Cannons.
Muskets.
Amputations.
How many men had he collected from surgeons’ tents that stank of rotting meat as the surgeon hacked off limbs? How many from the battlefield? What used to be dozens of souls had become hundreds, all at once. One would think gathering them in batches would make it easier, but the work never ceased.
Life squandered for no good reason.
Wouldn’t it be better to scrub it all clean?Death wondered. One final plague to rid the world of them once and for all.
A lot of effort up front, but surely the world would be better for it. Humans could be formed again over time and improved. Not by him,of course. But it could make his job a bit better. As far as Death could see, no redeemable one existed in the bunch.
He considered his plan as he turned down the familiar lane, his steps silent and sure, with only the buzz of blackflies and the whine of mosquitoes for company.
All other life had fled at his arrival. The birds stopped their chatter, and the white-tailed deer turned, leaping into the thick brush. The gray rabbits burrowed deeper in their dens, and the fox squirrels darted for the tallest treetops. They needn’t have feared him, for his dominion was over human souls affected by age, accident, or disease, while other beings were tasked with collecting animal souls. Only the lone mountain lion, shaded in the tree’s low branches, didn’t flee, for he, too, was a purveyor of death.
He’d almost reached the cabin to enact his latest reaping of the day when a tingle pricked at the edge of his awareness, sharp and keen. He slowed, scanning the land, seeing only the wave of low green branches bending in the wind.
Nevertheless, he was being watched, and not because he’d decided, as he did on rare occasions, to show himself to a human.
He winked out, slipping into the endless in-between, searching for the source.
A woman, on the young end of the human spectrum, stood not fifteen feet away, her body hidden by a wide gray oak, her eyes trained on where he used to be. He eased closer, studying her.
Sickness clung to her, scented through her sweat, marked by the red rash scattered on her neck and face. Her golden-brown skin was pale, several shades lighter than his own. She squinted at him with keen eyes, grown glassy with fever, as she held herself still. He watched her realize he had disappeared from the road, her gaze darting to see where he’d gone.
He cocked his head.
Most humans were blind to him, only catching a glimpse while on the edge of their death. He preferred it that way. She behaved differentlyaltogether. His ennui melted away as his curiosity grew, his questions abounding.
How can she see me? Why can she? More importantly, what does she see?
The woman was his next soul to collect. Although the time of her reaping was near, he found himself ... reluctant to take her. Surely he could spare the time to learn a bit more.
He shifted behind her, back into view. “Hiding from me, Nella?”
She jumped, twisting and falling back against the tree’s rough bark, her honey-colored chest heaving. Her homespun dress gaped at her shoulders, exposing a heart-shaped birthmark and the telltale reddened spots that crept across her collarbone and neck. A kerchief covered her thick black curls, which, slick with sweat, had escaped their binding. He noted that her pulse quickened at the use of her name, but she didn’t run or look away. He sensed notruefear, which conjured even more curiosity.
“Mama always said there’s no use hiding from Death—but best keep out his way when he’s about his business.” Her voice was quiet but rough, made worse by coughing.
“Your mama was a smart woman,” he murmured.
“If you’re here, I expect I’ll see her soon,” Nella said, her meaning plain.
“Smart woman,” he repeated, this time a compliment.
She trembled, even as she tried to stand tall. “You’re different than I thought you would be.”
He considered the statement. “Different, how?”
She paused, breathing with effort. “I saw you take the master’s littlest baby, Maybelle. You were a redheaded woman dressed in green muslin standing on the big porch. Then, another time, when you took Missus Carter’s sister in the front tearoom, you had skin the color of day-old corn bread. But I knew they were both you because your edges are hard. Almost black.”
Death nodded, struck. Never had someone seen him so plainly. “Is that what you see now?”
She nodded, pointing to his form. “I see it plain as day.”
“Have you always?”
