PART ONE)
Great clouds of dark blue, black, and purple churned angrily in the dawning sky above The Reaper’s mausoleum. The new light of day tried vainly to penetrate the murkiness to no avail. A few bats, the last creatures out from the prior evening, flew to the safe recesses of the twisted branches of the dead trees in the cemetery. The Reaper stood on the front steps of the mausoleum and looked down the road with impatience and worry. He still wore the garish teal and pink bathrobe and floppy bunny slippers he had put on hours ago. If mortals saw him in this state, he knew that his reputation as the ultimate “end” would be compromised. Who’d be scared of such a foppishly attired thing?
The front door opened and Llorona, the Spanish Weeping Woman, stepped out with two large yellow ceramic mugs. She was dressed a little more conservatively than her counterpart: a plain flowing white housecoat and hair curlers. Her narrow, deathly pale face looked even more skeletal when she wore them. The Reaper had suggested she leave them in but she, like him, had an image to uphold. She touched The Reaper’s shoulder with one of the mugs and he quickly spun around. “What? Did he call?” he asked.
“Uh, no,” said Llorona handing him the mug, “I just thought you might want a hot blood latte.”
The Reaper took a sip and tried smacking his lips. Since he had none, he gave up and raised the cup as if to salute Llorona. “Thanks. You made it strong like I like it. Is this the wicked roast or the saintly blend?”
“The wicked roast of coarse. You’ve been up too long to have the other stuff…it’s too light.”
“I wonder where the hell he is?” The Reaper asked turning to face the street again.
He surveyed every inch of the surrounding countryside with an eagle eye. Nothing moved. The last bits of low-lying fog were beginning to dissipate, uncovering the ancient monuments, soggy earth, and patches of briars in the yard. The Reaper half-expected Famine to be crouching there…ousted by the new day’s light.
“I’m sure he’s fine. We have to learn to trust him,” said Llorona joining him. She took a long swig of her latte.
“Bah! Trust! He’s been out all night without a word, Llorona. That doesn’t say much about trust.”
“I know but you have to remember that’s he’s still young. Isn’t youth all about rebellion?”
“That’s different coming from you.”
“What can I say? I keep up with the times now.”
The Reaper swished the latte around in his mug and stared down at the vortex it created. He thought himself to be a little more modern than most guardians he had known. Keeping people on short leashes, so to speak, was counterproductive. Famine had paid for his blunder and letting him go was for the best. At the moment, however, that seemed foolish. Maybe the boy should have been kept on his proverbial leash a little longer. At the least, the leash should have just been made a little longer.
A familiar sound broke the early morning silence. Llorona looked in the direction from which it came and saw a rickety wooden cart being driven towards the mausoleum. Ankou never at came this time of day, she thought. He must need something or there might be a problem. Given Famine’s absence, she hoped that the former was the case. The Reaper seemed to echo her thoughts.
“What the hell is he doing here?”
They anxiously stepped off the stairs and onto the road to meet him. He stopped a few inches from the nightclothes-clad couple and smiled. “Did you two have a slumber party?”
Llorona didn’t acknowledge his quip. Her voice was quick and even. “Is there something you need to tell us?”
Ankou jumped out of the cart and gave the closet horse a pat on the back. “No. I was passing by on my way home and saw you standing out here. I thought there might be something wrong.”
Both The Reaper and Llorona breathed an audible sigh of relief. Ankou eyed them suspiciously, took off his wide brimmed hat, and moved closer. “Ok, what is it? You guys are usually resting this time of day.”
The Reaper took the last swig of latte from his mug before speaking. “Famine’s not home yet. We haven’t heard from him since last night.”
Ankou’s face and voice both registered total surprise. “Really? That’s not like him. Where did he go?”
“He went out with that ghost boy again,” answered Llorona, “They supposedly went to have dinner then see another drag spook show.”
“Him? I told the boy that ghosts are bad company but he didn’t listen. They can’t be trusted…you can see right through them!”
“Ankou! I didn’t know you felt that way!” said Llorona with wide eyes.
“What’s the problem? Deadlings are all the same, child.”
The Reaper put up a hand to silence what he knew would turn into an argument. “Now, let’s not get into a fuss. The important thing is Famine’s whereabouts. We can discuss his friends later.”
Both Llorona and Ankou scowled. The Reaper began walking back towards the mausoleum entrance. “I’m going inside now. You two can come or stay here and fight. It doesn’t matter to me.”
