the suspense.

Or, perhaps, you know…he was just a cat.

I couldn’t imagine why anyone would ever
want
to be a Reaper. It sounded awful, and dangerous. Any intelligent person would avoid it at all cost.

Elliott’s attention returned to me as unexpectedly as it had left; he continued as if there’d been no pause at all. “Reapers have many rules—things they should do, things they should not—but there are only three
unbreakable rules
.” His face inched closer to mine until I could see little but his large golden eyes.

“First, it is the duty of all Agents to protect the magic. When mortals learn the truth, the magic weakens. Some mortals will know you as a Reaper, others as a man; some may even know both, though that should be rare. Under no circumstances may any mortal learn the two are actually one and the same.”

So not only was it dangerous for Steve to know the truth, but it might also be dangerous for me to tell him.

“Second, you may befriend humans, at your discretion, and you are free to interact with other Agents any way you choose. However, you must never have any sort of…relations…with any mortal. Even so much as a passionate kiss is forbidden.”

Elliott moved uncomfortably close, until our noses nearly touched. His hot breath washed over me; I expected to smell rotten meat, and braced myself for the stench. Instead the scent was fresh and pleasant.

Mint.

The unexpected incongruity was somehow far more disturbing than my expectation.

He continued on. “Finally, and this is the most important, you are strictly forbidden from arbitrarily interfering in matters of life and death. As a Reaper, you will receive assignments; you may neither reap, nor spare, an unassigned soul, except to save your own life.”

“If you want to be a Reaper, you must follow the rules, but I am aware of no rule that requires you to be a
good
Reaper.”

I considered Elliott’s words carefully. “And what if I break the rules?”

“A seasoned Reaper might be occasionally allowed to…
stretch
…the rules. For someone like you, brand new and unproven, it would mean dismissal.”

His bright yellow eyes locked on mine. “Dismissal, Reaper, means death.”

Elliott turned suddenly, batting at something invisible in the air. He stalked to the far end of the couch, where he lay down in a small pool of sunlight that had come with the dawn. Once again, he started to work at his chest hair.

A chill ran through me as I realized that Chris hadn’t simply been interfering at the overpass. He’d kept me from unwittingly breaking rules I hadn’t even known about.

And in doing so, he’d saved my life.

“So,” Elliott said to regain my wandering attention. He was again only inches from my face, though I hadn’t noticed his approach. “I just need your name, and I’ll have everything ready in the morning.”

I frowned, confused. “I already told you, it’s Henry.”

He sighed, close enough again for me to smell the mint on his breath. “Not your old name, your new one.”

“I’m sorry…what?”

“Henry Michael Richards is dead, Reaper,” Elliott said without emotion. “Every Agent chooses a new name.”

A trap door swung open beneath me; my heart lurched, and my mouth grew dry. I’d lost so much already. The only connection to who I’d been was my name.

And now they were trying to take that too.

I stood, beginning to pace the room.

Every last damn thing had been stripped from me: my body, my family, my life, my freedom, even my very right to choose. All in the name of some fucking war between people I didn’t know, over God knows what.