His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) (4 page)

I gasped.

Was he another Agent? An angel, perhaps?

“No, you can’t,” he said. “
Look
at him, Henry; he’s dead either way. Moving him now would just kill him faster.”

I’d had enough of magic and mystery for one night. Here was another person trying to steal my choices from me—a person I’d never met, who had the audacity to already know my name.

I could save whomever I damn well pleased.

“Why do you care?” I snapped out. “Who the hell are you?”

He smiled benevolently, unfazed by my abruptness or obvious frustration. “I am many things to many people, but never more than what I seem, or less than what is required.”

Right; because that explained everything.

Except for the useless, cryptic part.

I crossed my arms angrily, refusing to say or do more until he answered my questions.

The stranger sighed, visibly bracing himself. “I’m the one who brought you back.”

Surprise and rage flashed through my body, jerking me backward. After the initial shock faded, my anger began to boil over. I advanced on the man, my fists clenching.

He bowed his head and dropped both arms, making no attempt to defend himself. He said simply, “I’m sorry. You have every right to be angry, but I had no choice.”

The words hung heavy with authenticity, and a deep sense of regret. My feet stumbled to a halt, though my rage continued unabated. “Why the hell not?”

The man looked up, his intense gaze freezing me in place. Emotion seethed in his eyes, but looking into them, it was impossible to doubt his sincerity. “A great war rages, Henry…just as it has raged since the beginning of time. Light and dark, order against chaos, good versus evil—the fundamental conflict of existence.”

He added somberly, “And all of humanity hangs in the balance.”

I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. What had this man gotten me into?

“There is an agreement, though…” he continued. “A treaty, if you will. It has kept the peace, after a fashion, for thousands of years. It sets forth many, many rules for both sides. Certain of those rules were…
bent
…to take your life. I bent them again to give it back.”

“As a damn angel of death,” I snapped.

The other man nodded. “Yes, and again, I am very sorry. But I needed you back, I needed you back quickly, and I needed you back
here
, in Seattle. It was the only option available to me.”

“Why?” I asked. “What’s so special about me?”

The response was slow and soft, but carried a heavy weight. “If I had allowed your death, Henry, evil would ultimately prevail. The world you know, and all the people in it, would end in fire and torment.”

My anger fled before the shock of that. “Excuse me?” My mind worked frantically to make sense of his words. “How exactly would I stop something like that?”

The stranger grumbled softly. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that question; the rules forbid it.”

“Seriously?” I snapped. “You’re going to drop a bombshell like that, and then give me nothing?”

The man shrugged.

“Okay, fine,” I growled. “But you brought me back, so what happens now?”

He smiled sadly. “Perhaps the same, perhaps not.”

Gee, great.

“So glad I could help.”

“Listen, Henry…with you alive there is, at least, a chance. Alive, you will have an opportunity to make a decision, to take an action; at that moment, you can potentially stop the horror that is coming. With you dead, all hope is lost.”

I shivered. “But you won’t tell me what that decision is?”

“I’m afraid I cannot.”

“Then why the hell come here at all?” I bit off the end of each word harshly. “Why tell me anything?”

“Well,” the stranger said, “to warn you.”

I shivered again, fear slowly overtaking my anger. “Warn me about what?”

“So far, the enemy doesn’t know where you are, but believe me when I say the full might of Hell itself is on the hunt. When they find you—and they
will
find you—your life will become far more difficult.”

“They’ll kill me again, won’t they?”

“No. They can’t attack directly. It’s forbidden, Henry.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “So I’m safe, then?”

“No.” He shook his head emphatically. “Very much no. They can’t attack you, but they
can
trick others into doing their bidding…just as they did before. Only if they kill you now, I can’t bring you back this time; there is no do-over.”

“Jesus,” I gasped. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Stay alive, no matter the cost.”

Even if that cost was life as a monster? My fear began to give way, again, to my anger. “I have no intention of playing at Grim Reaper.”

The man nodded sadly. “Then you are dooming us all.”

“Damn it,” I lashed out furiously. “Why couldn’t you just warn me while I was still alive?”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “Rules. We are not allowed to interact with humans.”

I shivered at the implication.

“Agents are the bridge between the two worlds, Henry—more than men, but less than gods. Mortals with gifts beyond mortal men. Use those gifts, Henry, don’t reject them; they might just save your life, and the world along with you.”

