His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) (3 page)

I nodded numbly. “And what if I refuse to be a Reaper?”

He grimaced. “You can’t refuse, Henry. It’s the Reaper’s magic that keeps you here. Either you live as a Reaper, or you die.”

“And I cross over again.”

“No.” Joshua shook his head, lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s why it’s always a choice. Becoming an Agent is a one-way trip; there is no going back.”

The anger started to flare again. Someone was going to answer for this, and fix it. I snapped, more harshly than I intended, “Well, tell me how this damn thing works.”

Joshua nodded. He stretched his arms to the sides and…shimmered. I can’t think of any better way to describe it. An effect akin to the heat mirage over hot concrete briefly surrounded him; all of his features were obscured. The effect lasted less than a second; in that short span of time, however, his clothing…
changed
. Joshua had been wearing a lab coat over khakis, and a light blue dress shirt. As the shimmer vanished, that was replaced by a black robe identical to mine.

I jerked back a step, shocked. A new apprehension washed over me as I fingered the material of my sleeve.

“The robe is the only clothing you’ll ever wear, Henry—all that you’ll ever need. It will, within reason, assume any form you desire.” He paused. “Do not take it off, no matter the cause,
ever
.”

“Why not?”

Joshua smiled sadly. “The robe is a Reaper’s servant, his suit of armor, and the source of his power. It will obey and protect you faithfully, as long as you wear it. Remove it, and that magic withers, leaving you defenseless and, within a few days, well…”

“Yeah, dead, I get it.” I continued to examine the material of the sleeve, which still felt like nothing more than rough canvas.

Joshua shimmered again, returning to his previous khakis, shirt, and coat. “Think what you need; the robe will answer. Just be aware that it may interpret your needs differently than you do.”

I fixed an image firmly in mind, one of the outfit I’d worn my last living day: jeans, dark red polo, and tennis shoes. With an effort, I sent the thought
outward
, belatedly appending a
please
.

It probably pays to be polite when addressing an intelligent, shape-shifting robe—especially when you’re already wearing it.

There was no sound, but gentle vibrations acknowledged my thoughts. Warm waves passed over my body and the entire room shimmered around me.

Almost before it began, the sensation had passed. I was no longer clothed in rough canvas; instead, I wore exactly what I had imagined. Every detail of the outfit was precisely as I remembered—even a small stain on the jeans from the latte I’d spilled yesterday.

Six months ago, yesterday
.

Unfortunately, the robe had interpreted my request literally. I wore the sneakers without socks and I was going, uh, “commando.”

The devil really is in the details.

A second wave and shimmer passed over my feet and waist.

Joshua smiled, nodding. “Happens to everyone. I spent my first week mostly barefoot.”

I realized that he’d once been through this, too. He’d had a life before becoming Joshua the Reaper. He’d died, lost everything, and chosen to come back. I wondered how long ago he’d made that choice.

At least, for him, it
had
been a choice.

“You’ll get better at it as time goes on,” he said with a reassuring smile, “and the robe will learn how to serve you. A month from now, it’ll take no effort at all. Just don’t piss it off.”

I stared at the other man, my body tense and emotions strained. “How exactly would I…
piss it off
?”

Joshua chuckled. “Well, that would depend on the robe, now wouldn’t it?”

It amazed me that it now felt no different than my normal clothing. “How can something like this robe even exist?”

Joshua cleared his throat and smiled. “Orientation, day one, lesson one, Henry. There’s a powerful magic that makes all of this possible: Agents, the afterlife, and a thousand other things without which the human race would fall into ruin. That magic is powered by the faith of the masses. They don’t have to believe in the magic; they simply need to believe in, well, anything. When enough people believe strongly enough in something, it is made real, and the magic grows stronger. Each type of Agent has their own talisman, their connection to the magic. For us, that talisman is our robes.”

A magical robe…it was at once both terrifying and amazing, but I had no intention of wearing it long. Regardless of what Joshua said, there had to be a way out of this.

