His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) (29 page)

My heart thundered in my chest, beating wildly with my anxious need.

“Send me to collect Bradley Kim.”

Ten seconds passed, then twenty, without a response. My patience evaporated at a minute.

I stood angrily, turning back toward the car.

A blinding, white hot light flashed inside my eyes.

Behind the Mustang’s steering wheel, the pulsing red Reaper faded into view.

My anger evaporated in a slow, wicked grin.

In response, Red Reaper’s head turned slowly to face me, flashing a gruesome, lipless smile.

That was new.

If my skeletal expressions were half as menacing, I’d need to be more careful with them. Of course, I didn’t have the red, pulsing, homicidal maniac teeth to heighten the effect.

Cold from the grave surrounded me as a bell deeply tolled. I was enveloped in a cocoon of shimmering light, to emerge transformed.

Along the street, every lamp flickered.

Tonight, there was no nausea at all.

Red Reaper nodded briefly in acknowledgement before vanishing. The Mustang’s door swung wide, unbidden, to beckon me inside.

I slipped into the driver’s seat, wrapping my fleshless hands around the wheel.

The Mustang responded with a shiver. Its engine roared to life with the scream of a wild beast, instead of its usual well-tuned purr. Tongues of flame lapped from the headlights, providing a rich, warm light to guide us. Instead of rigid metal, the hood rippled like taut skin over tense muscle. The car strained and jerked like a wild stallion fighting its bridle.

With a jerk of surprise, I released the wheel. Instantly, the Mustang was still and quiet, just a car once more.

Elliott arched his back and hissed. “I think, Michael, it would be best if I walked.” He bolted for the open driver’s door without another word.

It slammed quickly behind him.

My smile split my skull nearly in two. Red teeth or not, my expression was every bit as gruesome—every bit as deadly—as Red Reaper at his worst.

I grabbed the wheel.

The Mustang responded at once, springing loudly back to life.

A fearsome beast to ride into battle.

A pale green horse, upon which tonight rode Death.

As we galloped into the night, the engine roared in rage.

XXXVII

The Hand of Fate

There was no bouncing red beacon to guide us; the Mustang clearly knew the way, and I allowed it the reins to run. Now more beast than car, my steed pointedly ignored all inconvenient traffic laws in its frantic, headlong rush: stoplights, sidewalks, one-way streets—they all meant nothing.

Ahead, the flickering flames of our headlamps brought Seattle to life as an endless parade of shifting, ominous shadows. In our wake, we left a fiery pattern of hoof prints, even though we still drove on four wheels.

At least, so far as I knew.

At one point, when the street dead-ended at a guardrail, the car simply coiled and leaped over the barrier to the street beyond.

It almost did feel as if I rode an angry, wild steed instead of a fifty-year-old muscle car.

I wondered if people would ignore the strange vehicle as readily as they did the Reaper, despite the angry, growling beast it had become. Was it simply an extension of the familiar magic, or something entirely new?

We encountered no one on our journey; that question would have to wait for another night.

Our destination was a sprawling industrial complex of four-story buildings in Shoreline, just north of Seattle. It was less isolated than the assassin’s old warehouse had been, though at night it was just as private. This was the kind of place that faded to a ghost town promptly at five.

The white van was easy to spot between buildings—the driveways were all empty. Backed to a single small door, it sat dark and empty. My Mustang pulled slowly alongside, where it shuddered quietly to a halt.

When I withdrew my skeletal fingers from the steering wheel, the beast grew still and silent. Slipping out into the night, I ran my hand lovingly along its hood.

“Good boy…well done.”

The heated metal briefly faded again to skin and muscle, nuzzling my hand in return, before becoming only a car once more.

A cold evening wind swirled through dark alleys, snapping the heavy leather duster around my legs. Directly above, I could see dark, looming clouds—the kind which carried an entire night of heavy rain.

Within the building waited all that I sought, and all that I’d feared: truth, balance and justice; pain, failure and death.

The storm had finally arrived.

Did I stride screaming into the tempest, fist raised in defiance, or seek safe shelter and await fairer winds?

Now faced with the decision, I found myself terrified. No one has ever considered me a hero—I’ve always been just another regular guy.

“Well, hello again, Michael.”

