Page 42 of Death is My BFF

In one last attempt at freedom, I threw the cross at him. It anti-climactically smacked against his broad chest and clattered to the ground.Cringe.

“Oh,” the words came out flat, “the agony.” He cut his concealed glare to me and kicked the cross to the side. “That was pathetic.”

“Not as pathetic as your cliché Grim Reaper costume,” I snapped, before I could stop myself.

He moved in an instant, pinning me against a mirror with a single gloved finger. I knew he could have easily drilled that finger straight through my flesh and bone.

“Even when Faith was scared shitless, she still had a mouth on her.” Death snickered in a low, sinister way. “Sounds like a great obituary.”

“If you were going to kill me,” I said, deliberately echoing his words, “you would have done it already.”

He tilted his head to one side. “Accidents happen.”

Terror swirled sickly in my stomach as he bent closer, but I wouldn’t allow any fear to show on my face. As long as he didn’t get the pleasure of seeing my fear, I didn’t feel so helpless. His veiled features lingered right in front of me like an infinite black hole. As I fell into his mesmerizing darkness, I knew I was staring into the masked eyes of a creature several levels above me on the food chain.

Which made me wonder what he ate.

“You won’t like the answer,” Death said.

He drew away from me, circling the small space of mirrors. His frame was crammed with layers of thick, bulging muscle, which shifted beneath his cloak. Nevertheless, he carried himself gracefully, gliding across the floor like a jaguar. His hooded head angled in my direction as the gloved fingers of his right hand dragged along the glass surfaces of the mirrors. The reflective faces stirred, transforming into some sort of metallic liquid that rippled to life.

“My purpose here is to jog your memory.” His voice boomed off the walls of the tiny reflective room. “Only then can we discuss your future.”

“Why is she screaming like that?”

My eyes cut to the mirror next to me. My image dissolved as the scene spread along the reflective surface like a television screen.

A masked man held a little girl tightly by the arms. As she thrashed around, I recognized the blond girl as my younger self, and I recognized the market too. Pressure pinched at the front of my skull, but I couldn’t tear myself away from this.

“How about a front-row seat?” Death rasped at my ear, and then shoved me forward. I fell through the mirror as if it were a silver pool.

My back hit cold tile. Terror struck. I was now in the food market, witnessing firsthand what had been in the mirror.

Little Faith ran toward me, her golden-blond hair tossing in waves over her tiny shoulders. Unease shimmied down my spine as I watched my mother grapple for the gunman’s weapon while another masked robber slinked out of a checkout aisle to block Little Faith's path. He raised his gun. The crack of a bullet rang through my ears, an explosion of pain ensuing in my stomach. I staggered a little in shock, before falling to my knees. As I hit the ground, Little Faith did too.

Heat seared through my abdomen like a branding iron. With a sharp intake of breath, I tilted my head down and pressed my hand against my belly. There was no wound. The pain dissipated.Whatthe. . . Tilting my head up, I watched as my younger self bled out on the floor. Time stopped within the store, just like it had stopped in the carnival.

Little Faith and I were now alone in the market. Everything changed. Color drained from the darkening store as if we were in an alternate reality. The temperature plummeted to the raw, arctic chill of a meat locker.

“You must be Faith.”

My eyes darted to the voice. The boy with the mismatched eyes.

He was here, bewitching my younger self. The more I analyzed him, the more he became distorted, as if he were a trick, an illusion. He kept his hands clasped casually behind his back. To hide his hands, I concluded, since his fingers ended in black talons at the fingertips.

When he moved closer to Little Faith, he had the stride of a predator.

A shadow stretched out on the wall behind him, revealing a full-grown man instead of a boy.

“When you are eighteen, I will return to collect your soul,” the boy said. “Ten years is a long time from now. Would you not agree?”

“No.” I stepped back from the scene, shaking my head. “No . . . ”

He grasped her delicate hand with his deadly one. Instantaneously, the boy transformed. His facial features sharpened into something exotic, animalistic. Intricate markings emerged from beneath his skin. Little Faith’s eyes rolled back into her head, and her golden hair altered into a midnight shade, matching his. I touched my own dark hair with a tremulous hand.

“You’ll remember me one day, Faith Williams.”

When your luck runs out. The scene cleared in a whirl of colors.

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