The two soul collectors rolled their eyes at one another and followed the great symbol of death into the house. Once inside, The Reaper took off his slippers and headed upstairs. “I’m going to get dressed now. I can’t be very forceful or authoritative wearing what I have on.”
“You’re right. No one was ever afraid of a teal bathrobe!” exclaimed Ankou.
Llorona took a seat on the sofa and put her mug on the nearby end table. She began pulling off her hair curlers and throwing them into a clear plastic box sitting near her feet. Ankou walked over to the fireplace and looked up at the painting hanging there. The family portrait had been replaced by one showcasing an urn of blackened and dead flowers. He enjoyed Llorona’s still lives better than anything else. She always managed to capture the angst and dreariness of death better than any other artist he had ever seen. Sitting on the mantle near a model ship in a bottle was a small rectangular wooden box carved with intricate designs and laminated with gold leafing. A tiny padlock with the letter “R” etched into it held the container shut. He had never seen that before. The Reaper was always one guy to surprise. Had he now picked up antiquing as a hobby? He was about to ask Llorona about the box when the front door opened and Famine stumbled into the room. The boy was giggling and walking unsteadily on his feet. Llorona was already walking towards the boy when Ankou shouted up the stairs.
“Reaper! Reaper! He’s home! He’s here!”
By the time Ankou joined Llorona, he could see that Famine was not himself. A strong smell of alcohol came off him like a punch to the face. His clothing was disheveled, his words were slurred, his face flushed (odd to see, given his usually deathly pale complexion), and his eyes glowed a bit red.
“What’re you two old fogies still doing up? Are you waiting for me?”
Ankou and the Weeping Woman exchanged confused looks. “Famine, are you drunk?” asked Llorona.
Famine laughed and hiccupped. “Drunk? Me? No….okay…maybe a little.”
At first, neither adult knew what to say. They were both in total shock and denial. Ankou glanced at Llorona. The woman’s face had gone a shade paler and she tried to say words but it seemed her mouth wouldn’t let her.
“What the hell’s gotten into you, child? Do you see what you’ve done to your poor mother here?”
“Aw, come on, Uncle, don’t be a asshole. You’ve just forgotten what it’s like to have fun!”
“Asshole?!” shouted Ankou. “If you think I’m being an asshole wait until The Reaper gets down here.”
Llorona finally found her voice. “Ye gods! You stink! Where have you been?”
Famine was trying his best to sound coherent and logical. “I was out with…Devon, you know that! After dinner…we went back to his house and had a little…a little…something to…drink.”
“I told you that ghost was a bad influence! Now look at him!”
“Not now, Ankou,” Llorona said in a cross voice, “This isn’t the
time for it. We need to get the boy to bed.”
A strong booming voice came from behind, startling all three. “Not before I have a word with him. Get him to the dining room table and get him a cup of strong soul latte. He’s going to need it.”
Without a word, Ankou and Llorona got on either side of the teenager and led him to the dining room. When The Reaper gave a command, it was followed. Famine was still trying to talk but his words were incomprehensible. By the time he was seated at the table, he had quieted. The Reaper came and silently surveyed the situation. His brother was looking worriedly at him, but the boy obviously had no idea what was going on. Llorona had gone into the kitchen to the espresso machine to begin making the latte, she glanced into the room every few seconds to see what was going on.
“Do you want us to leave?” asked Ankou.
“No, you can stay, the both of you. He worried all of us and he’s going to tell us all why he did this.”
“Do you really think he’s in the condition to do that, brother? Look at him.”
The Reaper glanced down to see that the boy had now passed out. He was snoring loudly with his head and eyes rolled back and his straw-colored hair falling behind him like a limp mop.
“Forget the latte, Llorona. Let’s just get him up to bed.” The great harbinger of death said flatly.
Ankou scooped up the unconscious teenager from his chair and started out of the dining room. “I got him. You two need to rest, too. You’ve been awake a while. Besides, you’re not going to be able to have a decent talk with him later if you’re tired.”
While The Reaper appreciated the gesture, he didn’t really need rest. His job was a constant one that required most of the hours of the day. However, he would do nothing for a while if he felt it was necessary. Llorona always said that getting one’s batteries charged helped in making it through death without going crazy. Perhaps Ankou was right this time.
“You have a point. You can come back over later if you want.”
“I’ll do that. I want a word with the boy myself.”
Ankou took his leave. The Reaper looked at Llorona; she wearily ambled back into the kitchen with the latte. It had been a long and stressful night. Hopefully things would be a little different in a few hours.