The Golden Age of Death (A CALLIOPE REAPER-JONES NOVEL) Read online

  When Uriah Drood had come to him with his plans, the Man in Gray had gotten excited.

  Very, very excited.

  He knew he was the only man in all of creation who possessed the knowledge necessary to do what Drood asked, so he’d bowed and nodded, obsequious as could be, listening as the rotund man had laid out his plans—but inside the Man in Gray was laughing. He’d spent countless lifetimes calculating his revenge, and now, without even begging, his dark prayers were being answered. Through the machinations of the weak, who could not see through their own greed, he would have this ultimate triumph.

  Upon his agreement to do as Drood bid him, he’d been freed from his hidden prison, and then, unwitting fool that Drood was, he’d been given all the tools he needed to bring about the destruction of mankind.

  For it was mankind’s destruction he sought. Not the pathetic restructuring of reality his latest master had decreed. But soon the denizens of the Afterlife and all of humankind would know the Man in Gray’s might—and they would rue the day Uriah Drood had set him free.

  The thought made him laugh, the sound brittle even to his own ears. The laughter hurt his chest, bringing on the hacking cough he’d acquired after living in such a dank, underground prison for so many centuries.

  Time is but an illusion, he thought.

  An illusion that is about to end.

  eight

  CALLIOPE

  An illusion.

  That’s what Jarvis had said after he’d gone to the Hall of Death to look at the Death Records and found no notation of an untimely death in Anjea’s file.

  “No one is allowed to tamper with the Death Records,” he’d said, the muscle of his right cheek jumping against the bone. “It’s not possible.”

  We were in my father’s study, Jarvis sitting on one of the brown wingback chairs, hands clasped in his lap, looking pensive. He’d spent the day wormholing from Sea Verge to Death, Inc., and back. Now he just looked exhausted.

  “You think Marcel and Anjea are in cahoots?” I asked, as I sat across from him in the other wingback chair, thumbing through an English copy of the original How to Be Death: A Fully Annotated Guide.

  I’d spent the whole day reading the damn thing cover to cover and now when I looked at it, my eyes automatically started to blur. I thought (hoped) I’d retained most of the information I’d read, but I wasn’t placing any bets on myself to do well if Jarvis sprung a pop quiz on me.

  “I just don’t know,” Jarvis said, yawning.

  Neither one of us had gotten any sleep since we’d been back. The whole experience in Antarctica had been too traumatizing.

  “What do they gain by me accepting Marcel as my champion?” I asked, closing my eyes so I could rub my aching eyeballs with the heels of my hands. “I can’t logic it out.”

  I opened my eyes to find Jarvis giving me a withering glance—I got the impression he didn’t believe me capable of “logic-ing out” anything—then he stood up, his long body unfolding from the chair. As he stretched, the cords of his impossibly long neck stood out like guitar strings. He took a long breath, held the air in, then slowly let it run out through his nose.

  “There has to be more to this than we’re grasping,” he said, shaking off his exhaustion as he walked over to my father’s desk—my desk now—and picked up the tiny, brown book lying on the blotter.

  “I wish I knew how to read Angel,” I said, looking at the original copy of How to Be Death Jarvis was holding in his hands.

  The English translation of the book in my own lap was safe for casual reading because it was missing the most important section: instructions from the Archangel Metatron on how to start the End of Days and destroy God’s last creation (humanity) forever.

  Death—or rather me, since the job was now mine—was responsible for the safekeeping of the original book, tasked with making sure no one or no thing with evil intentions could get ahold of it and start something that, once set in motion, could not be stopped.

  “It would take you years of study, and even then it might not be possible,” Jarvis said, but he was distracted as he spoke, the little book taking up all his attention.

  “It would enable me to know exactly how to trigger the end of humanity. That might scare the shit out of anyone who wants to kick my ass.”

  Jarvis looked up from the book, eyeing me.

  “That’s a ridiculous statement,” he said, not amused.