First chance I had, I’d go see Steve; we’d talk it through. Together, my brother and I could figure it out—we’d always been able to tackle any problem together.

A static-laden voice filled the room, booming through an intercom by the door. “Dr. Black?”

Joshua checked his watch, muttering obscenities as he crossed to the intercom. He placed a finger to his lips in a needless gesture before answering the call.

“Yes, Sam?”

“She’s back, Doctor.” Sam’s disembodied voice placed heavy emphasis on the word “she.”

“This isn’t the best time, Sam. Please ask Mrs. Winston to return during the day shift.”

“She’s being rather…stubborn, Doctor.”

“Of course she is.” Joshua turned off the intercom briefly. “Damn that persistent woman.” He regained his composure before flipping it back on. “All right, tell her I’ll be out in a few minutes.” He turned the intercom back off with visible malice.

“Friend of yours?”

“Mrs. Karen Winston is a huge pain in my ass.” Joshua exhaled angrily. “She refuses to admit the simple truth: her husband ran off with his pretty young secretary. She keeps harassing the police, the hospitals and the morgues looking for him.”

He checked his watch again. “I’m afraid we’re out of time, Henry. I didn’t expect to give a full orientation tonight. You must be on your way to avoid…awkward questions.”

Questions like
hey, where’s that dead guy going?

“I have no idea where to go or what to do.” My voice sounded vulnerable and a little petulant, but I didn’t bother tempering it.

“I know,” Joshua responded as he pressed a slip of paper into my hand. “This is your new home. It’s not much, but it’s yours for as long as you need it.”

I snorted as I read the International District address: 928 South Lane Street. It was familiar in a vague way. The full address meant little to me, but it shouldn’t take long to hunt it down. It was the apartment number, though, that caught my attention: 3C, ironically enough.

Hopefully, this 3C would treat me better than the last one.

“Is this…was this…” I rubbed my chest. “…
his 
home?”

Joshua’s eyes spread wide. “God no. I’m sorry, Henry. I keep forgetting how many basic things you don’t know yet. I’ll come by in a couple hours. Until then, Elliott should be able to answer most of your questions.”

“Elliott?”

He shrugged. “Your mentor? Your assistant? You’ll see. He should be waiting for you.” Joshua cleared his throat and changed the subject. “There’s a reception desk just down the hall, where Sam is dealing with Mrs. Winston. Slip quietly in the other direction, through the fire door, down one flight of stairs, and out the locked rear entrance. Make your way to that address.”

“If the door is locked, how do I get out?”

“Locks will no longer hinder you.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Joshua started to respond, but a female voice echoed through the hallway, distracting us both. The words were muffled by the door, but her tone was unmistakably sharp and impatient. The male response was measured, calm and professional.

“Damn that woman,” Joshua grumbled. “Are you ready?”

The conversation continued outside our door. Still firmly under control, Sam’s voice reasoned with Mrs. Winston’s. His exact words were unintelligible, but the tone was plain enough.

Patience with a touch of exasperation.

I shrugged, showing Joshua a forced smile. “Not really.”

Joshua pushed the door open slightly, allowing the words to come through.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Winston, but it
is
the middle of the night.”

“My goodness, don’t you think I know the time? I do own a watch. I have been at this all day and I’m willing to wait; please inform whichever doctor is on duty that I’m here.”

“But ma’am…”

I started into the hallway.

Joshua grabbed my arm, stopping me. “Don’t go anywhere, don’t talk to anyone, not until I come by later.”

I nodded hesitantly. I had every intention of seeing Steve, and I wasn’t willing to argue the point. My brother and I lost our dad twenty years ago, under circumstances far too similar to my own death. My brother was strong, but I knew how I’d feel if our roles were reversed…if I had lost him. I was afraid it might be enough to break him.

And I needed him, at least as much as he might need me.

