A Book of Dust and Breath

Chapter One

Max leaned against his bike, his long legs crossed at the ankle, watching as the killer came slinking out of the litter-strewn alley. The man looked in both directions, checking for witnesses. His eyes slid over Max without registering his presence. He jogged up the front steps of the dingy two-story townhouse holding a Glock 19 against his chest. If he tripped, there was a good chance he'd blow the left side of his face off.

Max pushed his dark hair away from his eyes and checked his watch. The man had almost forty seconds left before he got the biggest surprise of his life, so there would be no messy accident on the stoop.

The killer used a key to let himself in, and closed the door behind him.

Eighteen seconds to go.

Max straightened, crossed the cracked pavement of the deserted street. In this kind of neighborhood, everyone worked. Kids spent their days at school or in daycare. None of these families could manage on a single income. If not for her newborn baby boy, the girl in the narrow white house would have been at work, too.

Her muffled shouts filled the next few seconds.

Max's heavy boots clunked against the rusted sewer grate.

Three seconds.

Gunshots: four of them in quick succession.

Time's up.

He went up the steps and slipped through the same door the killer had used without opening it. Just as easy to walk through a wall, but he enjoyed familiar patterns and stuck with them whenever possible.

The inside of the shabby little house boasted a mismatched spattering of second-hand furniture. The place gleamed, spotless, if you didn't count the blood and grisly bits of tissue covering the horrid shag carpet. Soon, those who spent their days contemplating death in all its many forms would arrive to take photographs and ask questions.

In some ways, Max felt a kinship with those folks. His work and theirs often brought them together, although they weren't aware of the connection.

The killer's body lay in a spreading pool of blood. The Glock, having never been fired, still remained clutched in his right hand. The woman who had shot him stood, frozen, a few feet away.

"Never again, Marco. No more women will die at your hand, you miserable piece of filth," she whispered in a cold flat voice that stirred up a wild storm of emotion in Max. Such strength! Resilience! How easy it was to imagine her throwing her abuser out, warning him she'd kill him if he came near again.

He should have taken her at her word.

Marco's true self rose to his feet. The soul appeared solid, more real to Max than the physical world around them at the moment. Having died a young healthy man in his prime, his form had changed very little. Soft, powerful energy pulsed from him.

So much potential in a human soul, and this one, like too many, had never appreciated the gifts given him. To be born human, know you were human, die and move on as only humans do--how could anyone be so careless with such wonderment built into their existence? Disdain sprouted in Max's heart and grew quickly into something darker and more shameful to name.

A frown creased the man's brow. Barely sparing a glance for his broken body, he looked at the woman with the gun, and then at Max. "Who are you? What's going on here?"

"Things didn't go as planned, Marco. I'm here to help you cross over."

The freshly deceased man swallowed hard, glanced down at his body one last time, and darted into the kitchen. He fumbled with the doorknob, realized he had no ability to interact with matter, and stepped through.

Max groaned and took off after him. Lord, but he hated it when they ran. He followed the shimmering trail of the soul across the tiny but meticulously well-groomed backyard. Marco had jumped the fence, but Max didn't bother. He passed through and jogged toward the little tool shed where the trail ended.

The killer, now the killed, still clung to his old ways. He leaped out and swung a long-handled sledgehammer toward Max's head. "Eat this, Sand Monkey!"

Max dodged effortlessly and clamped a hand around the other man's wrist so tightly sparks of energy flashed and sizzled. "It's not nice to call names, Marco, but I'll forgive it considering you're having a stressful moment." Reminding himself of the Grand Plan behind all things, he did his duty, carried the soul across the divide in a pop of light, and placed him in the care of the one who would take him on to the next step of his journey. He didn't speak for fear of what his voice would betray. After all, judgment was not his to give. Not even for one such as this.

One down, all the rest of humankind to go.

Walking back to where he'd parked, he drew matter to himself, becoming once more a being of the physical world. Physical. Human. But not completely. Never exactly the same as those lucky bastards who waste their days with mindless diversions.

The woman who'd just killed her child's father sat on the bumper of the ambulance holding her newborn against her chest. Her gaze fell on Max and moved away to the police officers milling about in front of her apartment. No hint of recognition lit her eyes.

Of course, it wouldn't.

Anonymity was part of the gig.

He slung a leg over the Harley and felt it roar to life beneath him.

I-94 spread before him like a runway, wide open and clear of traffic jams with a good two hours to go before the afternoon rush clogged the vehicular arteries. He opened the throttle, letting the needle slide toward ninety as he wove between minivans and delivery trucks.

Bathed in warmth and still damp from a recent rainfall, the world around him bloomed into sweet, fragrant life with an urgent bent toward excess he'd never witnessed in any other part of the world. Mother Earth knew her time to thrive was limited in this place, sandwiched between long stretches of barren cold. She wouldn't waste a moment of glory.

He guided the Harley around the curving ramp toward State Street. A serpentine path lined with orange barrels carried him into a labyrinth of streets where hundreds of identical homes, identifiable only by the numbers on the wall and the different colored wreaths on the doors, stood in monument to middle-class Americana.

He stopped in front of a "no parking" sign, silenced the engine, and tucked his sunglasses into the inner pocket of his ancient leather jacket. He confirmed the number on the house matched the one he'd been given and that he had the time right. He'd made it without a second to spare. After a last, deep, satisfying breath, he cast off matter and entered a house with a doormat that read, "wipe your paws."

The woman, a thin little waif of a thing, barely a bump beneath the pile of quilts that covered her, looked directly at him. Those who neared their transition often saw and understood what the living chose not to.

Her rheumy eyes widened. "Oh!"

He couldn't help but smile at her expression. "I'm not what you expected?"

One wrinkled hand rose up to pat at the white wisps of fuzz on her nearly bald pate. "I never expected Death to be such a hunk."

A chuckle rumbled in his chest. This was definitely going to be easier than his last reap. "Just wait until you see what else I have to show you. It's gonna blow your mind."

The thin, trembling hand reached out for him. "Well, let's go then. I've been waiting a long time for you."

He took her hand, helping her true self rise from the sickbed. She stood before him, curvy and strong with raven-black hair that reached nearly to her waist.

Her lips parted in a manner that would tempt a saint. "Oh!" She exclaimed again.

Max tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and delivered her into the tender care of Death.

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