When Death Loved an Angel Read online

  When Death Loved an Angel

  By Cheree L. Alsop

  Copyright © 2013 by Cheree L. Alsop

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN

  Cover Design by Andy Hair

  www.ChereeAlsop.com

  To all of those who

  Fall in love no matter

  How impossible the

  Circumstances.

  Love is true, love is real,

  And love is everlasting.

  To my husband who taught

  Me to love with all

  Of my heart.

  How terrible it is to love something

  Death can touch.

  Chapter One

  DEATH

  Death smiled his only smile, a full twist of the lips that raised one corner slightly, giving him a boyish-looking charm that never failed to bring whatever woman he used it upon to his side. What they didn’t notice was that his smile never touched his cold gray eyes, eyes that had seen so much heartache they no longer reflected emotion, eyes that matched the lack of heartbeat from his chest. His lungs filled and released; not because he required breath, but because he found that not breathing occasionally drew alarm from those he beckoned forward. Death had long ago learned that the moments he lived were more successful if he remembered to imitate his prey.

  She came to his side as he had known she would. She gave him what she thought was a seductive smile, wrongly assuming she still had some say in the way the evening unfolded. Death put a hand on her back, guiding her toward the door. He stifled a sigh at the touch of red silk beneath his fingers and the brush of her store-bought blonde hair against the back of his hand. Funny how silk could make his stomach turn over when he used to look forward to the moments of feeling after his list was done.

  He opened the door for her. The girl looked at him in surprise. Apparently the gesture made her wonder about his character. Ironic how a look of lust could bring her to his side, but a simple act of chivalry filled her with doubt. He was never chivalrous. Strange that such an impulse had come to him. He noted that it was better to be rude and not raise suspicion, than remember some rare courtesy of the past and have his character questioned. It was well beyond questioning. He was Death after all.

  He took a deep breath outside Stumble In. The name was what drew him to the bar most nights; he appreciated a good sense of irony. The air was dank and scented by the garbage in the trashcan that overflowed into the alley. Something close to a hint of rain lingered in the air, but it also could have been the dull tang of exhaust from the taxis that limped down the street or the tenacious odor of vomit on the sidewalk that refused to wash away with the bucket of dirty water Pauly the bouncer poured on it. Others complained of the quality of the city air, but after a day and half the night spent without the use of senses, Death even appreciated the way the vile stench adhered to his nostrils like a druggie clinging to the number of his provider.

  The smile touched his face.

  “Looking forward to our time together?” the woman asked, mistaking the look.

  Death fought back the impulse to open the door to the bar again and take the girl back inside. That would have been true chivalry. His smile twisted and dark humor at his own black thoughts turned his gray gaze malevolent. “Certainly.”

  He started off down the sidewalk leaving the woman to pick her own way across the cracks in heels that would have put a giraffe to shame. He was grateful to breathe in only the night air for a moment. Her perfume was heavy enough to drown them both and a few cats besides. A thought rose that had begun to tickle the back of his mind with increasing frequency; why did he bother? If he couldn’t stand the women who followed him back to the small apartment he kept for the hour or so a night that was his, why did he do it? And he thought the living had bad habits.

  He snorted to himself and turned down the next block. The staccato sound of pegs on cement followed him relentlessly, smashing any hopes that he might have lost her. He waited long enough for her to catch the main door, then made his way to stairs that had probably never been cleaned; in fact, he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the tight-wad landlord installed already dirty carpet when he bought the place.

  “How far up are you?” the woman whined in a voice any bobcat would be proud of.

  “The top,” Death answered and was inordinately pleased with the huff of disgust that met his reply.

  The woman took off her shoes and followed him up, muttering under her breath that it would have been easier to seduce the guy missing two front teeth at the table closest to the bar. Death pretended to fumble with his keys. Reluctance filled him to enter the tiny apartment. He gave in and opened the door, motioning for the woman to enter.

  ***

  An hour later, Death lay alone once more on his bed atop the covers staring at the glass-inlaid ceiling. Clouds lazed across the light-polluted sky. He knew there were stars out there, and even thought he saw one once in a while, but knew deep down they were satellites wished upon by a thousand kids each night. He knew because he had heard them, listened to the ones who asked for their parents or siblings to be healed in the same moment that he came to steal them away. Wishes on satellites never worked. He didn’t know about the stars.

  The woman had been surprised at her enjoyment of their time together, but didn’t bother to conceal her dismay when he sent her out the door after he grew bored of her. He heard her expletives all the way down the stairs and wondered if he should have mentioned that since they were in the roughest part of the city, it would be better not to draw too much attention. The cynical side of him, which was just him in general, thought maybe he would see her name on the list the next morning if he had bothered to ask her name in the first place.

