Forever After (a dark and funny fantasy novel) (12 page)

             
“You’re not the first person to notice.”

             
The Angel of Death nodded curiously. “You work at the tooth factory right?”

             
“Freelance collector, kinda.” Chip shrugged. “How did you know?”

             
“There’s a bag of teeth in the fridge.”

             
Chip hopped to his feet. “I was wondering where I’d put them,” he declared, opening the fridge and removing the teeth, leaving another broad and simple smile for the Angel of Death as he passed.

             
“Are you here for me by any chance?” He wondered. He was halfway back to the couch, ready to run to the front door if the answer was affirmative.

             
Azrael simply shook his head, relieved that he wasn’t.

             
“Oh, thank God,” Chip sunk into himself with relief. “Well, nature calls. Do excuse me,” he headed out into the hallway, talking as he went, “apparently I don’t need coffee this morning.”

             
Michael passed his friend in the hallway and strode tentatively into the room, his hands clasped behind his back, his thumbs twirling nervously. He crossed to the living room and gestured for Azrael to take a seat. The Angel of Death took one glance at the sofa and shook his head.

             
“I’ll stand, thank you.”

             
Michael nodded calmly and rested against the back of the sofa, half seated, his arms folded across his chest. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.

             
“This is not a visit of pleasure,” Azrael replied soberly.

             
Michael sunk his head into his chest and sprayed his feet out further in front of him, sinking into the cushions on the back of the sofa. “Of course not,” he said sullenly. “You’re sacking me aren’t you?” he spoke into his chest. “I always wondered how they’d do it, going from immortality to dust isn’t easy, you wouldn’t want to give the job of revealing that to just anyone. I guess sending down the head man, so to speak, makes things a lot easier for everyone involved.”

             
He sighed heavily, pushed himself off the sofa and looked Azrael in the eyes. “You know what, I don’t care. This immortality business has been nothing but a confusing mess. I’m sick of people not answering my questions. I’m sick of still not knowing if there is a God and I’m sick of being told
‘you’ll learn’
, because I won’t fucking learn. If I ask a question I want it answered, otherwise what would be the point of asking? I don’t want to be told I’ll figure it out for myself in a few decades or centuries, coz by then I won’t give a toss about the fucking answer will I?”

             
Azrael didn’t flinch through Michael's rant. He remained standing, his eyes fixed almost amusedly on him.

             
“So how does this work?” Michael wondered, prepared to face death for the second time. “Will it hurt? Will I
go
anywhere?”

             
Azrael waited until a silence veiled the emotive atmosphere. “I’m not here to kill you,” he said eventually. “I’m here to help you.”

             
Michael tilted his head to one side like a perplexed dog. “I’m not losing my job?”

             
“No.”

             
“Oh,” he said, feeling a sudden rush of embarrassment and regret. “Then everything I just said…”

             
“Forgotten.”

             
“Thank you.” Michael said, genuinely pleased.

             
Azrael nodded sternly.

             
Still feeling uncomfortably embarrassed, Michael leant on the counter next to his boss, his presence dwarfed.

             
“This about the missing souls?” he wondered.

             
“Yes.” Azrael eased Michael’s discomfort by shifting from his stationary position and walking across the room, taking an interest in studying his surroundings. “As you may know, both of your failed collections were werewolves. And although the souls were not collected by you, they
were
collected.”

             
Michael perked up. “Someone else on my patch?” he asked, wondering if help had been drafted to scrape the shit off the shovel in Brittleside.

             
“No one sent by us.”

             
“Oh.”

             
“We believe your lost souls, those of Angela Washington and Martin Atkinson, are being used for,” he paused, stopping next to a small ornament of a tiny, cutesy fairy that Chip had bought and then dressed with the clothes from an Action Man: blue overalls and an AK-47. “
Problematic
experiments,” he concluded.             

             
“Problematic experiments?” Michael folded his arms over his chest and allowed his body to slink against the counter behind him. “Is this another one of those things you’re going to answer in a ridiculously vague way and then say nothing more about?”

             
Azrael grinned. It was an unusual sight, like seeing a hated teacher or a revered politician cry. “The experiments are hazardous to our business and they have the potential to shift a great deal of power into the wrong hands.”

             
Michael nodded knowingly. “That’s a yes then. How do I fit into this exactly?”

             
Azrael picked up what he thought was a small fluffy toy-ball. He began tossing it idly from hand to hand while he looked at Michael, who didn’t want to tell him that the ball was actually a collection of Chip’s naval fluff that the fairy had persistently refused to discard.

             
“They started in your area,” he seemed to catch a whiff of something unpleasant. He lifted the ball to his nose and recoiled when he caught the full scent. Michael barely suppressed a smile as his boss returned the offending ball to the bookcase.              

             
“We believe they will continue here. We need you to find out exactly what is going on.”

