Jamie was up at first light. He showered, shaved, and picked out his outfit. Despite what Death had told him about food, he had a bowl of multigrain cereal he found in the kitchen cupboard. Even death couldn't break his mom's lectures about healthy breakfasts.
Death came to the table late. She was still wearing the t-shirt and shorts that she had slept in, along with a pair of fluffy slippers. She made her usual cup of coffee and sat down, watching him eat.
"I have to thank you again for doing this. What you said last night, about not having a day off in forever? You don't know how right you are. I gotta say I'm kinda looking forward to this."
"Hey, I'm a nice guy. I keep my promises. Especially ones made to a lady."
Death rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. Jamie grinned and finished his cereal. He washed up the dishes and got ready to leave.
"Wait, before you go."
Jamie stopped with his hand on the doorknob. Death had removed the silver ankh she wore on a chain around her neck. Jamie couldn't remember seeing her without it before. She gave it to him and closed his fingers over it.
"Take my ankh. It's my sigil and chain of office, I suppose. Wear it when you're doing the job. And if you run into trouble…well, I hope you won't run into trouble. But I'll know about it."
"Thanks. I'll see you in a bit."
Death gave him a hug, and watched from her window as Jamie walked through the grass and vanished into the void between the worlds.
She had taught him how to do it last night. It was easier than it first looked. Death was the only being in the multiverse that knew exactly where she was, and where everyone else was. Reality, by comparison was insubstantial and fleeting compared to Death. Or to someone doing her job. All Jamie had to do was to think of where he wanted to go, and the void would open up to take him there. It wasn't really like moving towards some place. More like the universe rearranging itself so that the place where he needed to be was brought to where he was.
Jamie stepped through it, cloaked in the darkness drawn from the emptiness all around him. In this place darkness was not the mere absence of light, but a material substance in its own right. If you knew how, it could be shaped according to your whim. And after last night, Jamie knew how.
The planes of existence whipped past him, but Jamie ignored the first few million, searching for the one where he needed to go at that moment. The knowledge burned in his brain, an absolute terrible certainty of where he was supposed to be. Death was always on time, and Jamie had no intention of being late.
Just step through here…
Jamie emerged on a land with a red sky obscured by a storm of swirling sand. The landscape was bleak, desolated, and blasted. Huge rocks dotted the area, but he could not see a single living thing. For a moment he wondered if he had come to the right place. He walked around a little, looking for the being he was supposed to take, but he just couldn't see anybody.
"Hello? Anybody there?" Jamie called, before he realized nobody living could hear him. He was doing Death's job, dammit, he should be more professional about this…
A rumbling beneath his feet made him stop and squat down close to the sand. There definitely were huge reverberations, growing steadily louder and more violent, despite the wind. Jamie decided to back away slowly. When the rumblings actually grew louder than the wind, he gave up all pretense and started running like hell.
A gigantic cylindrical thing erupted from the sand, shaking loose tons of earth as if they were as insubstantial as air. It looked like a worm, albeit one that was capable of gulping down the Empire State Building. Jamie was shaking in terror. The whale seemed tiny by comparison, and he couldn't control himself. One end of the worm split open to reveal a massive jaw, ringed with monstrous teeth as long as flagpoles. Stained, jagged flagpoles.
The sand worm paused, standing perfectly vertical. Its great mouth closed and opened a few times. Then to Jamie's utter astonishment, it began to sway, and finally crashed to the ground with an earth-shaking thud. The impact raised another storm of sand. It seemed like an eternity before it settled down again.
It was then Jamie saw the shade. It was no bigger than his foot. Although the sand worm was humongous, for some reason its shade was tiny. Jamie made a mental note to ask Death later, and then reached over to touch it. It was surprisingly easy. The worm had lived for a thousand years knowing only a single, simple want. Its hunger was finally over.
When the worm's shade had disappeared completely, Jamie searched his mind for his next location. It was the strangest sensation, knowing exactly where he was supposed to be at any given moment. It was as if new information was being constantly downloaded into his brain, but in a low-key manner so he didn't feel overwhelmed. Surprisingly enough, the next place he had to go to was…right here. He didn't need to move an inch.
The sands began to rumble ominously once more. This time Jamie didn't hesitate before taking to his heels.
Soccer City football stadium
Johannesburg
South Africa
A bird riding on the breezes above Jo'burg might have noticed the riot of colour surrounding the Soccer City stadium. Every colour of the rainbow was represented in the Rainbow Nation, but yellow, red and orange was predominant. The songs, cheers, and laughs of every language on Earth filled the air, as the fans waited patiently for kickoff to begin. The World Cup final would take place tonight, and the world had come to South Africa to watch.
A long line snaked a circuitous route from the city centre all the way to the stadium entrance gates, where fans who had managed to buy, beg or steal a genuine ticket to the final were allowed entry inside one by one. Some were drinking beer, some were making an awful din with their vuvuzela horns, and all looked excited to be present at the world's greatest sporting event.