  I sighed and sat back in my chair.

  “I know.”

  Jarvis, seemingly satisfied I wasn’t a complete idiot, went back to studying the tiny book.

  “I would never trigger any kind of end of humanity situation,” I added, just to clarify. “I hope you know that.”

  Jarvis didn’t like it when I made light of important Death subjects. But what he didn’t understand was if I could joke about the things that scared me, then maybe, eventually, I wouldn’t be afraid of them anymore. It was Psychology 101, a class I’d snored my way through at Sarah Lawrence, but I had learned that humor was a defense mechanism.

  I looked outside and was gratified to see the day had finally been replaced by a chilly, moonless night. Even though Jarvis had already turned on the overhead lights, I reached over and switched on the table lamp beside me, happy to have even more light to blot out the weird, disconnected feeling that was slowly stealing over my thoughts.

  I was also exhausted, and I knew this had something to do with my morose mood. I really wouldn’t have argued if Jarvis had suggested we table the conversation for tomorrow and go to bed. At seven thirty. Way too early to crawl under the covers and disappear for the night.

  “That’s nice to hear,” he said.

  “You’re giving in way too easily,” I said, suspiciously.

  When I looked over, I saw Jarvis had put on his “serious” face—and I knew this meant I was about to get a lecture.

  “Go ahead,” I sighed. “Blow my mind with whatever you’re going to say.”

  Jarvis ignored my snarky comment, settling on the edge of the desk and staring intently into my eyes. It was unnerving when Jarvis got all professorial and intense on me—but I held his gaze, determined not to make any stupid comments or harass him in any way until he was done.

  “There are two possibilities, as far as I can see.”

  He paused, waiting for me to interrupt like I usually did, but I remained silent. He gave me a pleased nod and continued:

  “So Anjea spoke of another, alternate universe where Frank is Death and you don’t exist, probably because you were never born there. If our world and this other world were to merge, then there is a distinct possibility—and Clio would know the exact probability—”

  “Let’s leave Clio out of this for now,” I said.

  I hadn’t told Jarvis what I’d learned from Kali, that Clio was one of the next round of “possible” Deaths. But now seemed as good a time as any to unburden myself.

  Jarvis waited for me to go on and I sighed, accepting that he was going to be mad at me for asking Kali to dig into the Death Records.

  “Because she has a more important role,” I continued. “One that will become very important if, or really when, something happens to me.”

  Jarvis narrowed his eyes.

  “Go on.”

  I looked down at the book in my hands, wishing I could spirit myself away and never have to deal with the responsibility of being Death ever again. But I knew that wasn’t going to happen, so I took a deep breath and plunged into my explanation.

  “Kali and I went through the Death Records”—Jarvis started to protest, but I held up my hand for him to listen—“I know it was wrong, but I wanted to make sure if Marcel killed me during the duel, there’d be someone who could take my place. Someone who was better equipped to run Death, Inc., than I was when I was tapped for the job.”

  Jarvis didn’t jump all over me like I’d expected him to. Instead, he nodded his head, processing what I’d told him.

  “There’s more
,” I said. “I know about the other ‘possible’ Deaths, too. The ones Clio would be competing against—and I want to bring them here to Sea Verge. To give them the opportunity to work under me at Death, Inc., learn the ropes, get some experience under their belts.”

  Jarvis stood up, thought about what he was going to say, then sat back down again.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “But what you’re talking about. It’s never been attempted before. Informing the other ‘possible’ Deaths before they’re called up…it’s just not done.”

  I knew he’d feel this way—anything that went against tradition was anathema to Jarvis.

  “Still,” he added, looking thoughtful. “There is some merit to what you’re proposing.”

  “There is?” I asked, surprised.

  “What you went through was very traumatic,” Jarvis said. “Bringing the ‘possible’ Deaths into the fold before they’re called up—if they’re ever called up—would alleviate this trauma.”