             
Michael shook his head in disbelief. “You’re joking right? I don’t even understand my own job; I barely understood what you just told me, what do I have to--”

             
“This is your patch,” Azrael interjected, a touch of menace flavouring his tone. “I have been watching you. I believe you are capable.”

             
Michael shrugged and turned away, dejected. “So, can you fill me in a little more?

             
“In time you will learn,” Azrael mocked with a broad smile.

             
Michael nodded exaggeratedly. “Of course I will.”

             
He watched his boss depart the room. He left through the front door, bypassing a merry Chip who was cleaning his sinuses with a series of grunts and snorts.

             
“Un-be-fucking-lievable,” Michael muttered in his absence.

****

              A foreboding figure sat alone in a quiet and well-lit office.

             
He drummed his thick fingers, wrinkled and worn, on the solid surface of his desk, pounding a gentle, dull rhythm into the room.

             
He sighed, leaned back in his chair, which squeaked and strained against his heavyset frame, and spun gently, watching the office whirl by before his eyes as the chair spun on its revolving axis.

             
A tall bookcase of the finest dark oak, lined with first editions of priceless books, never read and barely touched; walls adorned with expensive paintings, a self-commissioned portrait, doctorates and degrees; an assortment of fine whiskeys, brandies and wine, encased in a cabinet alluringly visible through a thick sheet of glass.

             
He lowered his head when the chair settled. His eyes fixed on the far wall of the office where a long window took centre stage. The upper sections of the room beyond were visible. The sparkle of numerous lights, the only indication of any activity in the expansive room, rose into view of the window.

             
The phone on his desk bleeped, he stared absently at it as a green light flashed and a familiar voice introduced two familiar people. Moments later One and Two walked into the room, side by side as usual. He remained seated, waiting for them to come to him.

             
“Hello boys,” he greeted. “How’s things?”

             
“Good.”

             
“Fruitful.”

             
The pair paused in front of the desk, looking down at him expectantly. There was a chair there, behind and between them, but neither of them took it.

             
“You have something for me?” The seated man asked expectantly.

             
One pulled out a large cylinder. A spiral of activity buzzed inside the crystallised glass like a horde of raving fireflies. He had been walking around laxly with the glass in his pocket, but after removing it he took great care with it, placing it carefully on the desk.

             
“The first two on the list,” he proclaimed proudly.

             
The seated man picked up the vial with equal caution. He lifted it in front of his right eye, spying the glowing mystery inside like an adventurer beaming at a new discovery through the lens of a telescope.

             
“Perfect,” he declared with a touch of enchantment as he placed the vial gently back on the desk. “Any problems?”

             
“No sir.”

             
“None at all.”

             
“Police?” he quizzed.

             
“No sir.”

             
The seated man nodded slowly, impressed but not willing to show it. “What about the reaper?” he pondered.

             
“Clueless sir,” One offered.

             
“One of the worst in the country sir. A good choice,” Two added.

             
The seated man looked content. His eyes flicked back to the vial, drawn in by the radiant effervescence, like a moth to a flame.

             
One and Two exchanged an awkward and unseen glance followed by a nod.

             
“We were wondering sir,” One asked, drawing his attention away from the vial.

             
“Yes?”

             
There was an uncharacteristic pause, brief but noticeable. “Why werewolves?” he asked.

             
He replied with a heavy exhalation. He stood and waddled around to the other side of the desk, pulling the attentions of the two men with him as they watched every straggling step.

             
“The werewolf mutation is like no other,” he lectured slowly. “It literally is the stuff of legend, only it isn’t passed on by mere bite or scratch. The rituals, the
crossing over
if you like, is--well,” he waved a dismissive hand into the air. “It’s complicated. Cloak and dagger nonsense. The point is, anyone can be killed by a werewolf, but only the chosen can be turned.”

             
“Like vampires?”

             
He snapped a jubilant finger at the questioner. “Exactly! Only more powerful and with fewer weaknesses. They possess amazing strength and resilience. They can adapt to any climate. They can hide their true selves at will, assimilate perfectly into normal society, and, unlike vampires, they are not harmed by daylight.” He bounded around on legs that had previously looked wary, his enthusiasm on an adrenaline rush as he lectured the two men with the gusto of a professor.

             
“They have a pack mentality,” he said importantly. “A willingness to fight for their own kind, to live
with
and to die
for
their brothers and sisters, blood or not. They are the perfect weapon. If one could harness their power and find a way to manipulate it, then they could create the strongest army the world has ever seen. Can you imagine that?” he cried.

             
The two men looked back blankly. If they
could
imagine it it clearly didn’t excite them as much as it did him.

             
“Wouldn’t it be easier to study the actual werewolves, sir? One asked. “Rather than their souls?”

             
The older man tilted his head this way and that. “Perhaps,” he conceded. But we’ve tried that already and the tests are proving to be...” he rolled his tongue around the word. “
Difficult
. Let’s just say it isn’t easy to manipulate a twenty stone beast. They can be quite aggressive.”