Authors: Rhys Ford
“Maybe he’s immortal, like us?” Mal responded with a nod. “I’m telling you, something happened to him to make him like us. I don’t know what.”
“Yeah, something definitely happened. I’ll give you that. If he’s immortal, then he’d have a calling. Did either of you feel anything when he was awake?” Min asked, wondering if she’d ever get back to her dinner.
“Ari was the one who carried him into the car. He wouldn’t show it, but I know he was worried about Death and just wanted to get back here,” Mal answered. “Honestly, I didn’t ask Ari about what he thought.”
“He doesn’t have any ideas unless Death clears them first,” Min replied. “He gets into trouble otherwise. I wonder if any of the other immortals have any answers. Maybe he belongs to one of their groups.”
“I don’t really know about any of the others, other than Hope.” Mal stood, stretching out the knots in his shoulders. His leg still ached from the encounter with the wraith in the garage.
“They stay away because we do nasty things to people. They don’t care that we’re here for a
reason too.”
Min retrieved her noodles and stood in front of Mal’s doorway. Drawing out one strand and
letting it fall back into the stock, she dug out a slice of pink-swirled
kamaboku
and bit into it. Grimacing at
the cold mouthful, she returned to the kitchen and dumped the noodles into the garbage disposal.
She picked up her iced tea, cubes tinkling against the glass, and spoke to the younger immortal through the open door to his suite. “You might just want to leave him on the couch. It doesn’t look like he’s going to be moving any time soon. I’m going to catch some TV and then hit the sack. I’d suggest you do the same. It’s nearly sunup.”
“Thanks, Min,” Mal said.
“For what?” Min sipped at her iced tea, making a face at its sugary sweetness. If she could, she’d take over making the iced tea just to save herself from Death’s sweet tooth.
“For being nicer than Ari, I guess,” Mal replied. “It’s hard, you know, doing this. I feel like I’m not learning fast enough.”
“You’re not,” Min agreed. “But you’re less of a dick than some I’ve met. Not as much of an asshole as Ari, so I guess you’re okay. Just try not to fuck up anymore. I’d hate to think you’d be the first one they fire. If anyone is going to screw up that bad, I’d rather it be me. I’d be famous.”
T
HE
DEAD
were everywhere. They clouded the landscape, walking through burning buildings and smoking embers. With the slums of Hong Kong on fire, they clustered around the dying, calling out to other souls or people who could no longer hear them. The ghettos were towering stacks of makeshift dwellings made of cast-off wood and rusted iron roof sheeting, lining the narrow streets. In places there was barely enough space between them to see glimpses of the night sky.
Ari figured that, as slums went, it was better than most. And like nearly all slums, it burned as easily as a bundle of dry kindling.
He’d come out into a firestorm, flames rising into a tornado of sparks and hot winds. The Veil parted before him, sliced open as he pulled on Death’s presence. He’d only had to part the shadows and step in, concentrating on finding the other immortal’s resonance. Ari was certain the Veil had a wicked sense of humor, seeming to deposit him in the most dangerous of locations instead of at Death’s side.
Fire gave death a pungent odor. It had been an honest one, at one time. Now plastics and other man-made materials curdled its honesty. Sniffing at the air, Ari gagged on the burned-peanut smell of polyesters and other melted substances, covering over the more familiar charred human flesh. The sourness of burning garbage warred with the powdery scent of smoking mold, an underlayer to the acrid smoke rising around him. Pulling up the collar of his shirt, he covered his nose, hoping to filter out some of the rankness in the air.
A ghost floated by, her arms wrapped around her thin body. Ari let her go by unmolested. She was long past Death’s touch. There would be no helping her pass into the void that lay behind the Veil. Sighing, he resigned himself to searching the slums, keeping the Veil’s influence around him. The last thing he wanted to do was be pulled into a rescue attempt or subject himself to the anger of a mob.
His nature encouraged the organization of mobs. He rather liked mobs, although the others frowned on them. In this case, he was sure Death would frown upon an uprising in the middle of a disastrous fire. His friend disliked riots in the middle of his work.
“Ari?” Death’s tired voice called out to him as he picked his way through the ruins. “Is that you?”
