How to be Death Page 15

  “If Mr. Drood goes ahead with his strike, then we will just have to appeal to the Harvesters and Transporters themselves,” I said, sitting up as straight as I could in my chair. “They were there. They saw what the Devil intended to do to Purgatory and to Death, Inc. If they feel what I asked of them wasn’t a necessity, that the unwitting violation of their contract outweighed the eventual outcome, then I will cross that particular bridge when I get to it.”

  Jarvis caught my eye and winked at me. Erlik nodded, seeming to appreciate the brevity of my answer.

  “Isn’t this salad delicious?” I said, smiling at Yum Cimil and his charming second in command, Fabian Lazarev.

  Yum Cimil gave a slight shake of his head, but I wasn’t sure if that meant he liked the salad or if it was just a tic I’d misinterpreted.

  “Interesting choice of words … rather diplomatic of you, surprisingly,” Uriah Drood said as he placed a forkful of crabmeat into his mouth and chewed slowly, savoring the bite.

  I’d expected him to be a voracious eater, but the head of the Harvesters and Transporters Union was actually a delicate nibbler, a food and wine sniffing relisher of all things epicurean—something I should’ve realized when he’d been so pedantic about how I drank my sherry.

  “I just think we can resolve things amicably,” I said, trying to appear thoughtful when what I really wanted to do was dump my salad over his head.

  Jarvis believed Drood was the engineer behind the strike, that without him pushing, the issue would be dead in the water. The only thing Jarvis and Kali couldn’t figure out was what his motivation was: Why was Uriah Drood so hell-bent on causing problems for the new reign of Death?

  “Maybe so,” Drood mused, pushing his empty plate away. “Maybe so.”

  The serving woman came around to collect the dishes, her small hands having a hard time getting a grip on the oily plates, and again, I wondered how she’d gotten the job.

  “Well, I have some news,” Naapi said from his spot at the other end of the table.

  Turning in his chair so he could get a better look at me, I had a strange premonition that the Vice-President in Charge of North America was about to say something I did not want to hear. I watched as Alameda placed a manicured hand on her consort’s sleeve, as if she were physically willing him not to speak (or maybe I was just reading into it), but Naapi only patted her hand and forged onward.

  “I have decided to resign from my post.”

  A gasp went up from the assembled crowd. This was big news, news that should have been shared with me in the privacy of a closed-door meeting, not here in front of all these people. I’d just assumed Naapi was loyal to my dad—and through him, me—but I’d forgotten that most people (even Gods, no especially Gods) are loyal to themselves first and the greater good second.

  “I’ve wanted to retire from the post for a long time,” he continued—and of course, now that he had the floor, he couldn’t help doing a little grandstanding. “In fact, I’d spoken at length about my reservations with your father, Calliope. Both of us were of the mind I should remain until the end of the year and after that we would find my replacement.”

  Everyone turned back to me, itching to see what my response would be. I choked, my brain going blank … and then my mouth started moving of its own accord.

  “Well, my dad actually filled me in on all this, so Jarvis and I have already put together a list of possible replacements.”

  Crack! Like a Ping-Pong match, all eyes shifted back to Naapi now that the ball was on his side of the court.

  “Oh, really?” he said uncertainly.

  Obviously, he’d been under the impression this piece of information was going to be a total surprise.

  “Of course,” I said gamely—and my total transparency/no lying resolution went right out the window. “My father and I talked over many, many things before he was murdered.”

  The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees and I could taste the fear as it seeped out of terrified pores, wafting in the air like a heady perfume. If I was ever curious about what these people expected of me—and my abilities—this was the answer. They’d all assumed, rightly, that I’d been dragged into the family business against my will; therefore, I was going to be a nonstarter as far as running Death, Inc., was concerned. They weren’t expecting me to actually be on top of my business.

  Well, screw them, I thought angrily. I’m my father’s daughter and they are gonna learn the hard way that it’s best not to tangle with me!

  Jarvis quickly rushed to my defense, a welcome life raft in the middle of a turbulent sea.

  “We have a list of possibilities ready and waiting,” Jarvis said primly. “But as this is a dinner party, we’ll save any announcements until we’ve conferred with the Board of Death further.”

  At my feet, I felt Runt’s tail thump against my ankle. Well, at least I had two people firmly in my corner.

  “Yes,” Kali interjected. “We at the Board of Death are looking over the names on the list and a choice will soon be forthcoming.”

  She grinned at me, eyes glinting with mischief as she embellished upon the lie already in progress. And now I had three friends firmly in my corner. If I hadn’t been sitting at a formal dinner party, working overtime to keep myself one step ahead of the madding crowd, I would’ve cried.

  Jarvis rang the crystal bell to call for the next course, bringing this uncomfortable line of dinner conversation to an end. As the server—a young Hispanic guy now instead of the odd woman—arrived with a tray loaded down by heavy soup bowls, Anjea stood up. Though she wasn’t a large woman, she moved with the deliberateness of a dictator, commanding your undivided attention.

