The Many Lives of Hadley Monroe Read online

  Death wasn't asking for a logical explanation. What he wanted her to do was to make him understand.

  How did you make a creature who had no concept of what it felt like to live, understand what loss meant? What death meant for people?

  To do that, she had to make him understand life.

  Between one swipe of the rag, and the next, the diner was no longer empty. Colour drained from the world, and a tall man hunched over one of the chipped tables, his hood pulled up over his head as if he were cold, and his scarred knuckles laced together. Silence prickled in her ears, and when she turned, Mary-Beth Monaghan - the diner's corpulent cook - was stretched forward on tiptoe, caught in the midst of hanging her apron up. No doubt on her way for a quick cigarette break out back.

  Even a fly hung in the air.

  Heart racing, Hadley put down the rag. "You could give a girl some warning, you know? How long have you been here?"

  'Long enough.'

  An answer that was not an answer at all. Hadley pursed her lips, but said nothing as she poured him some coffee, and grabbed a plate of pie. Hospitality around here consisted of fixing up something, no matter what the circumstances. Though all the lessons her gramma had taught her had no bearing on this kind of situation.

  What did you do when Death appeared in your life? Offer him refreshments? Iced tea? Set out the Strasbourg?

  All she had to fall back on was custom. Tugging her apron off, Hadley tossed it on the counter, and crossed toward him, slinging her long legs over the bar stool. "Here." She pushed the mug toward him, wondering if he could hear the nervous patter of her heart. The idea of Death was terrifying, but up close, he looked like just another man. Albeit, not the sort that you often saw in Copeland. Sneaking a glance at him, she studied the somewhat ragged ends of his slightly-too-long hair beneath the hood of his coat, thick dark lashes, and a firm mouth that gave him a somewhat sober expression... Things that she hadn't noticed about him the night before.

  Of course, she'd been somewhat distracted by his impending duty to really take in the smooth honey glide of his skin.

  'What is this?' Death peered at the coffee suspiciously. 'It looks like–'

  "Poison. Mary-Beth brews it up each morning. And as it is now..."A quick glance at the clock, "five..." Almost time for her shift to finish. "...I'd guess it has the consistency of river mud."

  A faint hint of something warmed his eyes. They were almost blue for a moment. 'Thanks.'

  She wasn't sure if there should be a question mark on the end of that. "Can you eat or drink?" The thought hadn't struck her until now.

  'I don't require it. Here in the Between, this body does not age, or work as human bodies do.'

  A smear of darkness haunted the edges of her vision, but when she checked over her shoulder, there was nothing there. Nervousness made her babble. "You sound strange." Very stiff. Formal even. As though he'd come straight from another time. Then she realised what she'd said. How many times had someone said something like that to her, with the lack of accent she owned, thanks to growing up outside of Copeland? Outside meant different. Different meant not us.

  'English is not my natural tongue.'

  "Oh?" A little flutter of excitement started in her chest. "You're not American? Where'd you come from?" She could only imagine the rest of the world, glimpses of it seen through the books at the local library, and her grandfather's shelves upstairs. Then her excitement died a little. It was almost too easy to forget what he was. "How'd you become what you are?

  Dark lashes obscured his eyes. He even sipped some of the coffee. 'So have you answered my question?'

  Her curiosity burned, but she got the message. He wasn't here to play nice. He was here to learn the answer to his question. And if she couldn't answer it...

  No matter how human he looked, she had to remember that he wasn't. Not at all. "Not yet. But I have a plan."

  'Oh?'

  She pushed the plate of peach cobbler closer to him. "A very cunning plan."

  Liar. No matter how many hours she'd spent awake last night, she couldn't think of a single thing. Take him to funerals? Show him the mourners? Explain their pain? He wouldn't understand. And no doubt he'd seen enough funerals, and deaths in his life that it wouldn't make any difference.

  "I thought we could just... hang out," she said. "Maybe you might understand, if you came to know what gramma means to me."

