Chapter Two
Curtis Mayhew reached out and gave his TV a violent whack to its side, as though it would clear the illegal pornographic channel he'd stolen from his neighbor's cable. When it predictably did nothing, he leaned back in his recliner with a throaty belch and popped open another beer.
He'd just begun to distinguish the outline of a naked woman's body when the lights began to flicker. He glanced up at the ceiling light above him, cursed it briefly, then looked back down at the screen. When they blinked rapidly in and out again, he got up and stormed into the basement.
Plunking his beer bottle onto the washing machine, Curtis jerked opened the breaker box door and inspected the switches. "What the hell? There's nothing wrong with these," he muttered, narrowing his eyes. Suddenly, his beer flew from the washer and struck the concrete floor with such violence the glass was sent up towards the rafters. Curtis swore and dodged the flying shards, hands raised to protect his face. The naked lightbulb above him sputtered out and popped as well, its milky glass falling to meet the amber of the bottle's.
Curtis hurried to get back to the cellar stairs as more things began to fly at him from shelves. A wrench just missed his head as he dodged low and crawled up the creaking wooden steps on his hands and knees. "What the fuck is going on!" he cried as a screwdriver shot past his head and lodged itself into the stairwell wall. He'd just managed to reach the basement door when it flew open and a cold burst of wind spilled over Curtis's bent head.
He watched his breath form in front of him in tiny clouds, the hairs on his arms and neck rising. With terrified eyes, Curtis lifted his head to the open door and screamed. A static figure of a tall man loomed in the doorway, blocking out any and all light from the warmth of the upper levels. The man's eyes were hidden in the heavy shadows of his drawn brow, but Curtis could still feel the hatred burning inside them.
"What the hell do you want?! Who are you?!" Curtis sputtered. The man said nothing as he began to slowly descend into the basement. This forced Curtis back down the stairs and he repeated himself, the urgency in his voice growing greater and greater the closer he got to the bottom landing.
Finally backed into a corner by the silent, flickering figure, Curtis inhaled sharply when he saw the broken bits of the beer bottle and lightbulb rise from the ground. These shards shifted in the air, their jagged edges pointed directly at Curtis's chest. He opened his mouth to scream again when the glass shot out and embedded itself in his neck and sternum. Curtis's mouth filled with blood, his words lost in a froth of spit and bile.
The man stared at Curtis coldly. "This is no less than you deserve," he intoned, his voice like the grave. "For taking my family from me."
Curtis, clutching his throat and trying to extract the shards with shaking hands, gaped mutely at the figure. What family? Whose family? He yanked the biggest piece free and choked out, "Who the fuck are you?!"
In an eyeblink, the man was upon him, his face inches from Curtis's. His eyes burned, the blue of the irises as bold as ice. "Vengeance," he replied quietly, in a tone that matched the cold snap of his eyes. Curtis doubled over when he felt something deathly cold drive through his chest. Looking down, he saw the man's arm buried deep in his body. Then his heart lurched and his vision blacked out.
Nick stood over the toppled body of his family's murderer, his fist as red as when Lucifer had killed the Norse god, Baldur. He stared down at the bloodied, stupidly-gawping face of the man and wondered at the empty feeling that had settled in his chest. Was it not enough to have killed him? Had he not made him suffer enough?
Nick's chest heaved. How could he not be satisfied? The man who'd killed his wife, taken his son, and ruined his life was finally dead. Justice had been met, hadn't it? He could now go back to his home and continue existing as a memory. But it wasn't enough, he realised, as he crouched down and looked into the man's face. It wasn't enough to kill one murderer, to have his own pain avenged. There were hundreds, thousands, of people just like this one. Countless families torn apart and for what? A handful of cheap jewelry and maybe a wallet with twenty bucks in it? It wasn't right. Those killers had to answer for their crimes as well, and Nick was in a unique position to execute justice on behalf of those poor families. He'd never be caught, never be suspected. He was already dead. What could possibly get in his way? Nothing. Nothing at all.
A smile slowly crept across Nick's face as he rose. Yes. This would be his purpose now. He would seek out those who'd done to others as this man had done and he would make them hurt. He'd make them feel what their victims did, tenfold. He'd be a benevolent spirit, doling out justice the human system had failed to do.
