His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) (15 page)

It bought me a few seconds to shakily gain my feet.

Tommy’s dad charged, shouting another rage-filled challenge, swinging his blade wildly.

I turned the attack aside using the scythe’s handle. The broad side of the sword blade bounced harmlessly off my leather-clad arm.

A second time, I kicked Tommy’s dad a few feet away.

“Your son is suffering; it’s time to end his pain!”

Sounds reasonable, right?

The words enraged my attacker. He screamed again, the sword blade flashing in a violent assault. I turned two strikes away with the scythe blade, by pure luck, but didn’t have the skill or speed to hold up to a prolonged frenzy.

I curled into a ball beneath the blows and pleaded with my duster to harden itself against the attack. Ringing sounds soon filled the air as Tommy’s dad sought any weakness.

An angry buzz grew louder within my mind at each ringing strike. If I stayed like this for too long, the robe might just abandon me entirely.

My attacker’s breath grew labored after, perhaps, thirty seconds. He was no athlete, and swinging a two-handed sword is hard work.

I kicked out again, pushing him back roughly six feet before standing tall. My duster fell back into place, just leather once more; the buzzing grudgingly subsided.

A bright hatred burned within the man’s eyes. I symbolized the antithesis of all he’d endured in his son’s name, and it was clear he would not see reason.

To defend myself, I’d have to be the aggressor.

Before the man could recover, I lunged forward with the scythe. Since he didn’t have an aura, I didn’t know if my strike would rip out his soul or tear him in two. Either way, I needed to end this quickly.

His sword snapped up defensively, but my scythe shattered it like glass, leaving nothing but a useless hilt in his grasp.

I wanted to close my eyes. This course of action sickened me; but if I was really going to do it, I would force myself to watch.

I wouldn’t hide from my own sins.

The swing moved through molasses, taking what seemed hours to reach his exposed and tender throat. The man grew rigid, gasping as the blade finally reached him.

It passed cleanly through like a phantom, surprising us both by leaving no mark.

Tommy’s dad collapsed to his knees, sobbing.

“Let your son rest, damn it!”

The man’s eyes flicked briefly to the wall. “I can’t,” he pleaded. “It is done.”

Of course; the symbols were the key.

I limped to the wall, examining the writing. In my
Sight
, the symbols had their own aura, a mirror reflection of Tommy’s—thin and black.

They were a part of him.

And they reeked of death.

Tommy’s dad charged me one last time, swinging his bladeless handle in a futile show of malice.

I expected his attack, and easily repelled the now unarmed man, forcing him back to his knees. Once sure he wouldn’t again rise, I experimentally touched one of the symbols with the blade of my scythe.

It burned away like a magician’s flash paper, leaving no trace. The man screamed a single, incoherent syllable before collapsing unconscious to the ground.

Tommy’s aura faded, the barest fraction, as the symbol vanished.

Walking the room’s perimeter, I erased each and every foul symbol. With the last finally removed, Tommy’s aura popped like a bubble.

His soul rose upward as a golden pinpoint of light.

As it vanished through the ceiling, his lips whispered a barely audible, “Thank you.”

To me, or to his father, I’ll never know.

XVIII

Reflections

Sleep was elusive. Half-formed thoughts and raw emotions raced through my mind.

Should I have…?

Why didn’t I…?

What if…?

I’d gotten so angry, facing what Tommy’s dad was doing in that house. I didn’t think, I reacted. Everything felt dirty, unnatural—so incredibly perverse.

Did that make it wrong?

We’ve all lost people we’d give anything to save.

I certainly have.

Tommy was suffering, of that there was no doubt, but his death might be a release, or it might be a travesty.

Was his dad his tormentor, or his savior?

Minutes dragged on in the dark for hours, taunting me.

Elliott suffered no such problem. He lay across my good ankle in the bliss of deep sleep, snoring softly; his rear paws would occasionally twitch.

In the far distance, a police siren echoed through the night.

According to my phone, it was three a.m.

Frustrated, I waited for sleep to come.