  Death pushed his coffee aside. 'I'm not the one taking her away from you; death is a natural expiration from living. This is simply a duty. To ensure that none stay behind when they have passed.'

  "What do you mean?"

  'I have the power to reap - and the power to extend the moment of death if I will it... But that is not my duty. I simply make sure that each soul passes on, and doesn't stay trapped in the Between, where I exist.'

  "Ghosts?"

  'You cling to life, do you not? As you would will it for your grandmother. That urge does not always pass when the body ceases. What is left behind sometimes desires to stay. The stronger, more violent a death, the stronger the urge to remain.' He tipped his head to her. 'My task is to gather those that hover Between, and guide them into the Beyond.'

  That was the kind of talk that would give the Minister a heart attack. But who wouldn't want to know what happened after death? "Is that where we go? Is it Heaven? What is it?"

  'I do not know.' He sipped the coffee.

  "Bright lights? Tunnels of doom?"

  'Are you always so full of questions?'

  "Are you always so deficient in answers?"

  Checkmate. The faintest tips of his mouth curved up.

  "Why, is that a smile?" Hadley demanded, leaning forward to see more.

  Another slow heated look at her. The hood slipped back from his dark hair, revealing a little more of his face. 'You're not afraid of me.'

  A little. But her fear had lulled to a gentle nervousness, and she'd always used humour to deflect her feelings. "Should I be? Did you bring your scythe?" she joked, sounding bolder than she truly felt.

  A long moment of silence. He picked up the fork, and stabbed a piece of glistening peach, staring at it in deft consideration. 'No,' he said. 'I left my long black robe at home too.'

  Silence fell. "Was that a joke?"

  Death popped the piece of peach in his mouth, then blinked, and drew the fork out as if it had stabbed him. Hadley's smile reached epic proportions. Even Death wasn't immune to her peach cobbler.

  'I could tell you,' he said, the corded muscles in his throat swallowing. 'But then I'd have to kill you.'

  Hadley let out a slow breath. "You're possibly the only one who could ever say that with a straight face. That was terrible."

  The faintest edges of his mouth curled up, but this time she didn't call him on it.

  And Hadley felt another little flutter in her chest that didn't feel like nerves at all.

  Chapter 3

  Death had a sense of humour.

  A horrible sense of humour, but it was there sometimes.

  Hadley slid into the passenger side of the truck, staring out over the field. Yellow stubble stretched for miles, the remnants of this year's cropping. "Well?" she asked, turning her attention to Death. "Please tell me you've driven a stick shift before?"

  'No.' His knuckles curved around the shift knob.

  The last couple of days had been... interesting. Every night, after she'd put gramma to bed, he'd been waiting for her in the kitchen, peering at all of the photos on the fridge of her and her family, as if they were mesmerising. Perhaps, to him, they were.

  Today she had the afternoon off work, and she'd volunteered to teach him how to drive. Despite the way he could move from the real world to the Between, he had very little concept of how things worked. Or perhaps, very little curiosity. He had his duty, and from the way he parroted those words at her, she'd realised that there was little else in his life. It reminded her a little of some of the workers at the nearest mill; moving like machines through their day, performing the same routines, working their shifts, a few beers at the same bar afterwards, following the same route home to fix up the same mac and cheese, maybe some TV, then bed... And then the next day on repeat, all over again.

  It was a little scary to realise she'd begun to fall into that same rhythm too.

  At first Death's visits had been about the question, but when she didn't have an answer for him, he began to spend time with her. He began to question her about things in her life, and when she showed him how they worked, she could see a hint of curiosity burn in his eyes.

  "Okay," Hadley said, "I want you to put your hand on the gearstick." Slowly and patiently, she showed him how to drive.

  It took numerous attempts before he could get the old truck moving forward without a jerk. Death revved the truck harder, whips of cut straw streaking past the sides of it.

  The shadows followed them, rippling over the field. Hadley cast a nervous glance behind her, and Death noticed.

  'What is it?'

  "Can't you see that?" she asked as he brought the truck to a halt. No matter how much she kinked her neck, the shadows always stayed at the edges of her vision.