All but five individuals, who waited stoically in line like all the rest but with a markedly different demeanour. Their eyes were hidden by dark glasses, the African sunshine glinting off white designer suits that looked like they cost a fortune. They weren't carrying flags, or banners, or horns or any of the usual paraphernalia that fans brought with them to a football match. They looked as though they were attending a business convention instead.
The Korean family behind them in line had tried to strike up a conversation, only to be met with total and utter indifference. The expressions on their faces forestalled all further attempts at socialisation. They simply stared straight ahead, moving forward when the line moved, standing still when it wasn't. Eventually they came to to gates. The stadium had filled up quite a bit by then, and there were drumbeats and songs echoing along with the incessant horn blowing.
"Goeie aand, vriende!" greeted the young man at the stadium booth. "May I see your tickets please?"
The group's apparent leader, a huge caucasian man with a shaven skull thrust his hand in his jacket's inner pocket and withdrew five tickets, handing it over for inspection.
"That seems to be in order. Enjoy the match guys! Who do you think's gonna win? My money's on Spain, but Holland have a great team this year."
"I really don't care," said the man, in tones of ice. He beckoned to his companions and they went past the gates without so much as a backward glance.
"Did you have to act like that?" asked one of the group, a plump woman with short blonde hair.
"Like what?" shot back the big bald man. They were hurrying through the corridors in the bowels of the stadium, although his long strides made it hard for the rest to keep up.
"Like a flashing neon sign that screams 'Hey everybody! I'm up to no good!' Christ Vorkosigan, you can be such an idiot."
"Shut up Claire."
"We'll probably have security breathing down our necks in a minute."
"Let them come," piped up another man, a short Indian man with dark eyes and hair. He looked the most uncomfortable in his tailored suit, and he drew out a long knife from his jacket, running his fingers along the side of the blade. "I'd enjoy taking care of them."
"Put that away you moron!" hissed the small Japanese woman beside him, her pretty face contorted in anger. "Do you want to get us locked up?"
He glowered, but stowed away the weapon. She brushed past him in irritation.
"Honestly Sabu, you never bloody think."
"Shut up, all of you," repeated the big man. "We have to set everything up just right."
"Where's Sydney, by the way?" asked the last member of the group, a young man who looked barely old enough to vote. His long brown hair fell to his shoulders, and he had kept his dark glasses on when all the rest had removed them once they were inside the stadium.
"She's already inside, Dirk. The corporate box, with all the fat cats."
"Lucky her."
"She'll meet up with us soon. The power she's been gathering for the past few weeks...you know how difficult it is. I'm glad the Teacher chose her to do it."
"While we get stuck doing all the legwork," grumbled the blonde woman.
"Lighten up," said Sabu. He flashed a grin. "Our job's way more fun."
"Some of us don't share your taste for bloodshed, Sabu."
"Too bad then. I've heard enjoying what you do makes all the difference."
Vorkosigan grunted, slowing down his steps. They had arrived at one of the planned detonation sites. From within the inner recesses of his jacket he removed a small pack of plastic explosives, and he attached it carefully to the base of the pillar before setting the timer.
They had gone over the schematics of the stadium with thorough detail in the weeks before. They had memorised security detail, load-bearing points, and the architectural blueprints revealing every last inch of the place. They had spent a fortune in bribes and countless hours all in preparation for this single moment.
Binding Death herself was a task of Herculean proportions. No, beyond Herculean proportions, his Twelve Labours a walk in the park compared to this. The men and women in service to the Teacher had called up staggering amounts of power over many long weeks, from places all across the globe. It was unthinkable, unimaginable. But it could reportedly be done.
In order to bind Death, they would first have to ensure that she was present. Any death could theoretically do it, even that of an insect. But the Teacher had decided no chances could be taken.
Death on this scale, and the chaos and fear that would follow would create an energy signature that would be like a beacon amongst the worlds. The destruction of the entire stadium, every last horrifying detail played out in front of hundreds of cameras that would relay the bloody carnage to billions of screens across the world...the Reaper would have to show up in person.
And when she did, they would be waiting for her.
Vorkosigan armed another explosive, and the group moved on.
Dune
Jamie was exhausted.
Once, back when he was alive, he had signed up for an unsanctioned boxing tournament. Each person put up fifty bucks, winner took home everything. A small ring was set up in the backyard of Mike Mizanin's house, a guy who wasn't exactly unfamiliar with police scrutiny. Half the school showed up to watch their buddies kick the shit out of each other. Mike provided the beer, charged admission and was promised a tenth of the winnings.
Some of the other guys were professionals, having been trained by actual coaches. Some were merely huge, beefy thugs ready to make a quick buck. Jamie was neither, so he did what he could do. For a month leading up to the bout, he trained every day to the point of exhaustion, and then did twice as much again. He'd secretly engaged Joey for extra help, and nearly gave up when his enthusiastic older brother introduced him to all new kinds of pain. Still he went on.