  His senses faded as they did at the end of his time each night. He had stopped pining after their loss long ago. They came back when the list was done. Usually he got just over an hour if he used his time at night. Day drained the time faster. Death preferred night. He was stronger, could work faster, and generally just enjoyed the way darkness felt.

  He preferred the absence of the sun and the freedom it gave him. That was why he took more than two-thirds of his list at night, and why the living feared the darkness. If he gave a bit of his time to send a shiver down someone’s spine or create a stir in the darkness that made the living jump, well, one had to find the humor in every situation.

  He closed his eyes; sunrise would bring a new list. A mere blink and it was there. Death did not dream. Time merely lapsed to the point that he was needed again. He lifted his arm and glanced at the list of names written there. A new list; every day a new set of souls to be taken to the gateway. He didn’t know how the names came to be there or who compiled them; he didn’t ask because there was no one to answer. He rose and left the rundown apartment, taking the long walk across the city he knew well enough to cross blindfolded. No shadow fell before him to warn others of his passage.

  Usually he stepped around the few thugs or streetwalkers who claimed the sidewalks that early in the morning, but once in a while he crossed into the path of someone who looked like they needed a good shake. He closed his eyes when they walked through him, heard the gasp of fear contact with him brought, and smiled when they looked back but couldn’t see whatever it was that made the hair rise on the back of their neck and turned the air a few
degrees colder.

  He felt better with the sound of their fear echoing in his ears. His footsteps quickened and he paid closer attention to the way the first name on the list throbbed when he drew closer to his target. He turned a block and followed the edge of a red brick building left through the alley, grateful he couldn’t feel the garbage that rotted beneath his feet. When he neared the alley’s end, it wasn’t hard to spot the person who brought him there.

  She was huddled in the corner between two torn black bags of trash and a washing machine that looked as though rust was holding it together. White covered her nose and chin to match her mitten and the discarded plastic bags at her feet. Her eyes were clouded and breath shallow. She wouldn’t have noticed a fire engine racing up to her with its lights and sirens at full bore. She had given up long ago.

  Death knelt in front of her and held out a hand. She didn’t even notice. He stifled a sigh and touched her shoulder. She jerked and turned to look at him. Her eyes suddenly cleared and widened with fear. She gave a little shake of her head. He nodded though it didn’t matter. He had touched her. There was no going back.

  Her shoulders shook a little, then she closed her eyes in acceptance. Her head leaned back and rolled slightly to the side. Death projected his thoughts into her mind, showing her soul the way to the gates. He wasn’t sure what would happen when she reached them. His job was to show her the way. It was up to her if she chose to linger like some souls did, haunting the place of their passing as though they felt like there was something left to do; but the list was clear. When a name was on it, their time was up.

  Death rose and turned away from the body, a shell no longer filled by the soul that had once sent a glow of warmth through the eyes and softened the mouth with a smile. A small part of him hoped she had indeed smiled in her life. Somebody probably loved her somewhere. She shouldn’t have died alone.

  He shied away from the thought. It didn’t matter and there was no place for that sort of thinking in his job. He took souls from their bodies, killing them. There was no time for softness or wishes for those who died. He pushed the thought of her solitary body far from his mind and stalked from the alley, anxious to get on with the list. Death lingered for no one.

  ***

  Gregan Parker. The next name on the list. Death followed the tingle along his arm to the city hospital he had visited so many times he lost count. He walked through the doors without needing to open them and a hush fell over the building as it did every time he entered; it was as though the living inside knew of his presence and waited with abated breaths in case it was their names on his list. He wondered if he imagined the sighs of relief when he passed each room down the ICU hall; a smile twisted his lips at the thought. He would be back for some of them, most of them. He snorted. He would be back for all of them because everybody died eventually.

  “Diablo,” someone whispered when he passed a dim room; the glow of a television on the wall and the beeping machines were the only light. The sound on the television was turned off.

  Intrigued, Death stepped into the room. The flickering of the television illuminated a tiny woman dwarfed by her hospital bed. Her eyes met his with an intensity that belied the weakness of her age-shriveled body. Surprised, his smile deepened. “I’m not the devil,” he said. He didn’t know why he bothered to speak. No one ever answered. He doubted she even really saw him; she probably just stared in his direction by chance. A warmth ran up his spine, whispering otherwise.

  “You’re the devil to this place for sure,” the woman said in a quiet voice, her weathered blue eyes never leaving his.

  “I am a rescuer from pain,” he replied.

  She snorted and clutched the bars of her bed hard enough that the veins in her hands showed in stark contrast through her paper-thin skin. “You’re a soul-snatcher. A thief.”

  He decided to humor her. “Somebody’s got to do it.”

  “Do they?” she challenged.

  “Of course,” he replied with a chuckle.

  Her eyes narrowed, pinning him with the ferocity of her gaze. “You better not come for me, Diablo. I will never be ready for you.”

  “Someday,” he reassured her; his tone took on a hint of menace. “I will come for you whether you are ready or not.”