I am lying on a black sheet, smoke curling around me. Nothing is visible through the haze: not furniture, nor walls, nor even the floor.

I don’t know where I am.

I’m thirteen years old.

A man in dark clothing approaches through the smoke, moving quietly. He carries a massive sword in both hands, raised as if to strike.

I am afraid.

A sudden breeze pushes back the smoke, revealing the man. It is Edward Richards, in his best dress blues.

My dad.

“Don’t worry, Henry. I’ll protect you.”

I am momentarily relieved.

It does not last.

A second man steps from the smoke, dressed all in black, his face cloaked in shadow. He too carries a sword.

My dad doesn’t see him.

I call out a warning, but no one hears me.

“It’s okay, son,” he says, smiling. “I’ll always be right here.”

The stranger lunges with two quick strikes.

Dad dissolves in a cloud of dark blue smoke.

I run, screaming.

I lurched upright in bed, my body drenched in a cold sweat. My shallow, rapid breaths almost drowned out the cadence of my beating heart.

Almost.

Elliott growled softly at the disturbance, rolling in his sleep.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d dreamed about Dad, now gone over twenty years. The truth was bad enough, but this mix of recent history and distant past was far more disturbing.

Were nightmares a matter of course for Reapers, or was it just me?

I grabbed the phone from the nightstand; it read 6:10 a.m.

Taking deep, shaky breaths, I lay back down. My heart wouldn’t stop racing. I closed my eyes, but saw only swirling blue smoke.

Sleep was unlikely to come again this morning.

Damn it.

All I wanted was a little rest, but my subconscious refused to leave well enough alone.

I slipped out of the bed, doing my best not to disturb the massive, furry black heating pad.

He didn’t notice.

Closing the bedroom door, I walked into the living room.

The first rays of morning sunrise filtered through the window. No clouds hung in the sky; it promised to be another beautiful Seattle summer day.

Karen expected me around nine a.m.

I had almost three hours to kill.

The Space Needle rose into the morning sky on the opposite shore of Lake Union. Built for the 1962 World’s Fair, the Needle was once the tallest building west of the Mississippi. Now it was dwarfed by almost every downtown skyscraper.

Still, it was the heart of Seattle’s skyline.

My position on top of Queen Anne Hill, the largest of the “Seven Hills,” afforded an impressive view of downtown and the lake. If I’d brought a camera, I could take a spectacular picture from the Mustang’s driver’s seat.

I hadn’t come for the sightseeing.

Hell, I wasn’t really sure why I’d come.

Whatever the reason, it was clearly a bad idea.

I watched the older tan split-level half a block down the street. It was the same house I’d been watching for over an hour. With rush hour traffic, I’d need to leave soon; at least, I would if I intended to keep my appointment with Karen.

I sipped my coffee.

Six months had passed since last I’d been this way. It was entirely possible he had a different schedule now.

A part of me desperately hoped he didn’t.

A part of me desperately hoped he did.

Time ticked away.

What the hell was I doing?

Not just here, though that was certainly an excellent question. What the hell was I doing
period
? Henry Richards wasn’t the kind of guy who went around stalking, spying, chasing and attacking.

In the last few days, I’d been shot at, attacked with a sword, and nearly blown up. More things made me furious since coming back than in the previous ten years of my life combined.

My life was supposed to be comfortable and easy: days wasted at a boring job, nights spent with my family. Sure, I probably imposed more than I should on Steve and his wife Jamie, but someday I’d find
the
woman; not Michelle, unfortunately…not anymore.

And not Sarah.

I desperately wished I could call Steve. I wasn’t sure how to convince him it was me, his brother, without telling him the whole truth. It wouldn’t be the same, not at first, but eventually…maybe.

Assuming Joshua was right, though, telling Steve even that much would put him, and maybe his family, in danger. I wasn’t willing to do that.

Could I be both Henry Richards and the Grim Reaper?

Or could I, somehow, still find a way to stop being the Grim Reaper altogether, and have my old life back?

Did I really have to choose?

I waited five minutes past my self-imposed deadline, then ten. Finally, admitting defeat, I turned the steering wheel toward the street.