Jamie remembered a lot about the actual day. He was practically unknown, and everyone thought that either one of the football team guys would win, or one of the bikers. No one gave him a second glance. Instead, Jamie survived each round through quicker footwork and more stamina. When his opponents spent all their energy in furious attacks, Jamie dodged most of them, and tired them out for the win. The last round was against an amateur wrestler almost a head taller than him, but he was not in his natural environment.
Still, it was close, with the pair of them slugging it out for what seemed like forever. Just as Jamie felt like he wasn't able to lift his arms one more time, he remembered a little trick a friend of his father had taught him. He'd called it the Liverpool Kiss, and assured Jamie it would be able to finish any fight. He'd used it, and the huge lug crashed to the mat, utterly senseless. Jamie somehow managed to collect his money, give Mizanin his cut and staggered home. He pissed blood for a week and was feeling the bruises for three months afterwards. His mom banned him from all future tournaments, sanctioned or not.
The exhaustion he was feeling now was somewhat like what he was feeling just after the final fight of that tournament.
The sand worms just kept coming. One after the other, without stopping. Jamie had gotten more or less used to the way they kept rising from the sand, but there seemed to be no end to them. He must have crossed a couple hundred of them over, with barely a pause in between each one.
As he crossed over yet another shade, the little feeling in his head that had so far rooted him to this particular world fell silent. The rush of dying sand worms had finally stopped. Later Jamie would find out that they were a species that lived for hundreds of years underground and only came up to the surface to die, which they did almost all together at the same time. For now, all he knew was that he was dripping sweat like a fountain, covered from head to toe in sand and his clothes were ripped and torn. For a ghost he didn't seem to be able to remain unaffected by the environment.
He could kill for a cold drink and a shower. Despite getting more or less used to his strange new existence, Jamie felt a wave of homesickness so bad it was almost like the first time he had discovered he was dead.
An idea struck him. He could go back. Just for a moment. He knew the way, and Death wasn't looking over his shoulder. Who could blame him if he stepped back to Earth for five minutes?
She gave you the job. She trusted you.
Jamie winced at the guilt. Of all that he had asked from Didi, she had given. She had let him perform her duties, and he understood full well this was not something she did often. Or at all. Jamie slumped to the ground, sitting on the sand.
Then he stood up again. He had to get back to Earth. Not because he wanted a cold drink or because he wanted to see a sky that was actually blue. But there was someone he had to see.
In order to do her job, Death needed to know the precise location of any living thing at any given moment, because they could be dead in the next. She also had the knowledge of how to get there. And now, doing the job for her, Jamie had that knowledge.
Jamie decided to give it a shot. A second later, the icy understanding filled his mind once more.
Morgan. She was in New York, where he had left her.
Jamie turned it over in his mind. Didi had put her trust in him. But he had to speak to Morgan, just once more. He couldn't do it as a ghost. She looked right through him like he wasn't even there. But as the Reaper...she'd have to see him.
"I love you," she smiles, and laughs with delight at the star struck grin that immediately transforms his face, making him look younger, happier, less careworn. He remembers the music of her laughter and the smell of cinammon.
Jamie made up his mind. He'd just take a break. Ten minutes or so with Morgan, then back to the job. Didi wouldn't blame him for taking a break.
Before he could change his mind again, Jamie opened up the void and hurtled back to New York.
Corporate Box
Soccer City Stadium
Johannesburg, South Africa
Sydney Sherman stepped into the Corporate Box of the stadium, reserved for people who incidentally had zero interest in football, but who demanded the best seats in the place anyway. A hush immediately descended upon the room as the old men clutching glasses of champagne stopped their conversation to look at her. Wearing a blazer of dazzling white and a skirt that revealed a lot of long smooth white leg, she made hearts race and mouths dry up.
"Ms. Sherman, how delightful to see you!" exclaimed one of the men in a dark blue suit, old, fat and stinking of corruption and ill-deserved power. He advanced upon Sydney, both arms stretched out wide, a Hutt-like grin on his jowly face.
"Joseph. It's been far too long," she drawled, her lips drawn up in a lazy smile. She extended a long white hand instead, and the President of FIFA had to bend down and brush his lips against it. Sydney shivered mentally, and made a mental note to sterilize her hand thoroughly.
"Welcome, welcome," he exulted, pumping her hand energetically. And well he should have. She was the public face of the conglomerate that had provided the Association with funding well into the hundreds of millions. Most of it went directly into the president's pockets, and those of his cronies, but the Teacher wanted them to remain where they were. Corrupt men were the easiest to predict and control. And what the Teacher wanted, Sydney made sure that it was done.
It was a massive expense, and her heart ached at throwing away so much money down endless greedy drains, but in the new world she was promised, they would have wealth far beyond mere money.
