Death and Mr. Right

CHAPTER ONE

Today was the firing kind of day.

Death, the agent of nightmares (and youngest agent in the entire system), made his way through the halls with a smile on his face and a bounce in his step. Firing days held a certain electric charge in them, a potential for a little bit of much-needed inner-office drama.

No morning was ever complete for Death without a stop by the coffee machine in Mandy’s office, both for the caffeine high and the snatches of gossipy conversation he was likely to hear.

Death leaned against Mandy’s desk, and then rose to his tiptoes. Mandy’s desk was a bit on the tall side, and Death was, well, a bit on the short side. But he was pretty sure it was a scientific fact that brains stunted physical growth, which he believed explained a lot about his own particular vertical challenge.

Mandy cast him a mindful nod. She was busy on the phone with what Death assumed to be an irate coworker from a different division, judging by Mandy’s repeated requests along the line of Well, can you just stop talking and let me connect you to Malcolm?

Death saluted Mandy and carried his coffee cup away, propelling himself down two hallways and into his tiny office.

Death’s office might have been better suited for a hamster, both because of its small size and because it had a tendency to be papered from wall to wall, although hamsters don’t usually decorate with charts, graphs, reports, and notes. Oh, and books that had never been read or, in most cases, opened.

When it all boiled down, Death loved his job. He just didn’t like reading about it.

Death?

He raised his head to find Malcolm in the doorway. Hey, Malcolm. Mandy’s got a live one for you on the phone.

Right. Listen, get your assignment done soon, would you?

Death blinked at his supervisor. I’m not behind schedule.

Yeah, that’s cool, Malcolm said, as if Death had never spoken. Get it done by tonight, would you? Thanks.

Now, everyone in the office had their opinions about Malcolm. Death happened to be of the opinion that Malcolm was a miserable bore with a propensity toward unwise facial hair, but such things probably shouldn’t be said anywhere other than on the anonymous notes sometimes found in the men’s bathroom on Level 3 of the HQ building. (The particular note that Death had glimpsed there last month had said something along the lines of MALcolM IS a DisGraCE to the COMPanY!!!)

Death liked to keep his opinions about Malcolm to himself, and maybe to Mandy. And a few friends.

Is something wrong? Death asked, wading through the clutter of his office so he could stand a bit closer to his supervisor. I’ve actually topped our nightmare numbers from last year by 3%. So many people had nightmares this week that I had to scale back to keep the balance from getting skewed. A smile broke over Death’s face, despite how much he tried to stop it. "One of the nightmares from last week made it into the mortal news realm. It was this baseball guy, kinda famous, and I gave him a nightmare. He was interviewed the next day on TV and he actually mentioned it because he was so disturbed. See, in the dream, he was standing in a field at night and all of his teammates were wearing these glowing clothes and they were floating, headless—"

Malcolm cleared his throat behind his hand and gave Death a pinched-lipped nod. Just get your assignment done. With that, Malcolm slouched off, his hands pushed into his pockets and his posture taking on the weird slug-like appearance that it always seemed best suited for.

Death shrugged to himself, took a few more generous sips of his coffee, and then exited his office.

The second floor of HQ housed the rather intimidating mail system of the agency. Letters, messages, and assignments filled the second floor to the brim and employed countless people whose names Death still couldn’t remember. He liked to visit the second floor, if only for the possibility of meeting new people.

Death caught the elevator just before its doors closed, then realized with a start that he wasn’t alone. His elevator mate was none other than the pretty redhead who worked up in one of the larger, fancier offices on one of the top floors of HQ. Death had seen her a few times from a distance, but had never had any direct contact with her.

I’m going down. Uh. I’m going to the second floor, he said.

She nodded, absently pressing the button for the second floor and then staring at the little readout as it cheerfully announced they were on their way up to the 9th floor.

An important part of being an agent was agreeing to play by the Sacred Laws. A few of those particularly serious Sacred Laws included not stealing things and not falling in love. Love was a forbidden tangle of emotions and it wasted time, according to Them, the mysterious hierarchy of beings to whom everyone at HQ submitted. (Death had never seen Them and had no idea what They looked like, but if he thought long and hard about it, he pictured Them as unpleasant beings with a lot of tentacles, like something from a Lovecraft novel.)

Falling in love was the sort of half-romantic but incredibly foolish thing that all agents sometimes talked about, but very few were stupid enough to act on. Feelings of adoration were kept private, and gestures of devotion were policed.