  She pulled herself up to a sitting position, showing more strength than she looked like she had. Her face was inches from Death’s. “I don’t fear you.”

  He lifted his hand, an impulse brought by the challenge in her voice. He could touch her, take her away. He knew he could do it. Her eyes bored into his, daring and refuting him at the same time. He had never taken anyone who wasn’t on the list. He didn’t know what would happen if he did. He hesitated for the first time in his existence, torn by his own impulses and the need to follow the list. He had never failed to complete the list.

  He let his hand fall back to his side. The old woman saw it in a blur of shadows. She gave a satisfied nod. “Even you have rules to follow, Reaper.”

  “Just the same, I might come back for you yet,” he warned. He turned away, unsettled. She shouldn’t have been able to see him, let alone talk to him. She had called him devil before he was even within view, if the figure of smoke and darkness that made up his form could be considered viewable. Very seldom had he been seen by the living, and on those occasions it was by those on the verge of crossing over. Perhaps her name would be on his list the next day. The thought made him feel both pleased and more troubled.

  He pushed down the hall, following the throbbing of the name on his arm to the emergency room around the corner. The throbbing became persistent and he paused at the door of an operating room. Inside, a doctor gave orders to several nurses. Blood covered his gloved hands and he held two silver instruments over a chest that looked as though it had been torn open by a lion. Another doctor worked quickly at the patient’s head, fastening staples down a gap in his skull.

  Death passed through the door and neared Gregan Parker’s body. He was on the verge of dying to be sure. Large amounts of blood covered both the patient and the doctors. Nurses were quickly running an IV, but it was too late. Death stretched out his hand, ready to take one more name from his list.

  “You will not take him,” a voice shouted.

  Death paused, his fingers inches from the man’s arm. That was the second time in one day someone had spoken directly to him. He turned his head, almost expecting to see the old woman from the other room. He was unprepared for what met his gaze instead.

  A pair of defiant green eyes stared into his own; a myriad of emotions ran through them, a mixture of boldness, sorrow, passion, love, and courage. His breath caught in his throat; his breath never caught in his throat. He took a step back and saw her fully, a golden-haired, green-eyed woman with one hand on a doctor’s shoulder and another reaching for Death’s own arm. He took another step back, careful to stay out of reach. No one ever touched Death.

  “You will not take him,” she repeated.

  He realized that she was a guardian angel; Gregan Parker’s guardian angel. He had met many guardian angels. They followed the living, guiding them with tiny whispers, helping them through the darkest parts of the night or past the tiny mishaps that could snowball into a catastrophe. Some of the living rejected their guardians by not paying heed to the little whispers; Death saw many of these much earlier than if they had listened. However, when the living they guarded appeared on his list, most knew to step away. There were a few words, but brief. The list was bigger than any of them.

  Yet here she stood, her body between Death and the man from his list. The fierce emotion in the angel’s eyes made his heart stutter. His heart? He put a hand on his chest to be sure. There it was, a small thump-thump where none had ever been before. He could only stare at her in amazement.

  “He is my responsibility,” she said, pleading for him to understand. Something else showed in her gaze, something deeper.

  Death nodded, unable to think past the unfamiliar pounding i
n his chest.

  She gave him a searching look, mistaking his nod. When he didn’t move, she turned back to the doctor. She whispered something in his ear. The doctor bent his head and checked his work. He barked a command to a nurse and quickly adjusted a clamp, slowing the flow of blood.

  Death watched as the guardian angel moved around the room, her feet never touching the ground. Angels had more substance than he did. Made up mostly of darkness and shadows during the time he wasn’t in his living form, only his cold gray eyes remained the same, hooded and cloaked in obscurity that he pulled closer in defense against the unknown that assailed him in the angel’s presence.

  Her form was mostly complete, her arms and legs pale against her peach colored dress. In every book Death had seen, angels were always portrayed in white, yet the guardians he knew wore whatever color they liked. Peach suited this angel very well. Her golden hair flowed against her back like a sunrise dancing on water. Her eyes were a sharp contrast to the pale colors; they sparkled and shone, taking in everything that was happening in the room. Occasionally they shifted to him, pinning him to the floor and daring him to move at the same time. Death could only watch.

  Eventually the beeping of the monitors slowed and the frantic movements in the room became more controlled and at ease.

  “He’s stable for now,” the doctor stated for one of his nurses to write down.

  “I don’t know how,” the other doctor said with a shake of his head. “With injuries like these, I don’t know how he’s still alive.”

  The angel’s eyes flickered once more to Death’s. He watched them wheel Gregan Parker through the door to the ICU. The angel’s brow creased, her gaze holding his as though she didn’t know what to make of him. She finally left through the door without needing to open it. Two words hovered behind her, coloring the air with their uncertainty. “Thank you,” she said so softly Death barely heard it.