Still, she was going to enjoy what she was about to do.
Two men in identical white suits stepped into the room behind her. Working quickly, they shut the door and locked it. Then slowly, deliberately they removed identical long barrelled automatic handguns from their shoulder holsters and took up position on either side of Sydney.
"What is this?" stammered the FIFA chief, the blood draining out of his face.
"Something I've been waiting all night for," said Sydney pleasantly.
Her men opened fire, delicately taking aim and hitting their targets in the head every time. The football money men died before they could cry out, slumping to the floor with dark blood and bits of grey matter seeping out from the holes in their heads.
When the last of them had been killed, Sydney held one of Blatter's hands and caressed it, almost like a lover. With the other, she retrieved a length of garrotte wire from her pocket.
He screamed and tried to run, but her guards barrelled him to the floor and tied a gag around his mouth. They tugged what remained of his hair and pulled his head up. Sweat was pouring off his face, and his eyes were wide and mad. He kicked and fought, but he was an old man and outmatched.
Sydney gently looped the wire around his neck, taking her time. There was much power in a death, if one knew how to harness it. When it was perfectly positioned, she twisted and pulled back with all her strength.
The wire sank into the sagging folds of his fleshy neck. Sydney appreciated the way his face turned black and his eyes rolled in their sockets, and the way his feet beat a wild, erratic rhythm on the floor. She didn't even mind when his bowels let go during the moment of death, filling the room with an indescribable stink.
Her task done, she released the wire and stood up. She nodded to her guards. They left the room and shut the door with a click. They would stand outside and prevent anyone from going in. She was not to be disturbed.
Sydney went around the room from one body to the other, dipping a finger into each puddle of blood pooled around each exploded head. She ran her tongue over her finger and exulted in the hot tang of iron.
As she fed, she muttered the words that would allow her to take power from her sacrifice, to become a channel for forces infinitely greater than she was.
She came at last to Blatter's body. Because he had died a bloodless death, Sydney removed a small metal spoon from her breast pocket. She dug into his eyes and pulled the eyeballs free, one after the other coming away with a soft pop. She bit into them, noting with interest that the juice that squirted into her mouth was not unlike that of an oyster.
Once done, she sat down in the exact centre of the room, folded her legs and bowed her head. She would need maximum concentration for the second part of the task.
The ticking of the clock, which had not been noticed over the hubbub of the conversation five minutes ago, now dominated the room. Fancy finger food cooled on the tables, champagne fizzed in their glasses and bottles, undrunk. Nothing was stirring save for Sydney's full red lips as she whispered under her breath.
New York City
Morgan flipped her hair out of her eyes and grinned with evil self-satisfaction.
"Trick question. The ball isn't considered offside, the player is. The player is flagged offside when there's only one member of the opposing team between him and the goal, and he is deemed to be interfering with play. He doesn't have to touch the ball."
A mix of loud groans and cheers greeted this pronouncement. Morgan's friends, Jacob and Ollie in particular, whooped loudly. Truy Phang held out her hand for the cash, which the visiting band of Englishmen handed over good naturedly.
"Anyone else want to bet that I don't know anything about the game?" said Morgan smugly. She had just won a free round of drinks.
"Not me, miss," said the young man who had initially made the bet. He had stiff blonde hair that stood straight up in spikes and was wearing a white England shirt with 'Gerrard 8' on the back. "I've learned me lesson."
His companions laughed again at that, apparently thinking it worth a few coins to see their friend humiliated. They turned away and began discussing loudly once more whether the Spanish or the Dutch would win the final.
"Spain have got all of Barca's team, they're practically invincible..."
"I fancy the Dutch, they've got that hard bastard van Bommel."
"He's a thug, Iniesta'll run rings around him."
"What do you know of Iniesta yer pillock, you support Norwich..."
"I get La Liga on Sky all right?"
"Three to one on Torres scoring? You're on."
"Extra hundred thrown in if he scores before half time?"
"Easiest bit of dosh I ever made, Martin. Don't cry when your Nancyboy snaps a hamstring halfway in."
Truy Phang returned from the bar carrying Morgan's Long Island Iced Tea. She took it and sipped happily. Her friends were right, the football World Cup Final was an event not to be missed. She hadn't been anywhere other than home and school ever since Jamie died.
He used to buy her Long Islands too, she remembered. He didn't drink himself, but he knew she liked one after a particularly trying day. He didn't smoke either, but he'd tried one at her urging. He'd coughed, stubbed it out while she laughed and teased him for not being able to handle it.
She regretted that. She regretted a lot of things.
Morgan shook her head. She refused to sink into despair once more. She had been utterly inconsolable, a devastated wreck in the weeks after Jamie's death. Part of the reason was that she blamed herself. If she hadn't run away, he wouldn't have had to chase after her.
