“What are you talking about?” I sit straight and push my plate aside, appetite gone.

  “These last few months, you’ve been storming onto my cases, causing trouble and pilfering my souls.”

  I touch the amulet at my neck. We all wear similar jewelry. It can be a ring, bracelet, or necklace, but they all have a large stone set in gold. My stone is amber. John’s stone, set in a ring, is blood red.

  Taking a steadying breath first, my words are calm. “I go where the amulet takes me. When it makes demands, I’m there. You know the rules.”

  “It calls you to assist, not steal.” Randy’s smile is as cruel as his eyes.

  “If I collect the soul, I’m going to keep it.” My voice rises with each word.

  “Let’s keep this conversation on the down-low,” Becca advises.

  “That screws up my tally for the month. I’m already in deep shit with Death,” John says. “You’re making my situation worse. You’ve pocketed ten of my souls in the last six months.”

  “Then do your job.” Anger flares and I push back against the cushions of the booth. Pull it together.

  “Stop taking my souls.” John’s face turns a shade of plum.

  “Start doing your job.” I slap the table hard, and my coffee sloshes into the saucer.

  “You keep getting me in trouble with Death, and I’ll end you.”

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  “Okay, boys and girls, put the personal feud away. There’s group stuff we need to discuss.” Paul places one of his large hands over mine, and I calm.

  The meeting continues. I ignore John for the rest of it, hoping to never have to see him again.

  After the meeting, fueled on diner coffee, I head to New York Presbyterian Hospital. My first soul comes from the recovery room after surgery.

  It didn’t go well for her.

  The soul separates from life without a fuss, and I’m on the move again. I skulk down a bright fluorescent-lit hallway far from the operating suites, but there is no need. I’m on official business at the hospital and have two more souls to collect, I should be in death guise, but I’m not sure. Also, since Aneurysm Guy has witnessed death, there’s no telling how he’ll perceive me. It’s an impossibility to walk into his hospital room and attempt small talk, but I want to anyway.

  I linger like a stalker in the corridor, hoping he doesn’t spot me, trying to overhear a name or spy it on a chart. When that doesn’t work, I peek through the open door, slightly infatuated. I should fangirl, finish my rounds, and go home. That should end this little crush. Tomorrow, I’ll return to collecting souls, and he’ll return to saving them.

  Frustration rises as I force myself away from his room without any information. I collect the fifty-six-year-old man who dies of a blood clot after a hip fracture and the Alzheimer’s patient found wandering the streets in pajamas. That soul is delighted to depart. Then I’m back at his hospital room.

  Death can’t keep me away. I chuckle at my own private joke.

  He’s sleeping, and I don’t want to wake him. I lean against the door frame and stare for a good fifteen minutes. No one bothers me. No one seems to even notice me there. Finally, I leave.

  My life takes a weird turn afterward, but I guess weird is a relative term. I do spend my life gathering souls and delivering them to Death. I never thought I’d be prowling late-night hospital corridors or those empty hallways would become my second home over the next few days. I thought I had an intimate relationship with New York Presbyterian Hospital before, but now I roam into spaces I would never have guessed existed, all for a few minutes outside Aneurysm Guy’s room.

  As death, I’m on call most hours of the day and night and don’t require sleep the same way humans do. Sure, I like it and enjoy certain sexy dreams of late, but I don’t need sleep. It’s more about trying to find the balance in the job. It’s imperative I retain enough humanity so as to not scare the living dickens out of the dying. At times, that can be hard since there’s a constant pull towards the darkness that is death and all the power that’s part of this gig.

  During my nights roaming the hospital, I never say a word to Aneurysm Guy as he heals in his hospital room, but I can’t get the kiss out of my mind. It haunts me to the point of turning me into a stalker. I can’t help myself, and when he’s released, I follow him home.

  I am not rapey. Well, maybe a little. Call me crazy, but there seems to be an otherworldly connection between us.