Joshua’s hand slid down to my wrist, grabbing it, as if reading my mind. “That includes Steve, Henry…Steve most of all.”

I growled low in frustration. “He thinks I’m dead!”

“You
are
dead,” he snapped, before regaining his composure. “Listen, remember that magic we talked about, the one that makes all of this possible…the one powered by faith?”

I nodded, uncertain where Joshua was going.

“Facts kill faith, Henry. When someone learns the truth, they no longer
need
to believe; when they don’t believe, the magic weakens. One person might not make a difference, but that kind of knowledge inevitably spreads.”

The grip on my wrist tightened, but the feeling was…wrong. Instead of warm flesh, his fingers were strangely thin, hard as stone, and very, very cold. The touch sent inexplicable tendrils of panic straight into my soul.

“The magic
will
protect itself, by any…means…necessary.”

The grip on my wrist tightened again, biting harshly into my flesh.

I glanced down.

Instead of Joshua’s hand, I was held in an iron grip by fingers of pure white, skeletal bone.

I recoiled in shock, my voice coming out as a husky whisper. “He deserves to know.”

Joshua shimmered before me. His clothing melted away, revealing a jet-black suit wrapped in an even darker hooded robe. The robe drank in the very light, dimming the room; the fluorescent lights started to flicker, as if unable to handle the strain. Within the hood, a gleaming white skull stared out with a morbid, empty-eyed parody of a smile.

Joshua’s voice rolled smoothly from between the skull’s teeth.

“You’ve become the Grim Reaper, Henry. What comfort can that offer your brother?”

III

It’s the Journey

I’d like to say that I faced down that dark, foreboding specter, spitting defiance. Or maybe that I at least hesitated before turning tail.

I can’t.

My brain shut down, rational thought abandoned me, and instinct took over.

I ran.

I ran like a man possessed. I ran as if fleeing before Death himself.

Because, of course, I was.

Maybe I’ve seen too many bad horror films, but I half expected maniacal laughter to follow me as I sprinted into the hallway. In that, at least, I was disappointed. The only sound was Mrs. Winston berating Sam, oblivious.

Hitting the far wall hard, I shoved off in the opposite direction. I stumbled at the sudden shift in my momentum, but recovered on the run and continued at full speed down the hallway, only tripping twice over my unfamiliar feet. Within seconds, I burst as quietly as I could manage through the fire door at the far end.

Beyond was a metal stairwell which ran both upward to higher levels, and down toward the ground floor. I didn’t need time to think. Those same horror films had taught me an important lesson about stairs.

The idiot that runs up always dies.

I ran down.

Still at an all-out sprint, my stride consumed three steps at a time. I barely touched the landing at the halfway point, pivoting one hundred and eighty degrees on the toes of one foot. My legs were just slightly the wrong length, and I stumbled repeatedly; how I avoided breaking my neck I’ll never know.

At the base of the stairs, I found a glass door set in a wall of glass and steel. Outside, it was drizzling in the pitch-dark dead of night. Given the bright lights within, and the total darkness without, the glass wall showed an almost mirror-perfect reflection of metal stairs and the wide-eyed, panicked fugitive running awkwardly down them.

I detected no pursuit in that reflection, but I was driven hard by irrational fear. Lowering my shoulder, I prepared to power my way through the door, at speed.

It was locked.

I slammed up against it, then rebounded and stumbled backward two steps before falling hard on my ass. My new body was strong and capable, but I’d demanded a lot from it in my sudden flight. Between the hard impact and my abject terror, I was left gasping for breath on the concrete floor, a muscle burning in my side.

In a panicked frenzy, my eyes darted over the reflected images in the wall of glass, examining the stairwell for signs of a sharply dressed harbinger of death descending upon me. Fifteen seconds passed, then thirty. No one was following me.

I began to breathe more easily.