Her schoolwork had suffered terribly, she'd quit band practise, she'd refused to talk to anyone, least of all her mother. She had written pages and pages of songs, and bit by bit, it helped. Some days she only thought of him once, or not at all. She hadn't thought that was possible, but time rolled forward as inexorably as ever, taking with it the raw hurt and pain of that day. She hadn't been to Jamie's grave since the funeral, and she didn't think she would ever go back. He wouldn't have wanted her to mourn forever.
"I'm going out for a smoke," she announced. "Anyone coming?"
No one felt like it, so Morgan slid off her stool and made her way outside. The June sunshine made her feel cheerful, something that she welcomed. She lit up, looked up and enjoyed the warmth.
"Those things can kill you, y'know," said a familiar voice.
Morgan whirled around and nearly swallowed her cigarette. Jamie was standing right there, grinning widely.
"Fuck!"
"Nice to see you too, Mor."
Morgan sat down, very suddenly. She stared up at Jamie, her eyes wide and round.
"Who are you?"
"It's me."
She tried to scoot backwards, scraping her hands on the pavement.
"Please, whoever you are, leave me alone. I don't want any trouble."
"Mor -"
"Please don't hurt me!"
"Mor, listen to me. My name is James Franklin Keane, yours is Morrigan Jean Murphy. You're a great singer, an even better songwriter, and your dearest wish is to ride on a humpback whale. One time in grade school we skipped gym class to get ice cream and that hobo chased us all the way home. Do you remember?"
Morgan stopped moving.
"I'd forgotten about that."
"I haven't."
"You don't have to be Jamie to know that. You could be some...some demon or something."
"I'm not a demon or a ghost. I'm me. I'm here. I've come back."
"Jamie, you're dead. Am I going mad, or...or...is this my subconscious speaking to me, am I confronting my guilt issues?"
Jamie sighed. He'd forgotten that Introduction to Freudian Theory class that Morgan had took.
"It'll take a while to explain..."
Morgan patted the patch of concrete next to her. Jamie sat down, and it was so familiar it was as if he had never left. He began by telling her what happened on the night he died, and ended up telling her everything. His purpose here on Earth. His new job and its responsibilities.
Jamie poured out his heart to his best friend and when he had finished it was as if no time had passed at all.
He finished speaking. Morgan was looking at him with keen interest. She hadn't interrupted him once or looked away throughout his entire tale. Sometime during the conversation her hand had reached out for his. He wanted to take it, but some unexplainable instinct made him hold back. Instead she patted him on the knee, and listened.
"Is this true? All of it?"
"Yes."
"And you're here because?"
"Because I wanted to see you."
Morgan lowered her eyes. "Jamie, I..."
"Don't you miss me?"
"I did. I do. You don't know the half of it. I spent months in agony. There were days where I literally did nothing but lie on the bed, stare at the ceiling and listen to The Beatles on loop. I was a wreck. A zombie."
"But I'm here now."
"I watched them put you in the ground. I watched them lower your coffin and shovel the earth back into the hole. I heard the words of the pastor. I saw you die, Jamie."
A chill crept down Jamie's back. This wasn't how he'd imagined their reunion to be.
"I thought I could never get over it. But I did. Somehow. I spent ages putting my life back together, bit by bit. And I got better," continued Morgan.
"Morgan, I love you," Jamie said suddenly. "I needed to come and see you."
"And I loved you too Jamie," she replied softly. "But you left me."
"It wasn't my fault!"
"I didn't say it was. Please, don't make it any harder for me than it already is. You're my best friend. I'll always love you. But what we had died on the same night you died. Nothing can change that."
"I can change it. I have powers now. I can do things. I know a lot of stuff," blustered Jamie, knowing with a forlorn futility that he was lying. Morgan gave him a skeptical look, the one he knew so well.
"The power you hold isn't yours. I may not have seen what you seen, but I know enough that you're involved with forces far more powerful than we can understand. Be careful, Jamie."
He stood up. So did she.
"So that's it? So long? Good luck?"
Morgan smiled. "It was nice to see you again."
"I meant it, you know," he said suddenly, not wanting to leave with the words unsaid.
"So did I. But I need to get on with my life. And so do you. You need to let me go and make my own way."
"I expect I'll see you again. At least once more."
"I'd like that," she said. She didn't take his hand, but leaned forward and gave him a small kiss on the cheek. She was hesitant, as if expecting to feel thin air, but Jamie was not a ghost, and far more substantial. He felt her lips on his skin and knew it would be for the last time.
Then his mind exploded.
Jamie opened his eyes. Pain, so overwhelming and so unexpected he was knocked over by the sheer force of it. Morgan was standing over him, looking terrified.
"Jamie, what is it? What happened?"
"South Africa," he grunted, the words forcing themselves through his teeth, without deigning to pass through his brain. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt that something horrific had happened. Without knowing how he was doing it, he vanished in the blink of an eye.