  After he’s released, a lot of rationalization occurs when I trace his steps staying at least three people away and watching his recovery from afar. I tell myself I must be sure he’s all the things I assumed when I used the elixir.

  Damn me to hell if I’m wrong.

  It turns out he’s a good man and more, a doctor who spends his limited free time at animal shelters walking dogs and cleaning cages. More than anything, he wants to join Doctors Without Borders and save children. Over the next few days, between reaping souls, my mission becomes uncovering his faults. I must find out if he’s a cheapskate or chews with his mouth open. If not, he must be bad in bed.

  Why else would he not have a significant other?

  He saunters into a cafe one day, and I watch him order an iced tea and turkey club sandwich for lunch. I slip into the chair at the table next to him, sip my coffee, and pretend to ignore him. He eats, and I mark open-mouth chewing off my list of potential flaws. He turns out to be a quiet chewer who uses a napkin accordingly.

  After finishing his sandwich, he turns to me, his gaze intense. “This is going to sound like a pickup line, but do I know you?”

  Like I said, it’s hard to process the difference between my human self and death personified, and no one’s ever come back from the afterlife to recognize me. I can’t fathom the fractured pieces that make me whole. While I don’t appear human in my reaper alter ego, it’s not like I turn into a flaming skull or any of that nonsense. But who can explain what people envision before dying? I keep my cool while my inside screams.

  It’s me. I’m the person who gave you a second chance at life.

  My hazel eyes meet his beautiful brown ones. “I don’t think so.”

  “I must be thinking of someone else.”

  I don’t want this moment to get away from us. “I’m Freyja.”

  “Daxon.”

  “Interesting name.” Yahoo! Finally got the damn thing.

  “My parents were interesting people.” He smiles. “Your parents were no slouches when naming you either.”

  “I guess that’s true.”

  “This will sound crazy, but I’m going for it.” He stares down at his plate for a moment. “I have a rare afternoon off, and I’d love to spend it with you. Are you up for a walk in Central Park?”

  Chapter Four

  I check my calendar and hustle in the morning so I’d have some extra time to stalk Daxon.

  Time to make a decision.

  My cheeks flush, and a smile explodes across my lips. “A walk in the park sounds lovely.”

  “Great.” He winces, touching a hand to his head.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Headaches. The aftermath of the aneurysm. Doctor says it’s normal.”

  I school my face, letting my eyes grow big in surprise. “Are you alright?” My chair scrapes the floor. I scoot closer. “You said aneurysm?”

  “A couple weeks ago, I had a brain aneurysm. Doctors say it is a miracle I’m alive and fully functional.” He shrugs. “I’m a physician myself and have a lot more sympathy for my patients after this experience. The doctors turned me into a test case. I’ve been a lab rat for the last two weeks. Not complaining because I’m very thankful to be alive.”

  My lips part in pretend surprise. “That’s intense. We can do this another day if you don’t feel up to it.” Please don’t change your mind. Please.

  “I’ll take a couple aspirin.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Seize the day and all.”

  “You look pale.” I begin to worry.

  “Trying to get back into normal life. Doctors said to take it slow, but that’s not really a speed I run on. I pushed today, but a relaxing walk in the park with a beautiful woman will help.”

  Normally, I’d think his words a ploy to get me into bed. As death, I have the best bullshit detector, which is one of the reasons I no longer date regularly. Daxon means every word.

  I stand. “Let’s go.”

  We meander through the less-traveled paths of Central Park, enjoying the fall colors.

  “This is lovely.” I watch the whimsical clouds cross the blue skies above the high-rise buildings.

  “It’s surprisingly peaceful here when you consider we’re in the middle of a city.”

  I nod. “Why’d you decide to become a doctor?”

  “I spent a couple of years in the navy. My last tour of duty was off the Persian Gulf. It was hard to see all the death and destruction. I want to make a positive change.”

  I move a hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun’s glare. “Did it work?”