Satisfied with his decision, Nick turned away from the man's body, flickering back to his house to begin hunting for the next one.
This was unusual. Most deaths could be predicted and a Reaper dispatched to the soul long before it happened. However, it would appear that Curtis Mayhew had met a most unfortunate, and unexpected, end.
The black-suited Reaper studied the body carefully. Curtis's soul stood beside him, still processing what had happened. The Reaper ignored him as he ranted about the man who'd killed him and how he'd make him pay. It wasn't the murder that bothered the Reaper, but the one who'd carried it out.
Ectoplasm coated the corpse's body where the glass had pierced it and a ring of it was outlined on the chest just above the heart. The Reaper reached out to flick some of this spectral goo from the body and brought it to his lips. His tongue flicked out to taste it; he grimaced. Vengeful spirit, and a powerful one at that. There was something of the celestial just on the edge of the ectoplasm, which puzzled the Reaper. Few humans were strong enough to contain an angel and those that could often went to the Light upon death. What had kept this particular former vessel chained to the physical plane? And why had it caused this man's death?
The Reaper stood and turned to Curtis. "Do you know the man who did this to you?" he asked calmly. Curtis rounded on the Reaper, exasperated.
"No! I already said it was some crazy fuck who broke into my house and made things fly and then he punched me through the chest and killed me! Haven't you been listening? Who the fuck are you, anyway? Why is everyone breaking into my fucking house today?!"
"I did not break in and I am not a man," the Reaper replied. "I am Eli. I'm here to bring your soul to its final destination."
"Where am I goin'?" Curtis asked, looking down at himself uneasily. Eli shrugged. "What, you don't know?"
"I do know," Eli said. "However, I'm not concerned with that. Come. The window to cross over is brief." He took Curtis's arm lightly and the basement faded from view. In a moment, they found themselves standing on the bank of a gray shore, equally gray waters spreading out before them.
"The fuck is this?" Curtis demanded, shaking Eli's hand off and moving away from him. He leaned over to peer into the murky water, his nose wrinkling in disgust. "The hell's up with this water?"
"It is the Styx," Eli explained. "I wouldn't suggest getting too close to the water. There are things in there that do not rest."
"Whatever the fuck that means," Curtis muttered, though he took the Reaper's advice and stepped further back onto the rocky shore. Eli withdrew a pocketwatch from his vest pocket and inspected it. Curtis side-eyed the antique fob, greed shining in his gaze. The Reaper glanced at him, snapping it closed when Curtis averted his eyes. The man kicked at the shore impatiently. "The hell we waitin' for?"
"Your ride," Eli replied quietly. "There." He pointed to the far end of the water where the foggy shape of a wherry was beginning to form. A cloaked figure stood at the rear, steadily guiding the narrow vessel towards the shore. Eli took a step forward when the wherry rocked gently closer. "Charon," he greeted politely. The hooded face of the Ferryman lifted with a solemn nod, then angled to look at Curtis. Eli gestured to the boat. "This is where we part ways, Curtis Mayhew. It's been a pleasure."
"Wait, where the hell you goin'?" Curtis demanded when the Reaper made to leave. "I ain't goin' with this guy!"
"But you must," Eli told him. "This is your destination."
"What do you mean? Where is this?"
"This is Hell, Curtis," Eli returned plainly. "By God's Law, you belong here. You have spent your life committing terrible crimes against your fellows; it is time for you to do penance."
Curtis gaped at the Reaper. "I ain't goin' to Hell! Get me outta here!"
"I'm sorry, but the only way you'll be leaving this shore is with Charon. Now, I really must be going," Eli offered Charon another nod and disappeared, the further protests of Curtis Mayhew fading out as well.
Eli manifested in the foyer of an elegant Victorian mansion and gestured gracefully with a hand, lighting the sconces around him. Through the amber glow of the lamps, Eli proceeded deeper into the house, his footsteps carrying him to a darkened study where a low fire burned. Positioned before the hearth was a wing-backed chair; resting along the arm was a pale hand, fingers curled casually around the knob of a walking cane.
"What can I do for you, Eli?" a cultured voice asked from the chair. Eli bent his head in respect before responding.
"I fear there is a former angelic vessel's spirit causing unscheduled deaths, sir. Correct me if I'm wrong, but hasn't the Morningstar been returned to his Cage?"
