Be the Death of Me (6 page)

Tuck laughs and leans back in his chair. “Something like that,” he allows. “Can’t say for sure though. I’m kind of new at this.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re my first assignment. Congratulations.”

Ford looks at me in panic. “What about you?” he asks, his voice cracking with alarm. “Is this your first assignment, too?”

“Hardly,” I answer with a flippant wave of my hand. “You may be the first living person to see me in almost four years, but you’re definitely not my first assignment.”

He exhales loudly.

“Well, that’s comforting I guess. At least I know I’m not some test guinea pig. What happened to the rest? The ones before me?”

I shoot Tuck a look out of the corner of my eye. He’s suddenly very interested in what the ceiling looks like. “Oh, you know,” I chuckle. “I looked after them for a while, and when the assignment . . .  ended, I was given a new one. Nineteen across is kismet,” I add quickly, taking the last empty chair at the table. “Six–letter word for fate? Kismet.”

“Here,” Ford says. “Knock yourself out.” He slides the newspaper my way, rolling the pen across the table’s smooth, wooden surface. “So if it
is
all random, does that make death like a giant employment agency or something? Because there’s all sorts of stuff written about ghosts hanging around old houses and rattling chains just to scare people, and you guys aren’t anything like that. What about other ghost stuff? I saw what Tucker did last night. Can you all do that?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Ghost stuff! Can you walk through walls, you know, like they do in the movies?”

I groan. “Phasing and disappearing is a given.” I begin slowly. “We’re all capable of that. It makes keeping up with our assignments a lot easier. Physical human contact is impossible. Even if we wanted to, we can’t. We simply float through them. Mostly we try to avoid it. We can hold on to or touch an object, but only for a limited amount of time, rarely more than a few minutes.” His eyes narrow and I can tell he’s having a difficult time understanding. “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “It took me a while to catch on, too. And let me just say that Mr. Magic here is the
only
person I’ve met with his particular ability.” I throw an accusing finger at Tuck.

“How’d you get lucky enough to swing that?” he asks. I roll my eyes at his poor choice of words. “Okay, maybe not lucky. But come on. You have to admit. That
is
pretty sweet. How did you get it?”

I lean forward in my chair, anxious to hear the answer to this as well. Tuck takes a minute before answering. “I died saving someone I cared about. And
this
,” he flicks a single finger and instantly every cabinet in the kitchen swings opens on it’s hinges, “was my reward.” He doesn’t elaborate and neither of us push him.

“Alright,” Ford says after another minute of awkward silence. “Good story, man.” He turns his attention on me. “So what about you? Similar outcome?”

“Not quite. I was placed as a Guardian after those in charge categorized my death as ’untimely’. Prince Charming here,” I say, nodding to Tuck who tips an invisible hat, “was, after much discussion between the Captain and the Elders, promoted to be my partner.”

“Boss,” Tuck coughs into his hand.

“The Elders?” Ford asks.

“The people in charge.”

“So this,” Ford waves his hands at the pair of us, “this is normal?”

“Hardly. Being seen is a first for any of our kind,” Tuck explains. “We have no idea why, but it makes you extremely fortunate if you ask me.”

“Fortunate?” Ford asks, his tone the slightest bit doubtful.

“Not only do you now know to watch out for
yourself
, you can also communicate with us if something goes wrong. You can tell us what’s going on, and we can figure out what’s trying to hurt you before it actually does. There’s no way this won’t end well. All we have to do is work together. Because together we’re strong, but divided—”

“—I die,” Ford finishes for him.

“Hey, what’s a two–word phrase of Spanish affection?” I say, completely oblivious to their previous conversation. “Five letters, ends in O.”

“
Te amo
,” Tuck answers quietly.

I keep my eyes fixed on the newspaper, counting the number of spaces. “It fits!”

I stare down at the virtually finished puzzle. If only everything were as neat and structured as the crossword in my hands. Numbered, ordered, small squares of nothing but questions and answers. But it isn’t, and no matter how many times I might wish, my existence will never be as simple as I want. It’s murky and smudged and smothered in a constant cloud of uncertainty. There’s no hoping for something better. No prospect of stability. Sitting at this small kitchen table, between a boy I must fight to keep alive and a friend I never knew I had, I realize, y
ou don’t always get to choose where you end up, but you hold on tight and do the best you can, because it’s what you have to do to get by.