  There was a moment of uncertainty as everyone looked around, trying to gauge what was going to happen next: Was the old woman going to make a toast, or was she gonna open fire with a tommy gun? To no one’s surprise, she went for the tommy gun—well, not literally, but her verbal tirade had the same emotional impact.

  “Don’t be blind, Death. Use your eyes or be forever damned!” she said, raising a bony finger and pointing it in the direction of my heart, her gaze dark with intention. Our eyes locked, and I found I couldn’t look away. I was nailed to my chair by the intensity of her stare.

  As suddenly as Anjea’s outburst had begun, it ended, an awkward silence ensuing as she lowered her arm and sat back down, pulling her chair forward so she could reach her water glass, which she downed in one long swallow.

  Up until that moment, Daniel’s new friend, Coy, had been a silent party to the Death Dinner, sitting obsequiously in her chair while the rest of us sparred. But now her delicate hand clamped onto Daniel’s upper arm like a vise, her bright pink lips molding into a perfectly formed O. She blinked hard, the color abruptly draining from her tan face.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” she said, using her hands to push herself away from the table, her whole body shaking uncontrollably.

  Without waiting for an answer, Coy stood up and wobbled toward the exit.

  twelve

  I have to say, for me, Anjea’s bizarre invective was the highlight of the Death Dinner. It was like she’d dropped an atomic bomb on the room, and no matter how hard Jarvis tried to jump-start the conversation again, there was no coming back from it.

  We ate the chilled carrot soup (and its spicy marigold garnish) in silence, the cacophonic slurping of fifteen people the only soundtrack. The next course was rack of lamb accompanied by fennel mashed potatoes and a mint glace—all of which went down without anything more than a few polite queries about how everyone was enjoying their food, etc., etc. At one point, Anjea resettled in her chair and everyone stopped eating, waiting to see if she was going to go all Carrie on us again, but she merely picked up her fork and dove back into her lamb.

  You can tell a lot about someone by the way they eat—and when someone is concentrating on their food, not talking or listening to conversation, it’s as if their eating style gets distilled down to i
ts very essence:

  Uriah Drood was a fastidious eater, cutting his meat into perfect squares that he then speared with his fork and ate with unvarying deliberateness. Daniel, on the other hand, ate very normally, nothing precise or regimented, just someone enjoying their food because it tasted good and gave them energy.

  Daniel had almost missed the soup course because of Coy’s freak-out. He’d followed his date (and her five-inch heels) out into the corridor to make sure she was all right and their conversation had been loud enough for everyone at the table to overhear. Thankfully, it’d been of the standard “Are you okay?” and “My stomach aches a little, so I’m going to go lie down” vibe (no cooing and drippy pet name calling, thank God), making exposure to it a nonmortifying experience.

  I wondered how many of the people sitting around me knew about our shared history, that Daniel had been my lover once upon a time—Jarvis, Kali, and Runt for sure, but the others? I had no clue. It made me feel squeamish just thinking other people might be cataloging and judging my sex life behind my back.

  Gross.

  When Daniel returned to the table, he’d seemed frustrated by his conversation with Coy—and I’d actually kind of felt sorry for him—but then I’d noticed the smudge of pink lipstick hiding just below the curve of his jaw like a glossy petroleum-based bruise and I’d seen red. It was all I could do not to go chasing after his little Latin Lolita and show her exactly what a real stomachache felt like—because I had a hard time believing her “illness” was anything other than a bid for Daniel’s attention.

  The sudden clatter of cutlery to my right caught my attention and I looked up to see Fabian Lazarev, his handsome face flushed a bright tomato red, gripping the handle of his steak knife, the business end pointed across the table at Erlik’s heart. The two men appeared to be engaged in a very heated conversation, the threat of physical violence notching up the tension in the room tenfold. They were both angry, but the Vice-President in Charge of Asia seemed to have gotten the upper hand, having driven Fabian Lazarev into such a rage he’d felt it necessary to pick up a weapon in order to make his point.

  “You know nothing of which you speak,” Fabian spat across the table, brandishing the knife so the sharpened surface of its blade caught the light, a sheen of silvery dots reflecting back across the dark wood of the tabletop.

  “I think I know exactly what I’m ‘speaking of,’” Erlik replied, his face relaxed as he sat back in his chair, unconcerned. “So back off, Lazarev … before I make you.”

  Fabian stood up, holding the knife out like a sword, and leaned across the table. He was too far away to do any damage, but his intent was clear: He wasn’t going to be bullied by anyone.

  “You cannot make me do anything, you sorry excuse for a man!”

  Erlik didn’t move a muscle. He just sat there, lounging in his chair like some giant African cat, totally cool right up until the very moment of attack. Without any warning, he was suddenly out of his chair, his lithe body snaking forward, glasses and plates flying as he grasped Fabian’s wrist and snapped it backward, sending the steak knife clattering to the table. Fabian cried out, his hand bent awkwardly in Erlik’s grip.