Rational thought slowly reasserted itself. If Joshua wanted to hurt me, he’d had ample opportunity while I lay unconscious. I laughed uneasily, now far away from the nightmare that had been revealed. If anything, I admitted, Joshua had used that glimpse of his true nature to drive his point home…a point I’d been stubbornly refusing to accept.

I was no longer, strictly speaking, human.

And I could never see Steve again.

If it only put me at risk, I wouldn’t care; I’d take any chance to see my brother, not to mention his wife Jamie and their two girls. But if Joshua was right, if it put them in danger…well, that was a different matter entirely.

There had to be a way, and I’d find it, but…

With a deep breath, I started to get up.

And my eyes fell on my reflection.

I shivered from a sudden chill. It still wasn’t me; I had no idea how long it would take to get used to that.

My clothing had changed, responding to base emotions during my frenzied flight. I now wore gray sweat shorts, a sky-blue t-shirt, white tube socks pulled up nearly to my knees, and a well-worn pair of K-Mart tennis shoes. I recognized the ensemble from my days in high school gym.

I’ve never claimed to be one of the cool kids.

With the barest concentration, my shimmering reflection switched from gym clothes to casual attire: jeans; loafers (with socks); an untucked button-down gray shirt open at the collar; and a long tan trench coat.

I hadn’t asked for the coat, but it was raining lightly and the robe apparently knew I would be going outside.

If, that is, I could get through the locked door.

I gingerly stretched my arm, which had already stiffened from the impact. With a tug, I tried the door again; it remained firmly latched. There was no bar to release it from the inside.

Glancing up the stairwell, I briefly contemplated returning to the morgue.

Yeah…not a chance in hell.

There must be a way through the door. Joshua
had
told me to come this way, after all, even if I was only following his directions by accident.

Locks will no longer hinder you.

Could the robe fashion a key? It certainly seemed simpler than an entire outfit.

I concentrated on an image of a key, holding it firmly in my mind. I pushed the image outward as politely as I could manage.

With a hint of mirage and a touch of warmth, the weight of the key settled into my hand. It was exactly how I’d imagined it, chips, smudged brass and all.

It didn’t work.

Apparently, the robe and I couldn’t manifest one from thin air that would just happen to fit the lock. Or if we could, I didn’t know how, and the robe wasn’t sharing.

I released the key and it vanished in a small puff of cold black smoke the instant it left my hand.

I stroked the door handle. I was death walking now, the Grim Reaper. It was an idea that sent a shiver along my spine, but I ignored the revulsion and anxiety; those problems would have to be dealt with later.

In life, one of the very few certainties is death. Benjamin Franklin once wrote, “In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.” No offense to Ben, but even a mediocre accountant can get out of taxes with a little creative bookkeeping.

Death, on the other hand, will never be denied.

It comes for us all in our time. You can’t trick it, reason with it, or buy it off. When your bill is due, death will find you, no matter how well you might hide.

Locks will no longer hinder you.

Even behind a locked door.

I stroked the door handle again, wondering if it could really be that simple. Was I the ultimate…
skeleton
key?

As with the robe, I tried sending my thoughts out politely toward the door, willing it to open.

The lock clicked softly as the bolt withdrew.

I smiled, briefly excited at my new discovery.

That excitement turned quickly to anger.

I had not chosen this new life…hadn’t even been offered a choice. No, it was worse than that—my right to choose had been stolen from me. Just like my life had been stolen, and now even my afterlife.

A few flashy tricks wouldn’t change the facts.

I was overwhelmed by an implacable determination. This new life, this thing that I’d become…I wouldn’t just stand by and let it happen. They’d tried to lock Henry Michael Richards in a prison, but I’d find a way to unlock that door, too.

They could keep their damn parlor tricks.

Turning up the collar of my coat, I stepped out into the familiar damp chill of a Seattle summer night. The door swung quietly shut behind me and relocked itself, leaving no evidence that anything at all had happened.