"He has. What of it?"
"I have reason to believe his previous vessel's soul is attempting to handle its own unfinished business."
"Has he only committed this single murder?"
"Yes."
"Then I wouldn't worry about it. There are a great many vengeful spirits out there, Eli. It is not up to us to govern them once they've refused our assistance."
"I understand, sir. However, might I be permitted to observe this one?"
The figure in the chair turned. Death looked out at his Reaper patiently, the hollows of his cheeks cast into deep relief by the firelight. "It is not up to us to govern those who have shunned us, Eli. I will not repeat myself again. You have other duties and there are those who are better equipped for obstinant spirits."
"You refer to the Psychopomps, sir?"
"I do. Should this particular spirit become a problem, I will address it then and only then. Until that time, I suggest you resume your true duties. The Apocalypse might be over, but souls will always need ushering. That is all." Death turned back towards the fire, his silence suggesting it was time for Eli to take his leave. He bowed graciously to his master and departed the study.
Nick leaned in close to the officer's shoulder, squinting to inspect the reports spread out on the desk. The officer gave another violent shiver and glanced at the thermostat. While he got up to adjust it, Nick shifted closer, eyes scanning the forms rapidly. There were a number of unsolved murders in the area - certainly far more than he would've originally imagined. He zeroed in on one describing a family of four: an unknown assailant had broken into their home and, upon finding the father armed with a baseball bat, had killed him and the eldest son, who'd come to defend his father. The mother had been left with two young daughters, one barely out of diapers.
Yes, he would start with this one. He scanned the descriptions given by the mother and older daughter, committing them to memory. He also took note of the family's address, feeling it prudent to see what he could glean from them until he could get a name.
Nick left the station with a thought, shifting between his house before reaching the right address. It was a small house, ideal for a family just starting to spread its wings. The porch was decorated tastefully with a female's obvious touch. As he mounted the stairs, he smiled at the white wicker swing swaying gently in the breeze at the far end of the porch. It seemed very cozy and Nick felt good the moment he passed through the front door.
The entryway was softly lit, the source being a pearl-colored lamp perched on a little table along the wall. A vase of early spring flowers lent a soothing aroma to the hall, which calmed Nick further as he continued through the house. A wam kitchen was positioned at the rear of the house, flanking a sitting room and connecting dining room. He could hear the faint sounds of the little girl playing in her room, as well as the soft footsteps of the mother as she moved between the bedrooms.
He climbed the stairs soundlessly, head turning this way and that to take in the multiple family photos framed on the walls. He felt a stab of melancholy when he thought of Sara and his son and how they'd never had the chance to build their own family gallery. He paused in front of a portrait of the mother holding a baby and smiling at the camera. He imagined Sara super-imposed over the woman's face. It prompted a sad smile and another forlorn moment, both quickly dispersed when he spied the mother walking along the hall at the top of the stairs.
She was a tall woman, taller than Sara, with a slender figure that had escaped the ravages of having given birth to three children. She appeared to be in her late thirties, her face unlined, and her short blonde hair as full as a teenager's. Her voice, when she spoke, was whisper-soft without being weak as she told her daughter it was almost time for her bath. Nick stood in the middle of the staircase, watching all of this with a captivated smile on his face. After a moment, the girl came out of her room swathed in a pink terrycloth bathrobe. As she crossed the space in front of the stairs, she slowed, then looked directly at Nick.
Nick froze, halfway between anxious and exhilarated that someone could see him without his trying first. She continued to stare at him curiously, appearing neither afraid nor eager to tell her mother what she saw. Experimentally, Nick lifted a finger to his lips. The girl smiled, gave him a small wave, and darted into the bathroom where her mother waited.
This was good. If the girl could see him, he might have an easier time getting the information required to find the man who'd killed her father and brother. She looked young still, perhaps between six and seven. Whatever she knew she'd have already told the police, but perhaps there had been things she'd kept to herself. Nick had to try.
He decided he would stay with them until he either discovered the killer's identity or if they simply couldn't help him. After being alone for so long, he craved the warmth of a loving family, to hear their laughter in his ears, and witness their smiles so that they might encourage his own. One such smile spread over his face, softening his features, as he listened to the banter between mother and daughter through the bathroom door.
