A/N: wow...thanks to Xenithia (who writes the best Robin/Nightwing fic ever), ChrisDaughterOfApollo, Caranath (check out her awesome HB tales), DuffyBarkley, AlecTowser (an old-school Dr Who writer), & SnowPrincess88 (another awesome Hardy Boys writer) for the reviews! Special plug for Snow: she also writes in the '70s show 'verse, and she does it *better*. Back to the tale!
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A bomb exploded inside Joe's chest, then metal jack-hammered through his ribs and lungs. He couldn't catch his breath, and every struggled-for bit of air sliced a sharp, cold knife through his chest. His lungs squeezed painfully…he couldn't see, everything had whited-out, and he was lying in something wet. Someone was holding his hand…he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe…
"I have to admit, chè," said an aged, wrinkly voice, "that didn't work out like I thought it would."
Joe opened his eyes.
Stars. That was the first thing that registered: a fiery blaze of stars striped across the huge, huge sky, the entirety of the Milky Way wheeling through endless night. So bright…so, so bright…
"Can't be very comfortable, lying there," said the old voice. "Come over here and sit yourself down, chè. We've got some time."
The speaker didn't sound like Thatcher. Slowly, Joe pushed himself up, marveling at the complete lack of pain — even his legs didn't hurt — but then stopped.
His own body lay at his feet.
That was it, then. Joe could see the pool of blood, the bullet-hole almost dead-center in the chest. No coming back from that. Odd: there wasn't anyone else here. He was alone, completely, totally alone. Wasn't that part of dying, that loved ones would be waiting for you?
"Mom?" Joe whispered.
Only cold, echoing silence.
"Mom!" Was that all there was, this cold darkness, alone…?
Behind him, the speaker sighed. "Chè…please. Come sit. We've got some talking to do."
Shivering, hugging himself, Joe turned. The old Black man in the skull mask and shabby tuxedo — Samedi.
His shovel propped next to him, Samedi sat by a pile of concrete chunks next to a wide, deep hole. He had a bottle in one hand, and with the other, he patted the spot next to him. "Mind the kid," Samedi said, nodding. "He's having a real hard time of it. His own stupid fault."
Joe looked down — the kid, Edward, huddled against the ground, shivering.
"He'll get it out of his system sooner or later." Samedi yawned. "I can't stand whining, especially from damn fools."
"He's just a kid," Joe said, wiping at his face. How could he be crying? He was dead. "He didn't deserve what happened."
"Most people don't," Samedi said. "But most folks got the sense to say 'no' when someone says they want to share your body and would you mind letting it if they turn you into a monster in exchange? No, chè, he wasn't a child. Get that out of your head. He knew right from wrong and fantasy from reality. He chose to ignore it. Hate to say it, but natural selection can be a real bitch."
Joe had no clue what Samedi wanted. Joe was dead, game over, curtains rung down, fat lady sung. Why bother talking? Just get it over with. "So you're saying I've got no sense, either."
"Just the opposite. Here." Samedi held out the bottle, and when Joe hesitated, "Don't worry, it's the good stuff. That friend of yours — Joshua — well, we go back a ways, one soldier to another. He knows the stuff I like, and he's not stingy like most of 'em." Samedi's grin was mischievous. "But just between you and me and the lamp post, chè, no more Happy Meals, eh? Real bad for the heart, that crap."
Joe looked at the bottle — something itched at him…pomegranate seeds and winter… something about not eating the food of the dead — and shook his head. "No, thank you."
Another sigh. "Make one mistake, and you're at the mercy of reporters for all eternity, I swear. My hospitality won't trap you here, chè, I promise. I wouldn't do that to you."
Thinking about it, there wasn't any point in refusing, really. Joe nodded his thanks, accepted the bottle, took a swig. The rum burned his throat and made his head swim, but he was able to hand the bottle back and sit down without falling. "Sorry. I'm being stupid, I guess. Since I'm already dead, I mean."
"There's dead, and there's dead. You're only mostly dead." Samedi grinned, but Joe didn't understand the joke, whatever it was.
"Well, yeah, but you're here, and I see that grave. A bullet through the heart's pretty final." Joe looked around at the dark, silent field. Something was missing, something else that should've been here…no, someone. "Where's Thatcher?"
"That one." Samedi spat on the ground, took another swig. "Like I said, I really hate whining. And his has been the worst kind — thinks he deserves some special exception to life, and tosses a tantrum when he doesn't get it. He'll be along, don't you worry."