“How many other tall blond men do you find wandering around Hong Kong ghettos?”
He approached Death with long strides, nearly running in his haste to reach the other man.
Placing his hands on his friend’s shoulders, he stared into the immortal’s weary features, not liking what
he saw. Fatigue set itself firmly into the other’s face, and Death looked drained to Ari’s prying eyes.
The other man’s fingers lightly brushed along the healing acid drops on Ari’s cheek. Ari’s jacket wrinkled when Death’s hands dropped, clenching tightly at the leather. Their foreheads touched, Ari’s face awash with turmoil, bare and unseen before Death’s closed eyes. They stood there together for a moment, broken apart by internal battles. Ari drew away first, feeling the other man’s shifting weight against his chest.
“You look like shit. You’ve got smears of smoke all over your face.” Ari wiped at a line of black along the other’s cheek, succeeding only in widening the dark streak. Grimacing, he wiped his hand on his torn jeans. “Is it bad?”
The immortal nodded, still mired down in the mud of his thoughts. Taking a deep breath, Death
steadied himself, trying to shake off the weariness and the smell of crackling bodies from his mind. Giving
Ari a wry smile, he poked a playful finger through one of the holes in the other’s jacket, commenting
softly, “Bad enough. From the looks of things, we’ve both had trials by fire tonight. What happened to
you?”
“How bad is it, Shi?” Ari asked softly. “How bad?”
“Not Pompeii bad.” Death’s cheek dimpled hearing the old nickname given to him by a past Famine. It never sounded strange coming from their War. Maybe in time he’d accept that as his name. “But still bad. A lot of the dead didn’t want to leave. Why are you here? You’re going to cause problems.”
“I’m known for that,” Ari teased his friend.
“Ari, I’m serious. With you here, the dying will fight me. I can’t have that.”
“Shi, there’s no one here left alive.” Ari cupped Death’s chin. “Any fighting that’s going to be done will be by people punching each other out as they loot.”
Death grew somber, still hearing the souls of crackling bodies crying out for their lost families.
When he closed his eyes, he saw burned children begging him to help look for parents buried under mounds of ashes, suffocating slowly beneath the weight of fallen houses. Offering promises, he cajoled distraught spirits to pass on through the Veil, hoping that some would stop digging at piles of burning shambles, wraith hands passing helplessly through the rubble. Then the whispering nothings of their spirits were trapped in the folds, set to wander as time fixed them in place, butterflies half-alive and pinned fast to a moving world.
“And you? You found something?” Death’s voice trailed off. “You never answer me when I ask you a question.”
“We found something alright.” The Aston Martin was foremost on his mind. That and the boy Mal dragged home, but the fatigue on Death’s face kept him quiet.
“What happened?” Death asked.
“Long story. We can deal with it later.” Ari slid his arm around Death’s waist. “Come on. Let’s put you to bed. We can talk there.”
“Talk? You never want to just talk.” Death stood still, a motionless statue of anguish cast in bone and hair. There was humor in his voice, a flat thread of silver in the gloom. “I’m not ready to go home yet, Ari. I have to go through the ashes one more time. I might have missed someone.”
The fragile truce between them wavered, threatening to fall. He wouldn’t be able to deal with any of Ari’s teasing propositions or wandering hands. Death wanted nothing more than to rest in the quiet of his own thoughts, mulling them over until the dead were driven into the back of his mind.
“Just talk,” Ari promised. “And if you want to go through this shit hole one more time, then I’ll do it with you.”
Death searched Ari’s face, digging at the countless lies told over so many centuries. Emotions raw, Ari felt his heart break at the reluctant nod Death gave him, a helpless little gesture offering up trust.
“Why?” Death asked, gently pushing Ari’s control with the softness of his voice.
“Because you need me to. Maybe just because you need me,” Ari said. “When we’re done, we’ll head home. I know Min set you up with some hot tea. Lots of sugar. She probably didn’t even poison it.”
With a soothing patience, Ari guided Death along, the dark-haired immortal tucked under his arm. Their mingling voices dropped into a whisper. Then Death stilled, frozen against the smoke.