All of that being said, Death had never thought a little good-natured flirting had to be out of the question. And he’d gone through enough of a dry spell in that department during high school, right?

Death leaned his weight against the wall of the elevator, crossing his arms and planting an enticing smile on his face. So, he said, as the elevator doors chimed open and the red-haired beauty disappeared from sight, back to her fancy office on her fancy floor.

Oh, well.

The elevator breezed back down to the second floor and Death strolled into the mail room, the red-haired lady already forgotten in lieu of the excitement of letters, deadlines, and yelling shift leaders. A paperboy nearly ran into Death as he sped by with a white cart of inter-office messages.

Death reached the assignment kiosk eventually and searched out his name in the messy filing system. His newest Assignment Card had his name printed at the top and then a very simple assignment…transport some paperwork to Boston and hand it off to another agent. No big deal.

Certainly not a big enough deal for Malcolm to act so nervous over.

Death collected the small parcel of paperwork that he’d be transporting and headed back to the elevator.

This time his elevator-mates were two of the tallest and most intimidating-looking Wings that Death had ever seen. That was saying something, considering that all Wings were tall and intimidating. One of them was fair-haired and fair-skinned, and the other was dark-skinned and red-haired. Both of them had the frightening all-white eyes of their kind and, of course, the carefully folded feathered wings.

When Death had first been promoted, he’d been informed a dozen times that Wings were not to be crossed or questioned and should never be touched without permission. Their wings were strong enough to allow them to fly, but also coated with various poisons and other dangers that could kill even an agent. Some rumors said that Wings shot lasers from their eyes, but Death wasn’t sure if he believed that.

Find the jar, one of them said, in a voice laced with centuries of justice and bloodshed. The Wings looked at each other silently, as if communicating through their minds, and Death found himself pressing closer and closer against the wall to avoid accidently touching either of them.

The elevator stopped and the doors chimed open. This is my stop, Death said. Sir. Sirs.

Both Wings turned their grave, majestic heads toward Death, fixing him with their gauzy white gazes. What is your title? the fair-skinned one asked.

Death.

And what is your name?

My name? Uh, it used to be something else.

The Wing’s eyes narrowed slightly. What is your name? it said, this time without the slightly more friendly questioning lilt.

Kelly Gold.

Where he usually heard a snicker or detected a sneer on the part of anyone who heard his name for the first time, this time Death only received a creepy blank stare in return and then, after what felt like an eternity, a slight nod.

Go on your way, Kelly Gold, the Wing said, stepping aside.

Death almost tripped in his hurry to get out of the elevator. He only turned once he was a safe distance away from the Wings, as he watched them disappear into the swallowing mouth of the elevator.

A sense of painful foreboding shook Death as he headed back to his office, gathered a few of his belongings, and left HQ for Boston. Wings never paid him any attention, and he didn’t particularly want that to change. Wings and reapers had a remarkable way of ruining someone’s life—or afterlife—simply by existing.

And Death rather liked his life.

CHAPTER TWO

It wasn’t every evening that Death and Mr. Right found themselves in such close quarters, but this was March the 32nd and people liked to say that it was a day when anything could happen. Except the postal service behaving efficiently. That was prophesied as something that would never happen.

You working tonight? Mr. Right asked, in his customary soothing voice.

Death, who had been staring at the sunset as if it might open up and burst on him, shook his head and finally angled himself toward his companion. There’s something bigger than me out there tonight. He pointed at the sky. See that? See the red?

Mr. Right rolled his eyes heavenward. I suppose.

That’s the tide coming in.

Your cohorts?

No, no. No, this isn’t agents. Death sighed, digging one boot into the ground and twitching his gloved hands impatiently. What about you? Did they give you the night off?

It had been exactly 254 years since Mr. Right had been given a vacation, but he smiled politely as he answered. I’m on break.

How long?

An hour. Standard break time.

Death quirked an eyebrow. They overwork you. Isn’t there something in the manual about that? In the sixth chapter. I’m pretty sure there’s a whole section in the sixth chapter about break time and holidays.

We’re not exactly a union. And that was true. To create an intense yearning, a passionate feeling, a mutual attraction, a love so powerful that it filled every textbook and musical note…it wasn’t easy. It required time and energy and countless hours on the clock. Many times, it required a day without any break at all. Many times it required a devotion that could wear thin for even someone as patient and hardworking as Mr. Right.