I shook my head, angry, scared and confused. Who was this stranger, who expected me to accept so much on faith? More than just an Agent, it would seem. “Who are you? No games this time; what’s your name?”

He tilted his head to one side, thinking. “You don’t believe in me, Henry, so it’s difficult to answer your question. But you are right…you have to call me something.” The man winked as if sharing a secret. “You may call me Chris.”

Thoughts swirled through my mind: questions, accusations, and needs. So many unknowns, so many different ways to go.

“All right, Chris,” I said finally, “just tell me one thing.”

“I will if I can, Henry.”

“If I go along with you, if I play your game, do I get my old life back? Is there any way I can see my brother again, or…” I trailed off, unable to say her name.

Chris responded sadly, shaking his head. “You are dead, Henry; there’s no life left to ‘get back.’  As for Steve—or Michelle—well, the future is a dark pool, ripe with possibilities.”

Useless and cryptic, again. He wanted me to save the world, but wouldn’t give me a single straight answer, or a single damn idea of how to do it.

“There’s one more thing, Henry.”

Of course there was. “What’s that?” I snapped.

“Don’t tell anyone about this meeting, or about me.”

Wonderful, more damn secrets. “And why not, exactly?”

Chris sighed heavily. “You’re playing a complex and dangerous game now, where a friend might be your enemy, and your enemy could really be a friend. I’m not even sure who you can trust. Say the wrong thing, to the wrong person, at the wrong time…they might just remove you from the board completely. And…”

“I know,” I growled, “this time dead means dead.”

Chris nodded.

Everything had gotten so complicated so very fast. Be a Grim Reaper, without getting the damn manual. Save the world, with no clue when, or even
how.
Avoid the only person you can trust, and trust no one else.

Well, at least there might be one difference I could still make tonight.

Chris shook his head, as if reading my mind. “It is not your place to change one homeless man’s destiny.”

Heat rose within me, equal parts anger and determination. I’d be damned if I would sit by and ignore this man’s need…watch an innocent person die, just because Chris didn’t approve. I’d never agreed to live by his rules…he hadn’t given me the chance.

Spinning quickly on the spot, I lunged forward, rushing to close the distance before Chris could intercede.

For a moment, my plan worked perfectly.

Until, of course, I realized it hadn’t.

Everything I expected to see upon turning had vanished: the tent, the overpass, even the homeless man himself struggling for breath.

In dumbfounded shock, I stumbled to a halt. Before me lay an empty street; a three-story brick building stood on the far side. With an angry grunt, I turned to confront the man responsible. “Damn you, Chris…”

Behind me was another three-story brick building. A nearby street lamp lit the area dimly. Two cars were parked by the curb.

The rain began, once again, to fall.

I yelled out in frustration.

Chris was nowhere to be seen.

IV

Cat’s in the Cradle

I looked quickly around, disoriented, trying desperately to figure out where Chris had sent me. The tops of Century Link and Safeco Fields were just peeking over the buildings to the west. I-5 was visible, in the distance, to the east. That meant I stood in the heart of the International District.

Harborview sat high on a hill, roughly two miles northeast of me, on the far side of I-5. If I ran, it would take at least fifteen minutes to get back.

Too long.

He had, maybe, five.

And if I could manage to make it in time, would I just be sent away again?

I yelled a second time, kicking the tire of a parked car. Who the hell was Chris? And if I was supposed to save the whole world, why couldn’t I start with one dying man?

And did he really expect me to believe I was the only one who could stop the apocalypse?

The damn
apocalypse
!

Now I was alone, without any place to go. To my family, I’d been dead six months. I couldn’t exactly show up at the breakfast table wearing a stranger’s face, especially if it put the people I loved in danger from some all-powerful, vindictive magical force.

Not to mention the literal forces of evil.

I’d even managed to lose that slip of paper from Joshua—the one with the address of my new home.

An address in the International District.

My body tingled with a mix of wonder and apprehension. It seemed unlikely that Chris had dropped me in Chinatown by random chance. The nearest street signs read “9
th
Ave S” and “S Lane St.” I couldn’t remember for sure, but that sounded right.

Above each glass door, the gold paint was so badly chipped and faded as to be illegible. The one in front of me might read “928,” or it might be an Asian curse word.

The only thing I remembered for certain was an apartment number: 3C. It stuck in my mind because it was the same apartment number as Michelle’s. I still couldn’t remember everything that had happened there.