"So why didn't you take him before?" Suddenly all the bitterness welled up, all the remembered terror and pain. "You took all those kids…and…and you took Mom, but you let him live and…"
"Joseph…"Samedi sighed it out. "The eternal question. Why them? Why not him? Why me, and not that other person? Chè, truly, I have no answer for you. I don't kill anyone. No, hear me out. I have some lee-way — I can help things along and take the pain away, one way or another, and I get you where you need to go, when all's said and done. But I really, truly don't kill anyone. You do that to yourselves. And sickness, age — well, your bodies are just made that way, to wear out and let you move on. You'll have to go higher up the ladder to answer that particular 'why', chè."
"Higher up the ladder," Joe echoed. "What's that got to do with you? For that matter, why are you waiting for me? You're voodoo. You're not Christian."
Silence.
"And after I gave you that good rum, too," Samedi grumbled. "You really don't listen to your friends, do you?" With a grunt, Samedi pushed to his feet, stretched, walked a few steps away, then turned…
With a gasp, Joe scrabbled back.
No longer the drunken old man — a dark hooded angel towered over him, robed in a rotting black shroud, black wings spread and scythe upraised, swirling with lightning and haloes of vibrating light.
"Samael," the angel said. "Or Azrael, if you wish. I've been called both. Or maybe you'd prefer…" A gray-winged owl, soft wingbeats whispering in the air…an old woman, toothless and hunched, covered in a ragged white shawl and carrying a broom…a giant black hound…a skeleton crowned and garbed in colorful royal robes…then a young woman dressed like the Ramones: heavy leather jacket, ripped jeans, pale skin, thick black hair that flowed down her back, and deep, shadowed eyes filled with stars…
Those eyes rested on him. "I'm not Christian. I'm not Jewish, nor Muslim, nor Pagan, nor Voodoo — I'm not anything. No matter what you are, I'm here. I'm always here, no matter what, no matter who."
Here, and he was alone, save for Death. There wasn't anything but this, then: nothing but the cold dark. That was what She meant. Shivering, trapped, terrified, Joe stared…then crumpled.
Another sigh, then old, wrinkled arms pulled him into a comforting hug, draping her white shawl around him to envelop him in warmth. "Oh, my son, my dear, dear son…I didn't mean it like that. Everyone always thinks I'm under their particular petty world-view, and I'm not. I'm just not. Here…" She handed him the bottle again, helped him take another drink.
Too big a swallow — Joe spluttered, then choked into laughter. "God…I wish I could tell Frank. I meet Death, and all She does is try to get me drunk."
"We could do more," She said, sly. "I've got a reputation to maintain, after all, and you are really cute."
"Yeah, yeah, I bet you say that to all the guys."
"Sooner or later," She admitted. "You're not even the first to try to kill himself to get a date. Now, getting back to that whole voodoo bullshit…"
"I'm sorry," Joe said, looking at Her. Still an old woman, but now she was Black, garbed in rich golden silks — she looked much like the old homeless woman, Anga. "That wasn't what I meant. I mean…I'm Christian. Methodist, sort of. So why Samedi?"
"Ahhhhh." A long drawl of understanding. "Local belief prevails, dear one. You were in New Orleans, in the home of a Queen, and in her place of power. On top of that…" Her face darkened to a scowl, "…that's how I was being summoned. It tied that incarnation in. And here, well, I didn't want to confuse matters. It got you to pay attention, after all. You have to admit, your brother's reaction afterwards was hysterical." Then She looked up. "Finally. The fool took his sweet time about it. Some folks can't take a hint, even if you hit 'em with a VP70 and a bottle of Jack."
She stood up…no, He stood up, the old man in the skull-mask and shabby tuxedo. Samedi shouldered the shovel and waited, as Thatcher strolled into view, looking around with avid interest.
"'Bout time you got here, chè," Samedi said.
"Well," Thatcher said. "Well, well. Trying to steal a march on me, Joseph? I assure you, it won't work."
"No," Joe said. "I'm just…um…chatting with a friend." It earned him a quick flash of a grin from Samedi.
But Thatcher was smiling. "Even now, your friends work to revive my body. Seems that little brat can Heal. I shall have to make a study of her, once I'm back. I'll be much more careful this time, I assure you."
"Famous last words, so to speak," Samedi said. "Well, come along, now, chè. You're overdue."
"Oh, I'm not going anywhere," Thatcher said, with a respectful nod of his head. "Joseph there is the one you want. That young man made a most unwise bargain. That's my body now, there, and soon it'll be right as rain. He relinquished all claim to it, so his brother could go free."
"It's true, sir," Joe said quietly. "I did."