  This was exactly what I’d been thinking.

  “So you think it’s a good idea?” I asked.

  “Good or bad, I don’t know,” he said, setting the tiny How to Be Death book down on the desk blotter. “Worth a try? Why not?”

  Relief flooded through me. If I could convince Jarvis to give my idea a try, then I was pretty sure I could convince anyone.

  “One of the other ‘possible’ Deaths lives here in Newport,” I said.

  If this surprised Jarvis, he didn’t show it.

  “I want you to invite her here tomorrow under the pretense I’m looking to sell Sea Verge.”

  “You can’t really be—” he began, but I shook my head.

  “I don’t want to sell Sea Verge. The girl’s a Realtor and it’s a good way to get her here without raising any suspicions.”

  Jarvis saw the wisdom of my words and calmed down.

  “Yes, that’s a good plan,” he agreed.

  “Then you’ll do it?” I asked.

  Jarvis nodded.

  “If it’s what you wish.”

  “It is,” I said.

  We sat in silence after that, both lost in our own thoughts. Finally, Jarvis broke the silence:

  “What about Marcel?”

  His gaze was fixed on the window behind my head, eyes focused on anything that wasn’t me.

  “If he shows up here, then we listen to what he has to say,” I said.

  Jarvis nodded—then he looked at me. Really looked at me.

  “What?” I said, starting to feel uncomfortable.

  “It’s just…I couldn’t be prouder of you if you were my own daughter,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked, not understanding.

  “You’re all grown-up,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s very impressive.”

  I felt stupid. I didn’t deserve the kind things he was saying about me.

  “I’m just being pragmatic,” I said. “It’s important to me Clio comes out of this okay.”

  Jarvis nodded in understanding.

  “I don’t like what any of this means and I hope it’s only a contingency, but I’ll do as you ask,” he said—and I could tell he still wasn’t 100 percent happy about what I was asking of him.

  “Thank you, Jarvis,” I said, smiling at him before putting on my own “serious” face and changing the subject. “So, explain this probability thing to me again?”

  I didn’t think I’d ever willingly encouraged Jarvis to lecture me before, but there was a first time for everything.

  “Oh, yes,” Jarvis said, nodding happily. “As I was saying before…if these two, disparate worlds merge, then there is a strong probability that because you don’t exist in the other world, you will cease to exist in the new merged world.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll just poof and that’s the end of me.”

  “In that world, after your father’s demise, Frank must have become Death because you did not exist in that world to fight him or Daniel for it.”

  “Frank must be a piss-poor Death,” I mumbled under my breath.

  “Agreed.”

  “So how do they do this? This merging of two worlds?” I asked.

  “The book,” Jarvis said. “It explains how to harness the power of the dead, use their energy like a giant particle accelerator—”

  “And you fuse two worlds together,” I said, getting what Jarvis was driving at. “I cease to exist, the Golden Age doesn’t happen, and humanity lives in the dark for a long, long time…but we have the book, so, right now, no one can use it to start any bad stuff, right?”

  But this idea did start me wondering about the near loss of the book that had occurred at the annual Death Dinner and Masquerade Ball. Had someone been trying to steal the book for this very reason?

  “There’s another possibility.”

  “The second one you alluded to?”

  Jarvis nodded, walking over to the darkened window so he could look out at the endless sea.

  “Someone releases Enoch from She’ol.”

  I sat back in my chair, Jarvis’s words meaning nothing to me.

  “Well, that’s not where I thought you were going with that,” I said, pulling my feet up under me in the chair.

  “Enoch translated the book you’re holding there,” Jarvis said, pointing to the copy of How to Be Death I still held in my hands. “And he put a lot of it into The Book of Enoch so the rest of humanity could be prepared for what might come.”

  “He could read Angel?” I said, surprised a human had mastered this most difficult of languages.

  Jarvis shook his head.