I didn’t need to see her face to place the voice, but I turned anyway, perhaps out of respect, or perhaps simply for the delay. The weathered old crone sat, once again, in her chair that wasn’t, rocking slowly.

“Hello, Atropos. Alone tonight?”

“We are all alone at the end.”

A stab of pain filled my heart. “So then, this is the end?”

She smiled, but it was filled with no joy, only sadness. “It is certainly
an
end, but for all the power of we three, none can truly know the future.”

“Where are your sisters, then?”

“This is a night of death, and death is my purview alone. Chloe mourns for what today may yet bring to pass; Lacy consoles the girl’s tender heart. But they are here, in our way, as surely as they are not, in yours.”

“I, uh…don’t understand.”

Atropos winked. “You’re not meant to, mortal.”

“So a black aura means death is inevitable?” I asked.

The elderly goddess nodded. “As death always is. Whose death, though, depends entirely upon you; three lives hang in the balance. One must die here tonight. By all rights, it should be Mr. Kim; his time has come. Leave now, and the matter is settled.”

I nodded. “And many others will die who might be saved.”

“Yes,” she responded gently, “many thousands before all is done.”

“And if I pursue this?”

“Death cannot be denied; its bill will always be paid. Come morning, if Mr. Kim lives, another must lie dead at my feet.” Atropos stepped back reverently, as if stepping over an open grave. A shiver ran through my entire body.

“Thank you, Atropos, Cutter of Threads. I know what I must do.”

She nodded. “You always did. But Michael?”

“Yes?”

“Call me Atty.”

Red pulsing light flared up around the building’s door as she vanished.

A parade of ghosts marched through the theater of my mind: an anonymous young boy in the dark, terrified and alone; a threadbare pink bathrobe, collapsed on the floor; a dark-skinned beauty drained cruelly of her life.

Who would avenge them, if not me?

Civilized society requires us all to place our anger in chains. Most people never notice. At our cores, though, we are basically animals; without those restraints, even the simplest of exchanges would turn to violence.

Holiday weekends at Costco would be a bloodbath.

That night, I threw my chains away.

The scythe, now familiar and comforting as an old friend, dropped into my outstretched hand.

The pulsing red door might have been locked, and it might not. It didn’t matter. A single hard kick from my boot heel shattered the knob and threw the door open wide.

Beyond was a large, dimly lit workshop. Woodworking equipment, sawdust and scrap littered the space. A plastic sheet lay draped over the majority of the floor; at its center, a slight figure in a teal paisley bathrobe and a burlap hood sat slumped on a makeshift chair of lumber.

Beyond the unconscious victim, perhaps fifty yards away, the deliveryman stood in his blue overalls. His dirty blond hair was plastered by sweat and his light blue eyes showed signs of distress. His handsomely chiseled but unremarkable features were strained.

My adversary held a large black handgun, with silencer, aimed at Bradley Kim’s chest. His expression was one of shock and undisguised fear as his mind processed what his eyes saw.

For he clearly saw me.

I realized belatedly that stealth would likely have been the wiser option.

I would be more careful in the future.

If I got a future.

Without warning, the assassin fired two shots in quick succession. The first struck his victim in the chest, tumbling him back from the chair. The second shattered the door frame inches behind me.

I ducked on instinct, arms raised protectively over my head. A sharp, debilitating pain erupted in my right side, dropping me to one knee. My breath grew ragged.

Through a pain-filled haze, I watched blue overalls vanish through a doorway to the building’s stairwell.

Cringing, I slowly rolled my black shirt up my torso. I expected a gaping wound and blood—or at least a bullet hole.

I found neither.

The assassin’s bullet had missed me completely. My pain was from the broken ribs, aggravated by my quick reaction.

I quietly cursed my brother.

How could I hope to prevail against a professional assassin, in full health, with my own body destroying itself at every step?

The broken ribs needed to be addressed. Not tomorrow, not soon.

Now.

I’d never explored the full extent of the Reaper visage. Certainly, after Steve had broken my ribs, the breaks were visible. Was the walking skeleton truly my bones on display, or no more than an illusion?

Gritting my teeth, I reached slowly under the shirt. I traced the break with a single skeletal finger; it felt real enough, cold and solid. My fist wrapped around the collapsed end of rib bone.