And for now, getting by is the best I can do.

Ford leans back in his chair, flipping through the stack of mail his Gran has left for him. He tosses aside bills and coupons that are of no concern, stopping the moment he reaches a thick envelope, pausing only to read the name penciled across the front. BENDEDICT FORD. With a shrug he tears it open, withdrawing from it a single sheet of paper.

I don’t understand at first, what has happened or why the smile has slipped from his face. I’m far too engrossed in the puzzle. Yet his hands begin to shake, rattling the paper back and forth as his large, brown eyes grow wide. Tuck is a blur as he hastens to his side of the table, staring down at whatever has caused Ford such immediate fear. With a look of apprehension, he beckons me with a crook of his finger.

I’m at his side in a flash. Ford holds a photo of himself, black and white, his expression vague though smiling, obviously taken from the yearbook and blown to a larger size. But something is missing. His eyes, specifically. They’ve been gouged out, poked through by something sharp, leaving the sockets torn and empty. A single line of color, scarlet red against the gray, decorates his throat, drawn over his neck like a gruesome smile. There is no mistaking the rage that guided the hand and tore through his face, and only one explanation behind it.

I sigh and place a hand on his shoulder.

Tucker

The choices we make define us. The most insignificant of decisions, the ones we make on a daily basis without a second’s thought label not only who we are, but who we once were. Thousands of decisions, millions; work or play, fight or flight, love or lust, Jesus or Judas, we choose, and must either suffer or rejoice in the outcomes.

Yet who in a million years, would imagine that a single choice could haunt us forever, even when we’re forced to haunt those left behind?

“Stop staring at me.” Billie doesn’t bother opening her eyes to scold me.

“Sorry,” I mumble into the tops of my knees. I lean my head back against the wall where I sit and content myself with staring at the ceiling. I chuckle. Even at her worst, Billie is never boring. I’ve smiled more during these few days as a Guardian than I did in four years working in my previous station.

Another day has passed and night has once again left us alone with our thoughts. I watch as Billie strolls silently to the window, placing thin, delicate fingers against the frost–coated glass. She lifts her face and closes her eyes to the moonlight streaming in through silver wisps of clouds. Its colorless glow unites with her own shimmer to transform her pale skin into the softest shade of blue.

Why do I insist on continually tormenting myself? What sort of man puts himself through torture, knowing full well that the product of his trouble will only result in
more
pain? I’m in need of serious psychological help. Aren’t there therapists in our world? Spirits trained to deal with the ramblings of the insane and deceased? I can’t be the only dead man with issues.

I make a mental note to look into it.

Ford breathes deeply into his pillow, his scrawny form hidden somewhere within the myriad of blankets and bedspread. There’s a single break of thunderous snores before he rolls over in his sleep, and the night is once again plunged into clamor.

“Look at this,” Billie’s quiet voice breaks through my reverie. She beckons me with a wave of her hand.

I spring to her side. Standing behind her, I’m tall enough to see directly over her head. I debate for a moment whether or not to rest my chin on top of her hair, but decide against it in the end.

“It’s snowing,” she whispers, pressing her hand against the pane.

Tiny flecks of clean, white snow fall from a dark sky, coating the ground in a thick, downy frosting. The flakes that don’t stick are buffeted through the night, floating past on the crest of a lazy wind.

“Do you remember snow?” she asks, without turning.

I smile at the unexpected question. “Why wouldn’t I?”

She shrugs, drawing her shoulders to her ears. “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like I can’t . . . remember it the way I used to, you know? The cold. How the snow used to stick to my fingers before melting.”

I nod, feeling my heart ache with a shadow of sympathy.

“Whenever we had a snow day,” she goes on without being prompted, “my sister and I would go sledding behind our house. There was this giant hill in the backyard, and at least once a year mom would catch Olivia and me trying to sneak our living room coffee table outside. I was so convinced it was faster than the cheap, plastic sleds you could buy in stores.”

“I’m assuming you were the mastermind of that little plan.”

“Olivia was way too rational to come up with an idea like that on her own. She needed me to teach her how to have fun.”

“And you were more than willing to lead her astray.”