  Daxon meets my gaze. “It did. Unfortunately, there’s no cure for death.”

  Preach. If there was, I’d be out of a job. “How right you are.”

  “I constantly work to hold it back in my patients.”

  “Still, death is just another facet of life.”

  “Not an easy one, but through it, we can learn to appreciate what we have.”

  People usually have a hard time addressing weighty topics like death, and I love that Daxon takes it on with brutal honesty. “That we do.”

  He studies me. “Sorry if I’m a little too philosophical for our first meeting. After what I went through recently, nothing seems that seems out of bounds. I want to wrestle with all the topics I put on a shelf for when I’d have more time.”

  “It’s good to grapple with these ideas. I’d be afraid if my doctor didn’t.”

  His eyes light up. “I guess we both have that need to question things.”

  I touch his hand and find it warm. “It’s important to deal with topics like these, even if they’re hard and uncomfortable.”

  He takes hold of my fingers, squeezing gently. “I’m lucky to have found someone willing to listen to me chatter on about this stuff.”

  “I usually don’t talk like this to strangers either, but you make me feel comfortable, which I haven’t experienced since I became a….” Shit, I almost blurted out reaper. “…since arriving in New York City.”

  “Would you like to continue the conversation tomorrow?”

  I have to peer toward the sky; he’s so tall. Staring into those warm honey brown eyes, I understand this is a moment. It’s going to be one of the decisions in my life that could bring about big changes and alter destinies even for someone not quite alive.

  “That would be nice.” Nice. What a bland, repulsive word for what just occurred.

  We wind our way back to the café.

  Considering all the souls I collected and the deaths I’ve seen, the realization of how much it’s changed my perspective hits, and I wonder if Daxon feels it as well. “Do you ever think you can’t do enough even as a doctor?” How jaded had I been until Daxon came along?

  “Witnessing the random nature of death can change you. You have to believe there’s a plan.”

  “Like a greater good to all the horror and injustice.”

  “Something like that,” he says.

  “Well, maybe you can make me believe in it.”

  He nods, and we walk in a comfortable silence to the end of a busy street. After turning the corner, conversation ambles like we do until parting ways.

  Chapter Five

  A big, black X on my calendar stares back at me. It’s been three weeks of heaven with Daxon. I shouldn’t be falling in love this soon or this intensely, but I am. Emotional overload leaves my body humming until my pendant flairs. Death’s a lifesaver for this most needed distraction.

  Goose waits for me outside my apartment. Once mounted, we both follow the pull. He gallops off, and as the surly wind whips through the city and my hair, a trail of sparks flame in the sky. To be honest, I’m unsure if they come from Goose or my hair.

  Tucked into my leather jacket, I’m toasty against the morning chill and enjoy the ride. New York City is intense during rush hour. It’s not only car horns blaring or taxi cabs and Ubers cutting through yellow lights and chasing down the cars in front of them, but also the people on the streets. There’s a constant push forward and a jostling of those too close. Pedestrians move in endless, steady streams of life. Even patrons enjoying breakfast in the surrounding restaurants eat with intensity and a longing to dredge every ounce of flavor from their food.

  That thought reminds me of my desperate need for a triple latte.

  “We have to stop for coffee after this pickup.”

  Goose shakes his mane in disapproval. He had two modes: work and rest. Everything else is an annoyance. When he stops abruptly, I’m pitched forward, but I pull myself back before flying over his head. He’s thrown me in the past, and I’m sure he’d love to watch me pick myself off the ground bruised and battered. But not today.

  We end up in Alphabet City, an East Village neighborhood by New York University. While the University, Broadway, and the area restaurants are some of my favorite places to hang, the apartment complexes, not so much. Like much of the city, the area has been through periods of gentrification, and bad humans cannot hurt me, but often, the souls from this area have seen more pain and hurt than the average.