And the split-level’s front door opened.

My heart leaped sideways.

Steve, my brother, stepped into the morning sun.

Tall, wavy brown hair, body chiseled like a pro athlete, with movie-star good looks. His clothes were always clean, tailored and wrinkle-free, even if it was just jeans and a plain t-shirt. He rolled out of bed looking better than most male models after hours of primping.

If Steve even thought of walking into a room, women swooned just on general principle.

He was also the nicest, most sincere guy I’ve ever known. Always cool, calm and even-keeled—I didn’t think he’d ever even lost his temper; that’s part of why he was such a good police detective. If Steve ever cracked, my condolences to the poor bastard in his way.

We’d been best friends as long as I could remember.

I’m two years older.

And five inches taller.

You take your victories where you can.

At this distance it was hard to be certain, but his expression looked haunted and his gray sport coat wrinkled. Of course, it could just be shadows from the bright morning sun.

I hoped that was the case.

I hunkered down in my seat, trying to stay out of sight.

Steve walked to his car without noticing me. He backed his ten-year-old Subaru into the street and drove away.

I watched, dejected, until my brother vanished in the distance. I’m not sure what I expected, but something…more. Bemused, I shook my head and again turned the steering wheel.

The door opened a second time. Jamie, my sister-in-law, rushed out with both girls in tow: Lily, who was five, and her three-year-old sister, Hannah.

Jamie looked beautiful, as always, even in just her loose gray t-shirt and yoga pants. She and Steve made one of those picture-perfect postcard couples. They were my favorite people, and they deserved each other.

Both girls had grown so much in the last six months, I barely recognized them. Before my death, I saw them almost daily; Hannah fell asleep in my lap at least once a week.

Lily would start kindergarten in September. How had that come so fast?

I wiped a tear from my eye.

Jamie’s late model BMW pulled out of the driveway, following the same route that Steve had taken.

I realized with a start that their house was empty.

Am I really going to do this?

I stood before Steve and Jamie’s front door, caressing the brass knob. I’d walked across this threshold a thousand times, no notice needed, no knock required.

Lily would run down the hallway, screaming, “Uncle Henry,” and Hannah would toddle along behind adding her own, “Unca Henny.” Lily would always hug my legs; Hannah wasn’t satisfied until I picked her up.

I would always oblige.

We would all laugh.

The flowerbed under the windows was lined with bricks. I lifted the third brick from the walkway; the front door key sat nestled beneath.

Sure, I could open the door without a key, but that felt…well,
wrong
here.

Nothing of consequence had changed. There was the same brown leather sectional, just a little too big for the living room. Steve’s handmade bookshelves in the office still weren’t finished. I ran my hand along the drywall gouge left by Lily’s trike, almost two years ago now.

It was a beautiful house, but it was also well loved.

In the kitchen, children’s artwork adorned the refrigerator, all the pieces I knew long since retired. A page drawn by a shaky, three-year-old’s hand depicted the artist’s family. Stick figures for “Mom,” “Dad,” “Lily” and “Me” were there, all standing in the grass beneath a cloudy sky. In the clouds hovered a stick figure with wings.

It was labeled, “Uncle Henry.”

I stepped out onto the deck to catch my breath.

I’d give almost anything to regain my old life—to once again be nothing more than Unca Henny. To drop by four or five nights a week for dinner and spoil my nieces.

Could I leave my new life behind, find what I’d lost?

I sighed, looking around.

This
was the place it all started.

The place I’d first met her.

The beginning of the end.

The Space Needle loomed deceptively still and tranquil in the distance; at its base, the Seattle Center celebration should be in full swing. Lake Union’s surface calmly reflected the Needle and the night sky above.

The air was still, damp and crisp. Small, shallow puddles dotted the surface of the deck. It had rained earlier but the sky was now free of clouds, and a large, bright moon clearly lit the world. They were predicting snow, but that hardly ever came to anything.

It felt good to be free of the pressing throng inside, if only for a few minutes. It felt good to be alone.