She twists to face me, tilting her head back. She smiles and all is right with the world.

The mattress suddenly groans with a shift in weight. Ford mumbles something that sounds like “not real” and rolls onto his back. It isn’t long before the deep, yawning snores of sleep resound around us.

“You think he’ll ever get used to all of this?” I ask, nudging his bed with the toe of my shoe.

Billie sweeps from her place at the window, moving to get a closer look at the room’s single bookcase. “I wouldn’t count on it,” she says, running her fingers over the spines of Ford’s small, but impressive literary collection. “He didn’t take receiving a photo of himself
sans
eye sockets as well as I’d hoped.”

“Yeah, hard to see that sort of thing coming. And of course there was no return address.”

“Did you think there would be one?”

“No.” I shrug. “I was hoping for a cut and dry solution. Or if nothing else, just a dumber than average homicidal maniac to contend with.”

Her face sets in a pretty pout, the smooth planes of her face furrowing with confusion. “No easy fixes here, buddy. Truth be told, I thought you might have trouble adjusting. I was just waiting for when it would pop up.”

“Me? Why would you think that?”

“Because you’re not one of us.” I try to hide the flicker of disappointment that darkens my face. “Everyone talks about you guys, you know? The lambs in Sacrifice. It’s only water cooler gossip, but now that I’ve seen what you can do first hand . . .” She flicks her finger at a book and makes a soft whistling noise as she pretends to make it fly off the shelf. “I don’t know. I just thought it would be more difficult for you to leave your kind.”

I let my eyes wander. “I’ve never had a kind, Billie. Even when I was alive.”

Sacrifice? Who do they think they’re kidding? They should just save everyone the hassle and call it the Department of People Stupid Enough to Get Themselves Killed. The others in our world think we have it easy. They call us martyrs, sacrificial lambs. They think we have a sweet deal because we’re rewarded for our heroic, albeit misguided efforts in life. Special abilities? Conciliatory gifts? They can keep them. I rest my back against the high, even windowsill, unable to contain the sly grin spreading its way across my face.

“Admit it,” I say. “Working with me is kind of nice, don’t you think?”

“It’s a party that never ends.”

“I think you like it. I think you like having me as a boss.”

“Partner.”

“It’s nice though, isn’t it? How fate seems to always work itself out.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You saving me from those bullies all those years ago? Working together now? Kind of an odd sort of circular destiny.”

She doesn’t speak, but fixes her eyes on the books before her. But through the shadows, through the moonlight, I see it just before she turns away. The tug of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

It doesn’t matter whether she admits it or not. Because now I know I’m not crazy. I know exactly why a sane man would put himself through torture. That fleeting moment of honesty, that instant when Billie let me near enough to see a glimpse of what lies beneath her ice queen exterior, is all it took for me to know I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. It may classify me as clinically insane, and it may break my heart, but if the Elders think I’ll just let them take her now, they’re wrong.

“Hey, look at this,” she says, choosing a book from the shelf. She holds it up for me to see. Over the leather bound spine, etched in golden calligraphy are our names.

“Mr. Reid and Foster,” I chuckle, moving to her side. She flips to the first page. Inside is a message, printed on the weathered pages in bold, black ink.

UPDATE REQUESTED. REPORT IMMEDIATELY.

“How does he do that?” I ask, shaking my head in wonder. I’ve never understood the Guardians’ means of communicating with one another. For instance, how do messages leave headquarters in long, black tubes only to end up printed in the latest bestseller?

Billie closes the book, stuffing it back on the already overcrowded shelf. “Beats me. I figure it’s best not to ask.” She throws her head in Ford’s direction. “What do we do about him?”

An idea strikes me, though I’m not sure how happy she’ll be with the suggestion. “Why don’t we take shifts watching him? I mean there’s no need for two of us to always be here, right? I can deal with the Captain and you can stay here and watch Ford.”

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t argue. “Sure,” she murmurs eventually. “I can live with that.”

“Great. Just . . . uh . . . stay with him for now, and I’ll meet you at the school tomorrow afternoon, okay?” I don’t bother waiting for a response. “And try not to kill anybody!” I call, vanishing on the spot.

“Jackass,” she mumbles just before I disappear.

“I heard that.”

I take the memory of her begrudging smile with me when I go.