"None of that 'sir' nonsense, chè, I work for a living," Samedi said, waggling a finger at Joe. "I know that bargain of yours, both of you. That body, as you put it, was only yours until you died, Orrin Thatcher. And you died three months ago in a New Orleans warehouse, when Frank Hardy shot you through the head, Joshua Thomas burned your face off, and Emmanuel Duveé unraveled your magic. Shot, exploded, burned to ash, and swept into the Gulf. You can't get deader than that."
Looking nonplussed, Thatcher stared at Samedi. "You are wrong. I lived after that. I still live. That young junkie Edward gave me his body."
"Which is just as dead," Samedi said. "A knife through the throat does that."
"Yet his body…"
"Chè, chè," Samedi said, shaking his head. "Enough. Take it up with your protégé, who didn't specify which death he meant. You died in New Orleans, before the bargain — maybe you could argue that point. But you died again, after the bargain was agreed to, when that knife cut your throat. And I'm the final arbiter, judge, and jury." Samedi picked up his bottle of rum, then clapped his hand down on Thatcher's shoulder…and suddenly Samedi was no longer old, no longer drunk, and no longer kindly-looking.
Shivering, Joe looked away.
"By the way, Joe,do me a favor, hmmm? Go over there and take a look at that hole. I kept asking you if you wanted to know who it was for, and you never did answer me." A grin was laced all through Samedi's voice. "I took your advice, chè, believe me."
Keeping his face averted from Samedi and Thatcher, Joe pushed to his feet and walked to the grave — much, much deeper than usual — and at the head of it, a newly carved stone:
Orrin Thatcher.
"I'm not just the loa of death, chè," Samedi said, in Joe's ear. "I'm also the loa of life…"
Then something struck Joe hard, in the chest, sending him stumbling backwards, and he tripped, landed flat, hit his head against the concrete…
Dizzy, half-aware, Joe opened his eyes. Everything was fogged, hazy — his chest felt as if he'd been kicked by the Mortons' horses, his head ached, and his clothes were wet and sticky. Something scratchy and smelling of fabric softener was wrapped around him; his legs were propped up on an old crate. Hands were on his chest, and muzzily, Joe looked — little Rita knelt by his side, her small hands spread on his chest and her face scrunched in a scowl of concentration. Beside her, Emelio had his hands on hers, and Kris was beside them both, her arms around them and her forehead touching Rita's as she murmured something Joe didn't catch. Across from them, one hand laid on top of Rita's and Emelio's…Frank.
"Look at me, Joe," Frank said fiercely, his face damp and streaked with tears and dirt. "Look at me."
Joe met his brother's gaze, then, with effort, lifted his hand — and Frank grabbed it.
"He's awake?" said another voice, Joshua. "Oh, good. I'm first in line to kill him again, remember that, people."
"You can't kill an angel," Kris said, squinting up, and shook Rita and Emelio gently — the children startled, looking dazed. Rita yawned, blinking around at everyone, then stared down at Joe, and with a scream, threw herself down, hugging him and babbling in a fast, tumbling stream of Spanish.
"It wasn't a dream," Joe murmured. "You were there…and you and you…"
"He must be okay," Frank said, speaking over his shoulder. "He's quoting Wizard of Oz."
Joshua came within Joe's vision, knelt down, and spoke in a low, low voice. "Idiot. What did I tell you about sharing vital information with your partner?"
Unexpected laughter bubbled up; Joe choked, spasmed into a coughing fit.
"He did," Frank whispered, and tightened his grip on Joe's hand. "Believe me, he did."
Joshua bowed his head, then sighed. "Okay, chè, then I'll put off killing you for now. Just lie still, we've got an ambulance on the way. Cops are already here, with Sam leading the charge. Everyone is going to keep their mouths shut until I say otherwise. Clear?"
Something nudged at Joe's exhausted brain…something…something important. "Saul…" Joe managed, trying to free his other arm from under the combined heap of Rita and Emelio, but the children clung to him. He was shivering, convulsing; he was cold, so cold. "He's…he's one of Thatcher's…"
"I know, chè." Joshua looked grim. "He'll be handled. And your girlfriend is lucky these little delinquents admitted to knocking her out, because she'd've been tops on my kill list otherwise."
"Ritacita," Frank said gently, prying her away with his left hand, "déjelo reposar."
Yawning, Rita gasped something out, but let Frank pull her away. She huddled against him, as sirens wailed closer.
Then Joe noticed something odd: Frank's right hand and wrist were swollen and badly bruised. Frank held it cradled in his lap and cushioned with someone's jacket.
"Ambulance's here," said another voice — Mar — but Joe didn't care. Exhaustion claimed him then, and he welcomed it…