  Death looked. Then returned his gaze to her.

  "Don't look at me like that. I'm not crazy." She settled in her seat, rubbing her arms. "There are these... shadows. I can never quite see them, but they've been there every time I'm with you."

  His face smoothed of emotion. 'They're nothing to be concerned about.'

  "Oh?" Hadley arched a brow. "If you think–"

  'Nothing,' he repeated firmly, and the word rang in her ears for a moment.

  "Fine."

  If he'd been human he might have understood the connotations behind that single word, as it was, he merely nod
ded and carefully turned toward the corner at the end of the field.

  "You drive like you're chauffeuring Miss Daisy," she said.

  'Who is Miss Daisy?'

  "Another time." Hadley rolled her eyes. "Here." She reached out, and eased his white-knuckled hands on the steering wheel. "Just relax. You don't need to wrestle it."

  It was a long afternoon. Death slowly mastered the truck, and then Hadley insisted in him shifting over so that she could drive. The second she hit the gas, Death grabbed hold of the door, his face paling.

  "Hold on," she called, putting the old truck through its paces. Dust circled up behind them.

  By the time she spun to a halt, Death's fingers were clenched in both the upholstery, and the door. 'You take too many risks.'

  "You don't take enough."

  'That's because I know the consequences only too well.'

  Hadley stared at him. "Do you ever get sad? When you see... sometimes..."

  Death stared out over the field, watching the sun sink toward the horizon. 'I think I used to.'

  "Used to?"

  'I've seen nearly every way a person can die. After a while, it's easier not to notice, to just to do my task. And sometimes it's a relief, Hadley. Some people seek me out.'

  He was trying to convince her gramma's death would be a release. Hadley sighed. "I couldn't imagine wanting to die," she admitted. "The thought terrifies me."

  'Why?'

  She gripped the steering wheel a little harder. "What if there's nothing afterward?"

  'Then you would never know.'

  "Then there is nothing afterward?"

  Death shrugged. 'One day you'll find out. Everyone does.'

  Hadley breathed out a laugh. He'd give the sphinx lessons in ambiguity. "Except you?"

  'Except me.'

  Hadley chewed on her lip. Night was beginning to cool the air. "Will I see you tomorrow?" she asked.

  'Tomorrow night.'

  And then he disappeared.

  Chapter 4

  "How did Grandfather cheat you?" Hadley lay along the banks of the creek behind her house, stretched out in the flickering dapples of sunlight and shadows.

  Death sat beside her, resting on his hands. They'd picnicked there, for Hadley's only day off for the week. It felt nice to do something for herself, rather than the never-ending list of household chores, her constant juggle of two jobs, and of course, looking after her gramma.

  Even if her companion made her a little nervous.

  'We played a game of riddles. He asked one that I could not answer. Every year I could come for him, and he would ask me again. If I could not answer it... He gained another year.'

  "What was the answer?"

  'I do not know.'

  "But he died," she said. "After forty years."

  'He asked me to release him from our deal. The last time I visited, he had not left his wheelchair, and he was gasping oxygen through a facemask. His body was failing him - even I cannot reverse the effects of age.'

  "I remember," she said quietly. Her proud, proud grandfather hated being confined to the house, and his wheelchair, with her and her grandma as his carers. "And the answer to the riddle?"

  'He cheated. The question he asked was not a true riddle. He said that he could not answer it, not in a way that I would ever understand.'

  Hadley caught her breath. "Is it the question you asked me?"

  A long, slow look. 'I would like to know the answer. It... it has become very frustrating after forty years, not to know.'

  Despite herself, she laughed. "That is it? That is how he won forty more years?"

  Death actually scowled.

  "Do you usually make deals with the people you come for?"

  'Rarely. Few greet me with such composure as your grandfather - or you.'

  "I was scared out of my brain," she admitted. It was growing far too easy to talk to him.

  'You did not seem to be.'