But, obviously, it wasn’t good.

Should I go in? On one hand, I might be walking uninvited into another person’s home, someone who would be unlikely to welcome me. On the other…there was nowhere else to go.

I pushed open the front door and walked inside.

There was little of interest on the first floor. A row of tarnished metal mailboxes lined the wall to my right. Directly in front of the entrance was a flight of narrow wooden stairs leading straight up to the second story. On my left stood a worn and dirty yellow door, marked “Private” in chipped brass.

I examined the mailboxes briefly. A suite number was painted on every door in precise black letters. Inset into each was a small plastic window revealing the occupant’s name. The units on the second floor were businesses. The third floor appeared to be private residences.

Apartment 3C showed no name at all.

Was the mysterious Elliott waiting there for me? Could he help me make sense of everything that was happening? Could he, just maybe, help me find a way out?

Could I even trust him?

The narrow steps creaked as I climbed to the next level. The ascent was lit dimly by a few bare, widely spaced bulbs, revealing the cracks in the stairs. I heard something scurry behind me; it was gone before I could turn around.

My heart leaped into my throat, thumping its displeasure.

The steps stopped at the second story, spilling into a long hallway. At the far end, another narrow staircase led upward. The doors on this level were painted a dark brown with large, frosted glass windows. Small, precise black letters, like the ones on the mailboxes below, identified the businesses within.

I took note of the doors as I walked quietly along the hall. ‘Al’s Computers,’ with a dusty sign advertising web design, in 2A. 2B housed the ‘Law Office of Peter Kingston.’ Both suites on the street side, 2C and 2D, stood empty. 2E, the last suite, was marked simply ‘Massage.’

All of the windows were dark except that last one, where soft lights flickered within. As I walked by slowly, hushed voices and the occasional woman’s giggle could be heard. The sounds were overlaid by a quiet, nondescript music comprised primarily of harp and guitar. I tried not to contemplate the nature of a Chinatown massage parlor doing its business in the middle of the night.

The back stairs were lit by a single bare bulb, leaving much of the ascent cloaked in shadow. My pulse raced, and I could feel sweat trickling down my back. I took several deep breaths, preparing myself, before moving quickly upward.

On the third floor, the doors were painted the same brown as the ones on the second story, but these were solid wood—lacking the frosted glass. Large brass letters and numbers identified each door. A window filled the far end of the hall, looking out on a side alley.

I found 3C easily, at the center of the floor, facing the street. The door was locked, as I’d expected. It might be my destination, but there was no indication either way.

Was Elliott inside? Would he help me get back to a normal life? Or would I find an angry Asian man with a shotgun?

Honestly, I wasn’t sure which I’d prefer.

Taking a deep breath, I politely asked the door to open.

The bolt withdrew with a soft click. On silent hinges, the door swung open several inches.

Within, the room was dark, lit only by the dim streetlight I’d seen outside. Directly ahead, beneath the window, were a blue fabric couch, scratched end table, and a lamp. To my left, a two-burner stove, undersized refrigerator, and small sink comprised the apartment’s “quaint” kitchen. Through a half-open door to the right, I could make out the corner of a bed.

The biggest black cat I’d ever seen sat in the middle of the room. He was easily thirty pounds, though his thick fur made it difficult to be certain. Large yellow eyes watched me casually; he did not appear bothered by my sudden appearance. I’d guess he was Maine Coon, but cat breeds have never been my strong suit.

I’m more of a dog person.

“Hello, Reaper, and welcome.” The voice was slow and precise, proper, bordering on condescending. It reminded me of a professional butler, or perhaps a maître d’.

I couldn’t see anyone else in the apartment.

“Hello? Are you Elliott?” I asked, hoping the speaker would step into view.

“I am.”

So much for subtlety.

“Would you mind coming out here where I can see you?”

The response carried a hint of amusement. “I am directly in front of you.”

I was alone, except for the large cat in the middle of the room.

The cat sitting directly in front of me.

Seriously?

“Elliott?”

The cat nodded.

I know many people talk to their dogs and cats, but I’ve never heard of a single one that actually talked back.

“Has anyone ever mentioned you’re a cat?”

“I am impressed Reaper; your powers of observation are truly astounding.” Elliott smiled, and there’s not much more disturbing than a thirty-pound, smiling cat.