Terrified, Morgan rushed back into the bar. The once raucous crowd had gone completely silent. Every person in the place was staring, eyes riveted, to the small television screen, which had gone completely blank.
"What happened?"
"The stadium...the stadium blew up."
Death's Domain
The Sunless Lands
Death had once attended a council of the stars, back when the universe was young. Earth had not even been formed, and Sol was barely more than an adolescent, just happy to have been invited.
They had wanted to draw up boundaries and set rules, to create a sense of order out of the wonderful chaos. The greatest of them all had invited the Endless, hoping to benefit from their wisdom and guidance. Death had showed up, but it wasn't long before she got bored with the deadly dull speeches and discussions, and left in a huff. Of course, this all was long ago and she would never dream of being so rude now.
Still, when she arrived at the meeting place the stars had hastened to provide her with every material comfort that she could think of. Anything she requested would be brought to her promptly. Even while sneering at the council's efforts, she couldn't find anything bad to say about the service. She'd thought she would never again enjoy herself as much as she did back then.
"BACK IN BLACK! I hit the sack! I've been too long, I'm glad to be back!"
Furniture was shaking. The water in the goldfish bowl rippled violently, Slim and Wandsworth themselves were swimming around frantically. A little porcelain Scottish terrier jumped with each bone-jarring drum crash, and finally leapt off the mantelpiece and smashed onto the floor. Death didn't notice.
"...forget the hearse 'cause I'll never die! I got nine lives, cat's eyes, usin' every one of them and runnin' wild!"
She screamed into a non-existent microphone clutched in her fist, her hair whipping around wildly. The volume on her CD player was turned up to the maximum, just how she liked it. Part of the charm of living in her realm was not having to deal with neighbours.
"Well ahm...baaa-aaa-aaa-ack! Baaa-aaa-aaa-ack! BACK IN BLACK! Yes I'm BACK IN BLACK!"
She slid on her knees on the carpet for the big finish and threw her hands into the air, dragging the table askew. Slim and Wandsworth's bowl moved precariously close to the edge, and Death hurriedly pushed it back. She then flopped onto the floor, exhausted.
She couldn't remember having the time to listen to all of her music before. It seemed like she had been spending more and more time on the job, before she'd met Jamie. Now that he was helping out, she could indulge in some quality R n R. Maybe a nice long bath, she hadn't had one of those in ages…
It was wonderful to just zone out, Death thought, as she luxuriated in a delicious bubble bath. She had poured in every kind of scented oil and body gel she could think of before sinking in and just letting herself relax. She could feel the tension leaving her body with every passing second.
Whenever she had come home to catch a break in the past, she could never have completely detached herself from her duties. The universe was vast, and there would always be someone somewhere who needed her attention. Even if she was at home, some part of her would be elsewhere, helping souls to cross over. Not today, however. For the first time in memory, and Death had a long, long memory, she felt completely and utterly at ease. There was no sound save the sloshing of the water in the tub. She idly soaped her arms and her legs, taking her time. Thanks to Jamie, she had all the time in the world.
After her bath, she planned to curl up beside the fireplace with a good book. Her brother's aide Lucien had made her a present of several fine novels when she visited his court recently. She was looking forward to reading the final three volumes of George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series, as she couldn't wait for the man to set pen to paper much longer.
She had just squeezed in a fresh bottle of melon and mango lotion when she became aware of a strong silvery light flashing on and off outside her bathroom door. She felt like throwing something at it. The light could only mean one thing. Of all the times they could have picked, one of her siblings wanted to speak to her. She could ignore whoever it was, of course, but Death made it a point of principle to always answer when someone wanted to talk. They were a family after all, even if at times she felt as though she was the only one who remembered the fact.
A second later, she appeared fully clothed and thoroughly clean in her long gallery, in the basement of her little house. A row of mirrors, each one a different shape and size, were hung up along one wall. Each mirror had the respective sigil of her sibling in the centre. There was a book, a helm, a sword, a heart, a hooked ring, and a swirl of bright colours. It was the heart that was glowing as brightly as a star, beaming dazzling silver light and illuminating her entire basement. Death felt like going back to her bathtub. The heart was the symbol and sigil of her younger sibling, Desire.
It took patience to deal with Desire. Of all her siblings, it was perhaps Desire who gave Death the biggest headaches. Desire delighted in toying with the lives of mortals. He/she played long, complex games out of sheer boredom, usually leaving behind a dreadful mess. There was that whole bother over the Greek queen which led to the siege of Troy, and the deaths of a number of heroes. Desire had got into a bit of trouble with the Olympian Pantheon over that one. Desire manipulated, cajoled, pit friend against friend, turned entire nations on each other, merely for his/her amusement. Desire was capricious and cruel, and probably the sibling that Death least liked spending time with.
"Dear sister," intoned a voice, echoing from the mirror which held the glass heart. It was a silken purr of a voice, the kind of voice that could make you stop whatever it was you were doing just to listen to it for the rest of your life. It was as sweet and as deadly as poisoned honey.