  "Mmm." She plucked a daisy, and stared at its petals, twirling the stem. "Doesn't it grow lonely? Is that why you occasionally make deals?"

  'Of course not.'

  Silence fell, full of dozens of unspoken words. Hadley plucked at the daisy's petals. "He loves me, he loves me not..." She finally reached the last petal, and sighed, tossing away the stem. "Not, it seems."

  'Who doesn't love you?'

  "It's a game children play," she explained it to him, but he couldn't seem to understand the concept - or perhaps it was the idea of love that he struggled with. "And if you want an answer to that, most everyone."

  'You've never been in love?'

  "Thought so. Once. I were sixteen, and school... it wasn't the place for me. He made me think he cared for me, and you know, I was fool enough to believe it. Turns out I wasn't quite good enough for his parents." She shook her head. "I made a mistake. That's not love. That's need. A need to be wanted."

  'Why weren't you good enough for them?'

  Hadley explained gently, "My father - whoever he was - was the wrong colour."

  They both stared at her bare feet, and the smooth, caramel colour of her legs. Death frowned.

  She sighed. "When mama fell pregnant with me, she were real young. Didn't tell anyone who the daddy was. Grams... well, things were different back then. They'd even picked out a name. Hadley May. The type of name you find 'round here a lot, in some of the old families, and then, when I were born... well... it was quite a shock. Things were said. My mama up and left with me, and I didn't see my grandparents until I were six. Didn't even know they existed until then." She stared out over the creek. "Sometimes I don't remember my mama real well. Only... little things... like other people asking if I were adopted. Mama was good to me, but it was hard on her. She wasn't meant to be a mother so young. Sometimes I forget that I'm almost eight years older than she was when she had me.

  "So, she brought me back here. Grams seemed to think raisin' me were her penance for the things she'd said. She was real proud at first. Used to hold my hand as we walked into church, and stare any of the other ladies in the eye as if to dare them to say anything." Hadley shrugged. "She learned to love me, but it didn't mean things were easy, growin' up. I dream of leaving. Getting out, seein' the world. Only grandpa got sick and passed, and then grams– You know."

  He nodded. Those cerulean blue eyes locked on hers, stealing her breath. Were they getting bluer? 'Perhaps.'

  "I grew up kind of in between." She glanced at him. "Kind of like you."

  'People don't like to see me either.'

  Hadley laughed under her breath. "Thanks," she said dryly. "That wasn't quite what I meant. Just... I know I'm different. Some of them girls that were plain awful to me in school, well, they're better now. Talk to me sometimes. I wouldn't call us friends though."

  Painful memories, some of them. She took a deep breath. "What about you? Were you born this way?"

  'No. But... I have forgotten,' he said. 'I can't remember much of my life before.'

  Hadley lay back on the chequered rug, resting on her elbows. "Before?"

  Death stared out over the creek, fingers rubbing on his jeans. A habit. 'I was human once,' he admitted. 'A long time ago.'

  Hadley's gaze dropped to the markings on his throat. There was something ancient about them. Something primitive. "Were these from before?" she asked, rolling onto her knees, and reaching out to touch one of the marks.

  He was still. He was always still. But this stillness seemed to hint at a trembling within. Like that old church bell, vibrating at a pitch she couldn't see or hear. Hadley glanced down, beneath her lashes, as he met her gaze. The look in his eyes...

  "Sorry," she said, drawing her hand back.

  He caught it, pressing her fingers against his throat, and holding them there as he cleared his throat. 'I have not been touched for a very long time. I don't... Don't feel you have to stop.'

  That broke her heart in a million little ways. Here she was dwelling on life without her gramma, but she didn't think she could even comprehend the type of lonely state he existed in. To never feel another's skin against her own, to never have known her grandfather's laughter, or the soft press of her gramma's wrinkled lips against her forehead...

  She was richer than he in a variety of ways.

  Tentatively she brushed his collar out of the way, feeling the whisper of his skin beneath hers. The marks marched down his neck, and across his collarbone. Dark runes, almost like a child's drawing of bird wings.