  “Only because Metatron willed it so. Supposedly, he took pity on humanity and gave the story to Enoch to impart to his brethren as a warning—or maybe a reminder of what could be. Sadly, no one, not even Enoch, knew what Metatron’s true intent was.”

  “But there’s none of the bad stuff in this book,” I said, lifting it up in the air for emphasis.

  “No, there’s not,” Jarvis agreed. “But Metatron gave Enoch special dispensation so he, as a human who normally wouldn’t be able to touch the book, could read and translate it, minus the ‘bad stuff,’ as you call it.”

  “So why’s he in this ‘Shiz’ol’ place?” I asked.

  “She’ol,” Jarvis corrected. “It’s Hebrew for ‘grave’—a place to stow away the living dead.”

  “He’s a zombie?” I asked, surprised. I hadn’t known zombies really existed.

  “I wouldn’t call him that, exactly,” Jarvis hedged. “She’ol is one of the many prisons where they incarcerate those who have angered the Angels. Each religion, or philosophy of being, has a few specifically created for their believers.”

  “And just how many of these places are we talking about?” I asked.

  “Too many to count,” Jarvis said in a low voice.

  “So you really don’t want to piss off an Angel,” I said.

  Jarvis didn’t answer. He seemed to be mulling over his words, trying to decide how best to respond.

  “Enoch made a terrible error in judgment. Instead of forgetting the book’s contents as he was asked to do by Metatron, he secretly memorized everything he read.”

  “And they put him in this She’ol/grave place for that?” I asked.

  “Worse things have been done for much less.”

  Jarvis was right. I’d seen this firsthand with my own father, who’d abused his powers in order to protect me—but that didn’t make what he’d done right. Imprisoning the Ender of Death down in Hell, violating the balance between Life and Death, Good and Evil, etc., etc.—these acts, done out of love for me, had destroyed him.

  Life and Death weren’t fair, but God had set up the world this way and we had to accept it.

  “You really think, after centuries of imprisonment, Enoch would be able to remember all that stuff?” I said.

  I remembered how delirious the Ender of Death had been after a few decades of imprisonment down in Hell. If
Enoch had been in this She’ol for as long as Jarvis had implied, then surely he’d be a basket case by now.

  “I’d stake my life on it,” Jarvis said, the tic starting up in his right cheek again. “He’d been a favorite of the Angels, allowed to wander freely through their plane—”

  “They just let him run around Heaven?” I interrupted.

  I had a hard time believing this. The Angels had felt pushed aside when God had created human beings—and, to this very day, it was still something they hadn’t forgiven God for. Allowing a human being unrestricted access to their world seemed out of character.

  “You obviously haven’t read The Book of Enoch,” Jarvis said, walking over to one of the study’s many thick, oak bookcases and retrieving a heavy, goatskin-bound tome from one of the shelves.

  “A little light reading,” he continued, dropping the heavy book in my lap.

  Now I had two old books moldering in my lap instead of one.

  “Holy my God,” I said as I opened the cover only to have a cloud of dust float up into my face, filling my nostrils. Sneezing twice, I held the book away from me.

  “How many decades since someone opened this thing?” I wheezed.

  “Many.”

  “If I promise to read it,” I said, crossing my fingers behind my back to negate the promise, “will you just give me a quick play-by-play?”

  Jarvis raised an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on the hand I held behind my back.

  “Crossed fingers don’t make a promise null and void, Calliope,” Jarvis said, as he sat back on the edge of the desk and surveyed me.

  I removed my right hand from behind my back and held out a flat palm. No crossed fingers this time. It was a show of good faith—although, I believed once the crossed fingers had been invoked, they were good for at least a half hour, but I didn’t tell Jarvis this.

  “I promise,” I said, trying to look chaste.

  Jarvis sighed, resigned to my ways, but not so resigned he wasn’t going to make me work for the information.

  “In the end, I suppose it doesn’t really matter if you read it, or not,” Jarvis sniffed.