  I park Goose, head to Avenue D, and into one of the large complexes. It smells of stale air and the garbage someone has left outside their door. Climbing the stairs, the pull takes me to the third floor. The door opens to my touch. The apartment is small, cramped, but neat. A brown stain taking up a good portion of the small kitchen ceiling indicates the apartment above had a leak at one point. There’s a lot of stuff, but it’s organized.

  Sadness invades, and the pull tells me what I am going to find. An overdose death. He’s on the bed, dressed in a grubby t-shirt and jeans. His face is finally at peace, but his soul might not be. I’m quiet on approach, not wanting to startle the soul. Overdoses can leave the eternal soul confused. “I’m here to help you move on to your next journey.”

  “Where am I?” His spirit is pale, swinging in circles as he takes in his room as a ROD.

  “In your apartment. You’re dead.” It never helps to deny the truth.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m here to help you pass on. Are you ready to go?”

  He scratches at his crew cut with dirty fingers. “I don’t know. I’ve been clean for years, but my girlfriend broke up with me, and then I got laid off from my job. It was too much.”

  “It’ll be better now. Come with me.”

  He meets my eyes. “No. I want to make it right with Lucy.”

  “Lucy?”

  “My girlfriend.”

  “She’ll understand.” I channel my inner Zen and remain calm.

  “No. I need to see her one more time.” He speeds up his pace so much he becomes a blur. “I need to explain.”

  “I didn’t ask your name. What do I call you?

  “Thomas. Tommy.” Emotions battle. Reds and yellows flare around the room and then settle back around his spirit form.

  “It’s time to go, Tommy.” I move slow but close the distance between us. “She’ll get it. Lucy will understand.”

  “I don’t know.” He slouches to the floor.

  “Yes, you do. Your soul understands the next step. This is a transition you have to make.” He’s not compliant yet, but soon he will be if I do this right. He wants someone to take control of the situation, which is my job, after all.

  “Here’s how it’s going to work. You’re going to pass on, and I’m going to find a way to let Lucy know how you felt about her. I’ll send the message, but you need to move on now.”

  His eyes are filled with the pain and horrors of his past when he meets mine. “Fine.”

  I open the bottle and wonder, for the millionth time, what it appears to be to souls. They can’t be putting their faith in what looks like an old, empty plastic soda bottle. It must be a tunnel, channel, river, or something appealing.

  The soul drifts into the container, and I pop the lid. While it’s not black goo, it’s not pretty. The consistency of blood, it’s tinged with brown and red. I have no idea what will happen to it, but after my cup of coffee, I’m off to find Lucy before my next pickup. A promise is a promise, and this is not the first time I’ve had to make a visit to a relative or loved one to leave a last message. I’ll do whatever it takes to get the souls to move on.

  After dinner with Daxon the next day, we plan to visit the Museum of Modern Art, and later in the week, a long lunch leaves me scrambling to reach my quota of souls. I work hard to keep on schedule and spend time with Daxon, who I admit, I’m crushing over. A few weeks fly by, and I consider myself in a relationship but begin to worry. He still hasn’t taken me to bed. He ignores my hints and innuendos. I’m getting a complex. I vow tonight I’ll make it happen.

  We sit at a two-top in the dimly lit, tiny wine bar, enjoying a good merlot and gorging ourselves on appetizers of latkes and nachos from the eclectic menu. I’m not supposed to eat this much or laugh this hard (I snort a lot) before getting naked, but I can’t help it.

  Damn it; I have real feelings like heart and fire emojis in droves. Leaning across the table at the end of the meal, I whisper, “Take me to your place.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to rush you.”

  “We can’t get there quick enough,” I say. “You’ve been such a tease these last weeks.”

  He gathers his coat and helps me with mine. We race-walk back.

  I remember his apartment well, especially the couch, but don’t let on. “You must love to cook. You have all the accouterments of someone who spends time in the kitchen.” The space is spotless, with utensils, pots, and pans organized.

  “I’ll make you breakfast if you stay the night.” He pours more wine.

 

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