I wish I was working tonight! Death said, wheeling around and tossing his hands with a dramatic flair. He looked like some sort of piece of confectionery, his short hair arched upward on top and tinted as blue as a paint splatter. I specifically requested to be kept on tonight. We’re up on nightmare ratios, but not as much as I’d like to be. He paced, all exaggerated movements and snarled upper lip, then motioned skyward. But there’s that, all of that up there, you know. They want to hurl a bit of lightning around and show off.

Mr. Right chuckled. You’re the prince of showing off.

I’m the prince of many things.

So…what are they doing up there? Mr. Right asked, raising a Thermos of coffee to his lips. Coffee was one of approximately three mortal inventions that bordered on divine brilliance. Gluten-free cookies came in at a close second behind coffee.

How should I know what they’re doing? Not my department.

Mr. Right pretended not to know any of the rumors that circulated at the monthly donut-and-discussion meetings.

It’s not because they transferred me, Death said, peering suspiciously at Mr. Right. They haven’t transferred me. It’s just not my department.

Oh.

Don’t bother pretending that you haven’t heard about it, I know everyone has. Death paced again, this time pushing his shoulders back, his chest out. He looked a bit like an angry bird, courtesy of his small stature, but Mr. Right was polite enough not to laugh. It has nothing to do with that girl!

Mr. Right smiled. Ah, romance.

There was no romance. She stole something from me and I’ll get it back. Until then, I will continue my work as usual.

And avoid pretty girls.

Death’s finely featured face erupted in a crimson blush that spread clear to the tips of his ears.

Well, Mr. Right said, I think it’s a bit melodramatic of them to let you go, no matter the reason. It’s not like you broke any of the Sacred Laws or killed someone.

Killed someone? No, I’m not the Reaper, Death said, dropping his voice to a practiced whisper. Speaking of the Reaper too loud was a good way to land in trouble fast. While Death’s duties included creating a feeling of foreboding, constructing nightmares and generally making mortals have a lametastic day, he was forbidden from extinguishing any mortal life. That task was left to the Reaper and his cronies, who were endearingly referred to as reapers with little r’s.

Well, maybe not endearingly.

Mr. Right nodded silently to himself, glancing once again toward the horizon and the red clouds that had settled there.

Even if anything happens, it’ll be a transfer. They can’t let me go unless I break one of the Sacred Laws. Death stopped pacing. I’ve never stolen anything from the Wings division, I’ve never opened the Box, and I’ve never spelled ‘they’re’ without the apostrophe.

Laughter burst from Mr. Right and he nearly fell off the cement block he’d been sitting on. You…you do know that’s not actually one of the laws, don’t you? Oh, you didn’t. You didn’t know? Malcolm was only joking about that one. It’s a pet peeve. It’s not really one of the Sacred Laws, though I suppose a lot of professors wish it was. Mr. Right wiped away tears and grinned at his companion.

Malcolm, Death muttered, after a long pause. He narrowed his eyes.

Now, now, don’t look so murderous, or you’ll break a Sacred Law anyway.

Death smiled then, all gleeful malice and ill intent and pointy teeth. Gary was telling me the other day about how much Malcolm hates spiders. I think I’ll make Malcolm a nice little nightmare about furry spiders with fangs as big as his face…

Mr. Right checked his watch, noting that he still had fifteen minutes left of his break. His next task was of vital, world-changing importance, but no need to rush it. Fifteen minutes wouldn’t make much difference in the course of history, so Mr. Right took another long sip of coffee.

What else has he lied about? Death asked.

Lied? He doesn’t lie, really, he’s just sarcastic, and you don’t detect sarcasm.

Well, what else was he ‘sarcastic’ about?

It’s true that you’re not allowed to murder, to open the Box…

Steal office supplies.

…steal things from the Wings or any of your other superiors. And don’t mess with time. That’s a big one with the higher-ups. They have the schedule for a reason.

Death rolled his eyes.

And of course, no falling in love.

Ah ha! See! I haven’t broken any of them.

Mr. Right shrugged, taking another sip from his Thermos.

I didn’t fall in love with her! Don’t you see? It’s a gray area. There’s a difference between seeing someone or…or liking someone a little—NOT THAT I DID!—and loving them. There’s a huge difference. You know what happens when you’re in love? You get all stupid and giddy and you say dumb things and you act different. I barely even spoke to this girl. I can’t help if she’s attractive, and I can’t help that she’s a crazy thief who stole something from me. It doesn’t mean anything.