“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Ari stopped, listening for something human. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“Did you not hear anything because you didn’t want to or because you really didn’t hear anything?” Death pushed the other immortal away, his long legs quickly putting distance between them.
“Why do you always assume the worst from me?” Shouting at the other’s back, Ari gritted his teeth against his rising anger. Muttering mostly to himself, he followed, carefully avoiding piles of embers. “I came looking for you, asshole. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“I want to do a final cleanse. I think I got them all, but I’m never sure. Not with so many around me.” Death glanced over his shoulder and Ari staring at him. “Are you going to help me?”
“You know I will.” Ari mumbled curses under his breath, coming to Death’s side. “I’ll always help you.”
Crossing over to a clear space in the street, Death drew a knife from a sheath at his thigh. The bronze blade was dull, its edge bent from years of use. He didn’t need it to be sharp. The Veil responded more to the ritual of the blade than anything else. Raising his hand, Death drew the Veil up, thickening the shadows at his fingertips. As the darkness pulled together, he raised his knife and sliced into it, cutting away an opening.
The knife was an old companion, a remnant of a day when they actually rode horseback through the countryside, looking for travelers lost in their own death. He didn’t remember where he’d gotten it, either a spoil from one of Ari’s campaigns or a gift one of the other Four gave him. Either way, the hilt fit nicely into his hand, and the curled-around bone guard rested easily against the knuckles of his fingers.
He’d been fond of bronze, saddened when new metals rose to take its place. None of the darker sheens held the brightness of a good bronze, although their edges were much sharper. He’d kept the blade for this one purpose, to aid the dead in their passing.
As the Veil tore open, a rush of hot air struck his face, winds driven up from the depths of some unknown heat. The passage into the shadows always ran warm, sometimes a welcoming embrace, other times an inferno. Death placed no thought as to the heat. That storm raged long before the concept of Hell had come along. He sometimes wondered if the warmth led to the myth of a raging fire waiting to consume unlucky souls.
The tear brought down the wrath of the dead still left in the mortal world. As the afterlife seeped into the surrounding area, enraged howls cut through the air. Shrieks belled from the wreckage, long-dead ghosts rising from the ground, upset at the violation of their self-made prisons. Death was ready when a wraith spun down from the upper reaches, her hands hooked into claws, trying to rake at his face. Ari moved to intercept it, but Death shook his head, hoping the dead woman would pass through him.
“Let her be, Ari.” He patted the immortal’s forearm. “She can’t hurt me.”
“They’re like roaches.” Ari stepped closer to his friend’s side, alert for any other attack. “Skittering things. Gives me the creeps sometimes.”
“You’re not very helpful here.” Death shooed the other immortal off, pointing to the side. “Go stand over there. Out of the way.”
“You could need me.” Insistent, he brushed his hand along the back of Death’s neck.
“I do need you. Oddly enough, having you nearby is comforting.” Spoken aloud, the words were soft, but they burrowed with sharp claws into
Ari’s mind. “I just don’t need you standing on top of me. Please, Ari.”
Grunting, the immortal nodded, then walked back a few feet, still within reach if Death needed him. Turning back to the tear he made in the Veil, Death dug the blade back into the shadowy curtain, carving out another slice.
“Why do you always make triangles?” Ari wondered aloud. “Do something different for a change.”
A ghost wandered around them, wringing his hands. Left with nothing to do but wait for Death, the specter periodically glanced back at the wreckage of his home, as if debating returning to his task.
Ari edged the ghost forward, placing himself between the ruined hovel and the dead man’s spirit. “You stay right here. No heading off. You’ve got someplace else to be.”
“I like the shapes. They feel like they can lead souls somewhere.” After putting the knife away, Death folded the shadow slices back with his hands, struggling to affect the Veil. Tired, he strained against the curtain’s resistance, manipulating it into a portal large enough for a man to pass through.
“It looks like a river.” The dead man spoke, marveling at the wide thread of silver undulating beyond the velvet black slice. “It sounds like water flowing.”
Death had heard many of the dead exclaim nearly the same thing, their eyes finding something substantial in the silvery ribbon cutting a swath through the hot darkness. Some saw a river, while others spoke of a wing. Still others saw clouds or just a stream of light.