"I am standing in my gallery, holding your sigil. Will you have words with me?"
"If you must," muttered Death. The glass heart flashed brightly once more, and a moment later Desire appeared in her gallery.
The former site of the Soccer City Stadium
Johannesburg
South Africa
The third thing Jamie noticed was the noise. People were screaming at the top of their lungs. Men, women. Little children. Their screams were not ones of playful hilarity, or even shrieks of terror, but the raw, unending expression of pain, agony so intense only death could bring relief.
The second thing Jamie noticed was the smoke that turned the sky black, the jagged edges of broken rubble, the steam escaping from cracked and exposed pipes. He'd been to the Soccer City stadium, not too long ago. He'd walked along its stands with the ladies Death and Delirium. It was now barely more than a massive crater in the ground.
But the first thing he noticed, the first thing that struck his mind and assailed his senses, was the smell.
The smell of smoke, thick in the air. The smell of oil, and ash, and burnt meat. But most of all, the smell of blood.
Death had been good to him. She had not brought him to battlefields. She had not brought him to murder scenes. He had yet to be exposed to scenes as horrific as this one.
He had seen movies and watched television, and heard the stories his dad and his brother had told him, of course. He'd been in a few fights, he'd even been on a hunting trip once. But they were nothing in comparison to the carnage that was before his eyes.
The Soccer City stadium could hold a maximum of 80 000 people, who had been jammed pack as they waited for the final to begin. The explosives had gone off minutes before the kick off. The huge supporting pillars had fallen over, entire stands and balconies had crushed the people sitting below. Whole chunks of the stadium were ablaze, caused by the hiss of escaping gas and stray sparks. It was nothing short of hell on Earth.
Jamie stood still for a moment, his mind just staggering from the overwhelming assault. Then the screams of the dying jolted him into action.
He ran across the blasted landscape, reaching out his hand, touching the shades of the deceased as fast as he could. He knew this wasn't the way Didi had showed him, and the recently dead deserved a few moments to come to terms with their own death. But he had no time. More shades were filling up the space, brought into being as the life fled from their bodies. He crossed over one after the other, their lives flashing before his eyes, but he had no time to pause and reflect and recover. He could not bear to hear the sound of their agony any longer than he had to.
Didi had not shown him how to deal with a crowd situation either. He had started small, learning every aspect of her job, from the smallest and most inconsequential of duties and slowly working his way upwards. He thought he had the rest of the lifetime of the universe to learn on the job. Now he was trying to cross over thousands of humans at once.
Jamie moved like a shadow, quickly touching his hands to theirs, mind reeling from all the horror and the hurt they had experienced. It was like trying to row up a raging river. The roar drowned out all other sound and he was giving it everything he had, but sooner or later he was going to have to give up and sink beneath the water.
As Jamie knelt down to clasp the hand of a young woman who had a blood-slicked steel girder where her stomach should have been, something that felt like a burning chain snaked around his neck and was drawn tight around his throat. He clawed at it, gasping for air.
He barely had time to wonder what the hell was going on before he blacked out.
Death's Gallery
Death's Domain
The Sunless Lands
Desire was wearing an elegant smoking jacket in a shade of deep, blood red, red silk pajama pants, and Persian slippers. He/she looked like a woman, a man, or anything in between, with eyes the colour of molten gold. His/her hair was short and slicked back, and he/she was smoking a fine cigarillo. It punctuated the air with a harsh, acrid smell that made Death wrinkle her nose.
"Rather sharp, isn't it?" remarked Desire, noticing. "Magnificent cut, from one of those planets whose mortals breathe smog. It takes them a year and a day to make each little stick. Fancy a taste?"
"No thank you, Desire. Please tell me what's on your mind, because I was kind in the middle of something."
"Say no more! I understand perfectly." Desire said, and sat down on a luxurious, high-backed armchair that had not been in Death's gallery a second ago. He/she crossed one leg over the other and looked up at his/her elder sister with an insolent grin. Every movement was made with a sinuous grace. His/Her voice was a delectable silken purr that would have seduced a company of saints.
"You said you were in the middle of something. Aren't you supposed to be at work? Performing your timeless duties which have been entrusted to you since the first breath of this multiverse? Your sacred, immense responsibilities that define you and the rest of us all?"
Death folded her arms and glared at Desire. It couldn't have lasted, one of them surely would have noticed what was happening. It was something she had to deal with, that was all. She'd just hoped she would have had a little more time before someone found out, or it was someone other than Desire who did. Of all people!
"Desire, if you're trying to get a rise out of me, forget it."
"I am merely concerned for you, dear sister. Imagine my shock when it came to my attention that your presence was not felt among the planes, when it had always been since time out of mind? I simply had to make sure you were all right," Desire said in injured tones, although a malicious smile played about his/her lips.
