His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) (8 page)

Terrifying.

Inescapable.

It was time to wear the uniform.

It was time to be a Reaper.

IX

The Reaping

I took several deep breaths, staring through the glowing form at the houses beyond. The street was empty; other than Elliott, I was completely and utterly alone.

The cat watched me quizzically, looking for what had caught my attention.

He couldn’t see it.

“What is it, Reaper?”

I took a deep, shaky breath.

“It’s time to suit up,” I said, partially in explanation, but mostly to steel my own nerves.

The cat nodded. He sat on his haunches in the street, watching me with curiosity. If he had any advice, he chose not to share it.

No one had instructed me on this basic job function. Joshua had tried, but I’d refused to listen. It was my own damn fault, but I was furious with him all the same.

No one could expect me to move forward when I didn’t know how.

Right?

Maybe it was something simple, like the locks.

But then again, maybe I shouldn’t risk it without knowing more.

It was common sense, after all. I should find Joshua…have him walk me through it.

Elliott’s voice cut across my struggle. “What are you waiting for, then?”

“I don’t know how,” I responded sheepishly.

Elliott raised his eyebrow, making it clear we both knew I was lying. “I am confident the robe does the hard part.”

I knew he was right, had known it even before he spoke, that I could and would do this. It was no different than the locks, or the clothing, or the money. All I had to do was imagine myself as a Reaper.

An image began to form in my mind—Henry Michael Richards as the Grim Reaper. It wasn’t exactly what Joshua had revealed to me, his own unique interpretation of the universally recognized figure, nor was it the classic decaying ghoul from the movies. My picture borrowed aspects of both, with touches of my own unique personality.

I fought desperately to clear my head, to picture anything better…friendlier…happier. The harder I struggled against the image, the clearer it became. When you fight to
not
think about something, you can ultimately think of nothing else.

A bell tolled in my head, much harsher and more powerful than the simple vibrations that previously answered my requests. My body was bathed in that same bright, shimmering light, but the waves that passed over me weren’t of comforting warmth; they were the icy cold of the grave.

Despite my disgust, I watched with morbid fascination as the skin on my hands shriveled and vanished. A tall, black oak handle, polished until it gleamed, appeared in my bony right fist. The weight of my chosen Reaper’s cloak settled heavily on my shoulders.

The nearby streetlights flickered erratically during my transformation. One light across the street exploded; a shower of sparks rained down. Like a line of mirrors in the fiery illumination, the house windows revealed in stark detail what I’d fought so hard to hide.

I was dressed all in midnight black: a button-down shirt with open collar, tucked into black jeans; heavy motorcycle boots; and a thick floor-length black leather duster that would make Neo weep.

The scythe in my right hand stood over seven feet tall, carved from a single piece of highly polished black oak. It twisted in an odd helix that would allow me to easily swing it, two-handed, around my entire body.  The handle’s length was carved with a twisted rope pattern that gave my hands a secure grip no matter how I held it.

The half-crescent blade was over four feet long and tapered to a wicked point. Its mirrored surface was so perfect it seemed to almost cast its own light. A subtle flame pattern was etched over the entire blade.

If you’re going to have the biggest damn knife in any room, it should at least be tasteful.

I wore no hood, hat or cowl. My skull, shockingly stark white, was on display for all to see. It grinned menacingly back at me from the reflections, seeming to dare the world to do its worst.

I was a monster released straight from the world of nightmares.

I felt strong.

I felt confident.

For the first time in days, I felt in control.

And that feeling made me nauseous. Frigid cold settled directly into my bones. A rough shadow passed over my mind, like oil across water.

I wanted desperately to tear off the disguise—to prove, somehow, that it
was
nothing more than a disguise. If I wore this face too long, it might actually drive me insane.

Or, worse yet, I might start to like it.

Elliott examined me critically. With a nod toward the scythe, he sniffed. “And for what, exactly, are we compensating?”

With a quick pull, I whipped the scythe through the air. It whistled as it flew, until it struck the closest window that held my reflection. The blade silently sliced a clean eight-foot line through glass, brick, wood and steel, as if passing through butter.

A dark smiled crawled across my lips. “Everything.”

My companion raised his eyebrow. He looked from the scythe to the wound it had opened in the house façade without cracking, bending or shattering any of the materials. The cat would never admit it, but I could clearly see he was impressed.

Turning back to me, he spoke dryly. “People will have a very hard time explaining that.”

I winced. My testosterone-fueled show of bravado might ruin some poor homeowner’s day.

Hell, their whole week.

Hopefully this house was abandoned, like so many of its neighbors.

Elliott smiled at my obvious discomfort; he may have even purred. He was, however, above gloating. With a nod down the street, he asked, “Shall we?”

Two blocks away, a single house lit up with the pulsing red beacon. My destination was obvious, and the way before us clear.

I took a deep breath, laying the handle of the scythe against my shoulder. Still, I hesitated.

“What are we waiting for, Reaper?”

I shrugged. “Literally any other option.”

The street grew darker as we advanced; Elliott once again started to glance around suspiciously. It was as if he expected a thief to sneak up and steal, well…his tail, I suppose—his only real possession. “I do not like this place, Reaper.”

My anxiety began to ratchet up, my breath shortening, my pulse racing. I tried to watch all directions at once—see everything. Bony fingers tightened around the scythe’s shaft. “I’m sure it’s perfectly safe.” The words probably sounded as unconvincing as they felt.