The offices of the King County Medical Examiner are on the grounds of Harborview Medical Center. Harborview is, unfortunately, situated in one of the least desirable areas of the city. Bad things have been known to happen to good people when they travel there alone on a dark night.

People like me.

On a night like tonight.

I kept my head down and proceeded quickly through the cool mist, west toward the freeway overpass. I-5 is the major artery that cuts the heart of Seattle in two, splitting the waterfront and downtown proper on the west from the communities to the east. While strolling on the downtown side of that artery certainly wouldn’t guarantee my safety, I’d feel much better than standing in the shadow of Harborview.

The hospital’s main entrance is only three blocks from the overpass. The night was still, and silent, but I couldn’t shake the feeling something was watching me.

That’s probably why I jumped at the unexpected rustle, sending my heavily beating heart into overdrive. I nervously searched the darkness beneath the freeway, my heart continuing to race as my eyes adjusted.

A ratty tent stood tucked against the concrete wall, the worn cardboard door hanging open. On its floor, a homeless man lay in a ball, shivering against the night. His eyes, unfocused, stared through the small doorway into the world, seeing nothing.

He lay wrapped in his long, tangled beard and layers of faded military clothing. Despite the air’s chill, sweat plastered his hair to his head and etched deep lines into the dirt on his face.

As I watched, a weak cough escaped his lips.

Then I blinked, and the world changed.

Dull orange lines marked the shape of the man’s heart and lungs, moving with the contraction of his organs. They flashed a bright, angry red as he coughed again.

Within the outlined edges were patches of inky black. As he struggled for breath, the black would hungrily leech small bits of the color from the orange, growing stronger while the man grew weaker.

An aura, for lack of any better word, outlined his entire body. A sickly, dark orange ribbon moved with him in perfect unison, perhaps a millimeter thick. It reminded me vaguely of the cheesy force fields in old superhero cartoons—the ones that always made me laugh.

It didn’t seem so funny now.

I stumbled backward from the strange, morbid light show.

The man’s eyes snapped into focus, staring out at me as if my motion had drawn his attention. He tried to rise, his hand held out in silent pleading. He collapsed back to the ground, racked by a violent fit of coughing. His aura faded to blood red.

I hesitated a moment, anxious and uncertain.

The cough grew in ferocity, curling the man back into a tight ball. I could actually see the orange outline of his lungs straining, thinning, and starting to fail.

My stomach lurched.

And then, finally, his right lung broke open. His coughing didn’t stop, but instead wracked his body in a sudden, eerie silence.

His outline faded to black.

I might not know exactly what the aura meant, but black was obviously not good. Even without these strange visions, the situation was pretty obvious.

Slim as it was, I might be his only chance.

I stepped forward.

The rain stopped.

Perhaps I should rephrase that. It’s not like the clouds parted and the moon suddenly shone down on us. I mean that the raindrops actually stopped falling, hanging unsupported, literally frozen in midair.

The homeless man stopped as well, mid-convulsion. Stiff as a statue, he seemed carved from stone—a shrine to the violence of his obviously fatal condition.

“Your intentions are noble, Henry, but this man is not your responsibility.” The voice came from behind me. It was strong, but gentle; while its tone was firm, it did not lack compassion.

I shook my head stubbornly, refusing to face this new stranger. “The hospital is only a few blocks away. If we can get there in time…”

The man grabbed both shoulders and forced me to turn with an inhuman strength I hadn’t expected. He looked young. He wore jeans faded and torn from heavy use; sandals showing the wear of many long miles; a short-sleeved, black t-shirt; and a deerskin vest, creased and travel-stained.

His hair and beard were light brown without trace of gray, both slightly longer than “clean cut.” His skin looked tight and smooth. Despite his youthful features, though, his deep blue eyes felt vast, and indescribably ancient.

In large, blocky white letters, his shirt read, “W.W.I.D.?”

Floating inches above his head, my newly enhanced vision revealed an ethereal, glowing circle of gold.