"Desire…I'm just doing a kindness to a mortal soul. I helped him and now he's helping me. That's all there is to it."
"Is it really? Do you make a habit of inviting mortals back to your house? Or allowing one to do your job? One wonders what else the two of you have been up to."
Death said nothing, and Desire became aware of a certain chill in the air. It went beyond metaphor, actual frost was forming on the surfaces of the mirrors. Too late, Desire was reminded of a time when his/her sister wasn't as laid-back as she was presently. Death was the sweetest, kindest, and most patient of the family…but you really didn't want to make her mad. Desire decided to backtrack a little.
"I can tell when I've crossed a line, sister-"
"Desire, honestly, it's none of your concern. I'll deal with Jamie Keane in my own way. Until then, I'd appreciate it if you stay out of my affairs."
"I was just trying to warn you. I'm not the only one who's noticed what's been going on. I hope our elder brother doesn't have anything to say about this."
Smirking as he/she delivered the parting shot, Desire disappeared as quickly as he/she arrived. Death stalked out of her gallery, slamming the door behind her.
Damn Desire…was it too much to ask for a little help? She'd helped out Jamie and her sibling was acting as though she had brought a mortal back for a one-night stand, which Desire knew a thing or two about. No, she wouldn't stand being hectored by Desire over Jamie.
She didn't know how she felt about him, which was a rarity in itself. She cared for countless mortals, knew all their stories, their dreams and ambitions and fears and hopes. But not everyone appreciated what she did, the gift she had to offer. Jamie however, was different.
Still…there were rules. There were always the rules.
Death ran her hands through her hair distractedly, and noticed the light flashing again from under her gallery door.
Unknown
There were no dreams. Just time passing, and suddenly Jamie was awake. He was sitting on a metal folding chair, the type that filled up meeting halls in their thousands. His arms had been tied together behind the chair with what felt like thick cords. His legs were bound to the chair's legs. He was naked. Someone had removed his clothes.
For some reason, the person who had kidnapped him had left the silver ankh that Death had given him around his neck. It was the only thing he had on. Jamie looked around wildly. He appeared to be in an abandoned warehouse of some sort. His chair was in the centre of a long, dark room, with piles of boxes and rubbish stacked up everywhere. A row of grimy windows were set along one sloping roof. Skylights above him only allowed the faintest bit of light to filter through.
"He's awake."
Three men and three women appeared out of the darkness and gathered in front of him. They were dressed in expensive-looking suits and stared at him with frank and open curiousity. Jamie tried to glare back, but they didn't seem the least bit concerned.
"Of all the people she could have chosen, she picked him? You have to wonder what she must be thinking," remarked one of the women. She looked Japanese, young, with an expression that suggested Jamie was as significant as something stuck to the sole of one of her expensive shoes.
"Hush," interjected one of the men. He was the tallest, and the widest, a Caucasian man with a clean-shaven head that gleamed in the dull light. "Sydney requested we hold him and wait for further orders from the Teacher. We're not supposed to talk to him."
They lapsed into silence, still staring. Jamie couldn't take it any longer.
"Who the hell are you people? What the hell do you want with me?" he snarled, struggling a little.
"Don't even try. You can't escape," said another man. He looked barely out of his teens, his babyface framed by soft brown hair that fell to his shoulders.
"Where is the Teacher?" the bald man asked another woman. She had short blonde hair and looked like she could win an eating competition against a grizzly bear. She took out a cellphone and began texting. After a minute or so, there was a reply.
"He's not in this country, Sinkowicz's trying to get a plane for him. We're to keep him here until he arrives, or until Sydney says otherwise," she said, snapping her phone shut.
"Can't we get him to talk a little in the meantime? We could discover important information," asked the third thug. He was a young Indian man, and looked the most uncomfortable in his ill-fitting suit. He had been staring at Jamie with the utmost malice all this while.
The blonde woman shrugged. "The Teacher said he didn't care one way or another, as long as we don't touch that ankh he wears. That's what he wants to be kept safe."
"The ankh?" mused the teenager. "You don't suppose…"
"You shouldn't even think about it," growled the bald man. The teen shut up instantly. The Indian man didn't say anything. He took out a knife from his jacket pocket and pressed the blade against Jamie's cheek.
"You can't hurt me," gasped Jamie. "If you know how to capture me, then you should know that I'm already dead."
"Oh, the things you don't know," the young Indian man said softly. He cut deep, and Jamie screamed.
Death's Domain
The Sunless Lands
In her gallery, Death was staring with astonishment at a mirror which had not been there yesterday. It resembled the ones she used for keeping in contact with her siblings, except it had the faint outline of her own sigil on it, the ankh. She hadn't noticed it earlier, but then again Desire tended to take up most of her attention whenever he/she was around.
It was flashing urgently, painting the little room with brilliant silver light. Something was terribly wrong.