Across the street, three women stood together on the porch of an obviously abandoned house. The front door and one window were missing. Half the garage was collapsed inward. Weeds and grass grew nearly three feet tall.

Just a heartbeat before, the porch had been empty.

One woman appeared middle-aged, perhaps the mother of her late-teen companion. The third was much older, slightly stooped, with a hand on what remained of the crumbled railing. All three wore the same simple white dress, with long hair pulled back: one blond, one graying, and one stark white.

A thick, grainy fog swirled about the trio, in constant motion despite the lack of breeze.

“Elliott,” I whispered, “who are they?”

He turned to look, squinting as he did so. “Who?”

I pointed at the porch. “Those three.”

The teenager raised a single finger to her lips, shaking her head with a small, wicked smile.

My companion squinted a second time. “Reaper, there is nobody there.”

A shiver ran the length of my body, and the deathly cold cooled another notch.

“My mistake.”

Nodding, the oldest woman settled onto a chair that didn’t exist and, unsupported, began to rock slowly.

I acknowledged her with a nod of my own, then turned quickly away.

The red light, tour guide through the strange world of my new life, led us from the three eerie spectators to the last house on the street.

There was nothing to set it apart from the rest of the neighborhood. Maybe it was a little less run down, maybe not. Without my blazing beacon, I’d never have picked out this residence from its neighbors.

The door, at least, was closed, unlike many others on the street. It was locked with four deadbolts.

I took a deep breath, resisting the urge to look back. The situation felt ominous enough, even without the strange women watching my back.

If they were there at all.

“Ready?”

Elliott looked from me to the door. His tail swished and he emitted a brief whine. “No.”

I addressed my thoughts to the door, asking it politely to open.

The locks groaned as they struggled to obey; they clearly had not moved in a very long time. After nearly a minute of effort, the door swung slowly inward with a creak.

Putrid stench struck me like a physical wall: blood, death and decay. Beyond the threshold, the house was dark…and quiet; spooky damn quiet.

My heart started to throb in my ears. It was hard to believe that anything could be alive here. Basic instinct tells every living creature to avoid places like that house at all cost. You’d have to be an idiot not to run; given the option, I would have done just that.

I’m not a brave man—I just
didn’t
have any other option, and I didn’t understand how dangerous my new life had become.

With a deep breath, I stepped inside. To Elliott’s credit, he didn’t hesitate to join me.

Well…not long, at least.

The interior of the home was pitch dark. It took tense minutes for my eyes to adjust, while my survival instincts pleaded to run screaming.

I stood in a small entry, separated from the rest of the house by a wall directly in front of the door. Both sides of the wall opened into the next room. A three-legged, semi-circular table against the wall held a vase of dead flowers, a worn wallet, and a ring of keys. Everything was covered in a thick layer of cobweb and dust.

I’ve never liked guns; not much raises my anxiety faster. At no point have I fired or even held one. Until the seconds leading up to my death, I can honestly say I’d never heard a gun in action, except in the movies.

Despite my inexperience, the sound of a pumping shotgun was unmistakable.

I dropped hard to the floor barely an instant before a concussive thunderclap split the air, disintegrating a section of entry wall. The explosion consumed the tabletop, along with its precious few items. Behind where I’d been standing, the door was blown violently backward on its hinges; small pieces broke off and flew out into the yard.

Just a moment slower and I’d have been dead.

You know, again.

Elliott’s fur was covered in a layer of fine white sheetrock powder. Otherwise, he seemed unharmed; his size had put him well below the shooter’s aim.

Apparently our would-be assailant hadn’t considered a two-foot-tall intruder.

A loud ringing filled my ears, but I could still hear pieces of wall crumbling, falling to the floor.

I mouthed a single-word question to Elliott:
Reloading?

The cat dipped his head down between his shoulders in that odd shrugging gesture.

Just great.

“If ya ain’t dead, ge’ da fuck oudda my house.”

The words were slow, thick and slurred. It sounded more like a rumbling truck engine than human speech. There might have been an accent, but through my ringing ears it was impossible to be certain. If molasses could growl through a mouth full of marbles, it would have that voice.

I considered my options. It was unlikely I could wait the shooter out. According to Elliott’s brief orientation, if he was going to drop dead on his own, I wouldn’t be here at all.

I needed a glimpse of the situation beyond the entry wall. Standing up to look through the large shotgun blast hole seemed a poor choice. What remained of the wall was not wide though, the edge only inches from where my head had fallen.

Grumbling under my breath, I crawled slowly along on my side until the scene beyond was revealed.

The living room was overtaken with mountains of garbage; open food cans, consumed microwave dinners, and depleted bags of dried goods filled the space in molding, haphazard piles. An army of insects scaled the peaks, working every surface for any scraps. It was easily the remains from months’ worth of meals.

In the center of the putrid refuse, a large recliner held a behemoth of a man. He was at least seven feet tall, and easily five hundred pounds. His hair was gray and grizzled, his skin dark brown with a sickly green hue.

I didn’t need my
Sight
to see the three gaping gashes down the length of his left forearm, or the straight razor discarded on the floor at his feet. His hand hung limp and useless, the tendons severed by at least one of the gashes. The pea-green recliner was stained black down most of its left side, as was the cream shag carpet around the man’s feet.

His aura was midnight black, but its thickness throbbed erratically between a hair’s width and many inches. The color suggested to me that death was certain; the wavering thickness implied the timing was less so.