  “Stop, please, I beg you …” Fabian whined, but Erlik ignored him, using the other man’s wrist to reel him in closer, their noses almost touching.

  “I can make you do anything I want,” Erlik breathed, his voice even. “And don’t you forget it.”

  He shoved Fabian back across the table, the Russian crying out in pain as he was slammed bodily into his chair. Erlik continued to stand there, watching the other man whimper and cradle his hurt wrist.

  “The show is over,” Erlik said, eyes still locked on his wounded opponent before turning abruptly and stalking out of the room.

  No one said a word—I think we were all in shock.

  “Someone do something, please … my hand,” Fabian said weakly. The color had drained out of his face and he seemed to be in a lot of pain.

  “There’s nothing we can do for you, idiot,” Kali said, rolling her eyes. “No magic.”

  I got up and circled around the table, gesturing for Jarvis to ring his crystal bell, so the servers could start collecting the broken china. I knelt down beside the wounded man. At first, he shied away from me, not wanting me to touch his hand.

  “Come on. Let me see it,” I said, coaxing him into letting me examine his wrist.

  I could tell immediately it wasn’t broken, and once All Hallows’ Eve was over, his immortal body would heal itself within a matter of hours. In the interim, I could make him a splint—like I’d learned in the first aid class I’d taken at the Y two summers earlier—and load him up on Tylenol or some other over-the-counter analgesic.

  “Can someone hand me their butter knife,” I said, picking up Fabian’s own from its spot on the table.

  Jarvis was immediately at my side with another butter knife and a couple of cloth napkins. He’d realized what I was doing and was already two steps ahead of me.

  “Tear them up into strips for me, will you?” I said to Jarvis as I gently turned Fabian’s arm over and started to place the two butter knives lengthwise under his palm, wrist, and forearm.

  I’d taken the first aid course with my ex-neighbor, Patience, a very well-intentioned, but slightly vacuous lawyer who was always on the prowl for a man and was most proud of the fact that she naturally possessed 2 percent body fat. Though I make her sound a little self-involved, she wasn’t a selfish person by a long shot. She volunteered for all kinds of charitable organizations, giving as freely of her time as she could, and was an especially big proponent of helping underprivileged children get a leg up in school. So when she was offered the chance to tutor urban elementary school students on the weekends, she jumped at it—which was how I got roped into the first aid course. One of the stipulations of the tutoring program was that you had to have a first aid certificate, something Patience did not possess, so she signed herself and her unwitting accomplice (me) up for a first aid class at the local Y.

  I’d been terrified at first, afraid I was going to accidentally puncture someone’s lung or wrap a wound too tightly and permanently cut off the circulation to someone’s appendage, but by the end of the first class, all my fears were allayed—it seemed that I was pretty good in a pinch and didn’t get all freaked-out over blood and saliva like a few of the other people in the class.

  “What’re you doing to my linens?” Donald Ali said, breaking my concentration with his rumbling voice.

  “Making a splint,” I said, giving him a steely glare that dared him to contradict me.

  “We have a first aid kit in the kitchen,” he replied, amused at my fierceness.

  “Oh.”

  Probably should’ve asked about that before I got Jarvis ripping, I thought to myself. Note to self: Ask first, rip later.

  “It’s fine,” our host said, smiling back at me. “Besides, they’re only reproductions of the originals after all.”

  I looked down at the scraps of napkin Jarvis had given me, wondering why anyone would ever make a reproduction of a napkin.

  “The originals belong to the set of linens Archduke Ferdinand of Austria breakfasted on the morning of his assassination,” Donald Ali continued as if he were reading my mind. “Historically significant as this led directly to the beginning of World War One.”

  “That’s just morbid,” I said, but before I could finish binding the splint, Lazarev pulled his arm away, the butter knife clattering to the floor.

  “No,” he said softly, shaking his head. “I appreciate what it is you’re doing, but enough.”

  “Suit yourself.” I sighed, thinking about the poor ruined napkins as I got up and went back to my chair.

  “. . . it’s just history,” I heard our host saying as he smiled oddly. “Though I suppose that’s something you immortals wouldn’t understand.”

  “We understand more than you think, Donald,” Naapi said, moving his glass out of the way so the se
rver could set dessert down in front of him. “It’s why I’m looking to retire. Longevity isn’t without its flaws.”

  Donald Ali snorted, dismissing Naapi’s comment.

  “You would last ten minutes as a mortal.”

  “Well, we shall have to see about that,” Naapi replied, looking down at his hands. “When I step down, I plan to renounce my immortality as well, so…”

  This comment sent the room into a tizzy. Everyone started talking at once—the overriding sentiment disbelief as they chided Naapi for his foolishness. Only Alameda Jones and Donald Ali seemed immune to the agitation, both quietly watching the scene play out, but never giving a clue as to how this startling news really affected them.