About a hundred times a day, Mr. Right heard people say things along those lines. The amount of denial in the love game was always amusing, especially from the men. He’d learned to just sit back and wait out the little fits and tantrums, because no one ever wanted to admit to being in love. Love was too confusing and traitorous to the self. Too dangerous.

When I get those papers back, this will all be behind us, Death said, resuming his frantic pacing.

What exactly did she steal from you, anyway?

Death twitched. Uh. A list of names.

Names? Like the names of the damned? No answer. Oh, Death.

I’ll get it back!

The names of the damned were all-important documents that were for no one’s eyes other than the Wings. Even reading them could result in immediate exile. Mr. Right couldn’t help feeling confused about why Death would have been given an assignment that involved touching the documents, never mind transporting them.

Mr. Right sighed and glanced at his watch again.

A flash of red lightning tore across the sky, chased by thunder. Mr. Right winced. The poor mortals. They never fared well during these sorts of things, especially since they struggled with the concept that their scientific perceptions were just a lot of comforting drivel that kept them from feeling small and vulnerable. The sky wasn’t blue because of water molecules or whatever had been written in school books. It was blue because someone wanted it to be blue, and if They were in the middle of a squabble about the color, it might change without warning.

It had changed already six times in the last thousand years, but memories had been wiped so that everyone assumed it had always been green or purple or, most recently, blue.

Now and again, children were smart enough to ask, Why is the sky blue? And then their parents would fumble with the answer, slipping around the implanted memories for a few seconds before deciding that yes, yes, the sky was most certainly blue and yes, it was most certainly supposed to be that way and yes, there was a very easy and scientific explanation for it.

I love this weather, Death said. And March 32nd. It’s my favorite day. He tapped his fingertips together.

March 32nd, the day that doesn’t officially exist. It’s a bit disconcerting.

I like that word! Disconcerting. Death rolled the word around his mouth and grinned. Next meeting, I’ll use that in my description sheet for the badges. He stopped pacing. Who do you think they’ll fire today? Last year they fired three people, but I think this year they’ll just get rid of Giddiness. He’s had his head on the chopping block for a long time and he doesn’t even see it. I saw his chart, and his numbers are down 20% from last year. And they didn’t issue him a new pair of boots; you know what that means. Oh and Jessica. They’ll get rid of her for sure! No one likes her. She’s weird and she gives me a headache whenever she’s around.

Mr. Right shrugged.

I don’t understand how they don’t see it coming. It’s always so obvious, especially last year with Despair. I guess he didn’t adjust to mortal life, either. I tried sending him some letters and he hasn’t answered.

Most of them don’t want to be friends after they’re exiled, Mr. Right said, a wave of melancholy settling over him.

"I heard about that one Wing, what was his name? The tall one with the different-colored eyes? Mandy said he drove himself off a cliff."

That story had been repeated a hundred times, changed, like a bad game of telephone, until the details were a bit exaggerated. Or very exaggerated, according to some sources.

After a while, Mr. Right checked the time again. Break would be over in three minutes, and then he had the big assignment.

Has anyone ever known what you were? Death asked suddenly. I mean, any of the mortals. Have they noticed you?

Mr. Right considered. Sometimes they’re clever enough to see our auras, but not usually. He pointed one finger at his companion. You, for instance, give off a lot of aura.

Ooooh, I do?

That could just be your ego, though, old friend.

That girl noticed my aura, Death said. She looked me in the face and said ‘You are something strange.’ But with an accent. I can’t do a Boston accent.

You’re not good at any accents.

True, true. So what are you doing when your break’s over? Anything exciting? I should join you. All this standing around is making me crazy. Maybe we could head to London like we did that time when you got the wrong assignment from Malcolm’s assistant. That was fun.

Break’s over now, Mr. Right said, and let out a heavy sigh. So, Death, tell me something. What was that girl’s name?

Lola. As soon as he’d said it, Death froze. The twitch in his fingers lessened and his face relaxed as his eyes focused on the horizon. Lola…her name was Lola.

Yeah? What’s she like?

Death turned his gaze to Mr. Right. She understands things. And she’s so beautiful, Death said, as if he had just remembered something very important and then lost it again.

I bet she is.

No, she is! She’s beautiful. Death nodded to himself, perching beside Mr. Right on the concrete block. One foot dangled below him as he pulled the other one up and