One.

Two.

I grunted.

Three!

The bone snapped in my hand. Cool, torment-free air rushed into my lungs. I stood without pain.

Bouncing the shard in my fleshless right palm, I contemplated it. Sometime in the future, I’d probably regret my actions, but for now it was exactly what I needed.

I chucked the bone into the dark.

Bradley Kim, still hooded, lay groaning on his side. His aura was thin, but it was no longer black; it was slowly fading through orange to yellow. My
Sight
showed the extent of his injuries; the bullet had passed close to his heart, but missed all major arteries.

He needed medical attention, but he was going to survive.

I’d saved him.

Somebody else would now die in his place.

I pulled the burlap hood from his head, pressing it against his wound. His eyes fluttered open, falling on me. All color drained from his features.

“Do you believe me now?” I asked, perhaps a bit harshly.

Bradley fainted.

Using the belt from his robe, I secured the wadded burlap hood to his wound. I wasn’t the world’s greatest field medic, but there were more pressing matters. It would have to suffice.

I rushed to the stairwell.

The confrontation had just begun, but my quarry was on the run, upward instead of out. That played strongly in my favor. If I could keep him moving, off balance, deny him the time to aim properly, I might have a fighting chance.

And, if I couldn’t…

Using the end of my scythe, I poked the stairwell door, causing it to swing.

No reaction.

Which, of course, meant exactly squat.

I pushed the door slowly with my right hand, holding it open for several seconds.

Still nothing.

After preparing myself with a slow, deep breath, I darted my head into the stairwell and quickly back out.

Two gunshots tore loudly through the small space, ricocheting repeatedly before going silent. The sound of squealing hinges was almost lost in the echoes.

I jumped wholly into the stairwell, knowing full well I took a reckless chance. I looked up in time to see the door four landings above just barely finish closing.

This building had only four floors; my assassin was now on the roof. No other buildings were close enough to jump to, but there would certainly be a fire escape. I needed to keep the pressure high, and his focus on me, or he’d slip right through my pale, skeletal fingers.

Taking the stairs two at a time, it took only seconds for my fingers to click against the door handle.

And then I hesitated.

I’m no master assassin, but I know what I’d do if expecting pursuit through a closed, windowless door with plenty of time to prepare.

I slipped back down one flight to the floor below.

The fourth floor was a break room with vending machines along one wall, and a few chairs scattered around two long tables. The room was primarily lit by the dim green exit sign. A torrential downpour beat against three large windows.

The storm had most certainly arrived.

What I needed was a distraction—something to draw this asshole’s attention long enough for me to reach the rooftop. Or, at the very least, a plan whose logical conclusion wasn’t my slow, painful, rain-soaked death.

Lightning flashed as I glanced around the room.

My heart sank when no inspiration presented itself. I might have to rush the door and hope for the best.

Lightning flashed a second time, drawing my eye to the windows.

And beyond the windows.

To the fire escape.

My heart beat wildly and my palms began to sweat.

The window stuck at first, but a strong push with my shoulder forced it open. Howling wind brought sheets of rain through the opening, quickly saturating my shirt and jeans.

I hate heights.

But I hated him more.

Fighting my every instinct to look down, I grabbed a rung of the metal ladder and swung out over empty space, freezing in place. For an eternity, I hung motionless, clutching the ladder for dear life.

And then, slowly and carefully, I began to ascend. My foot slipped twice, but the wind and pouring rain covered my outcries.

And no, I didn’t scream like a frightened little girl.

Much.

It seemed to take an eternity, but my skull eventually crested the side of the building, revealing the scene beyond.

My opponent crouched on the opposite side of the roof, just a few feet from the stairwell’s door. He used one of the roof’s massive air conditioning units for cover. His gun was held steadily, aimed about chest height toward the door.

Rushing the roof would have been my very last mistake.

Moving as quietly as possible, I slipped over the roof’s edge. I don’t exactly move with stealth and grace, but the storm howled and raged against the buildings; it effectively covered my approach.

Until someone turned off the shower.

The rain relented all at once. My steps went from ninja silence to the loud, wet slaps of a big skeleton in motorcycle boots striding across wet pavement.

It’s a distinctive sound.