Death's Temporary Home For Lost Souls

Chapter Twenty: Death and Taxes

    "That's not the threat you think it is." Death winks. "Not to–"

    He's silenced by a glob of paint that I fling perfectly onto his forehead. I nearly fall over laughing, and then we both join Lisa and Sarah, chasing each other around the foyer in a paint fight to the death while Britney serenades us. I duck behind the sofa, sending a well-aimed volley of paint towards Death's chest and then...he disappears. Vanishes in thin air, and appears directly behind me. I whirl around.

    "Not fair!" I complain.

    "Being dead has its privileges." He smirks.

    "Motherfucker," I growl, stalking towards him, unable to keep the grin off of my face.

    And just as I draw back my arm to prepare for an attack that will bring him to his knees, there is a knock at the front door. A single knock that seemingly reverberates through the air a million times. Everyone freezes. Someone pauses the music on the tablet.

    "Who is that?" I ask Death. He's standing unnervingly still, like an animal sensing a predator.

    "Probably Mem," he says, but his body language isn't as reassuring as his tone. My heart thunders in my chest.

    I silently follow him to the door, the rest of the spirits gathering together in the middle of the foyer. It's clear that they aren't used to company, and my mind starts to splinter. Could this be a new lost soul, looking for a place to stay? Is that even how this works? Who else would know about this house, or actively seek it out?

    Before my mind gets too far ahead of itself, Death opens the door to reveal a middle-aged black woman that's almost too beautiful to be real. She has a shaved head and thick eyelashes that frame her yellow-gold eyes, and the flowing fabric of her dress shimmers with an ethereal hue that's impossible to pinpoint. I'm not sure how Death manages to speak in her presence, but despite the tense set of his shoulders he carries himself calmly, nodding his head respectfully.

"It's good to see you."

    "Death," the woman says, stepping smoothly past us into the foyer, completely ignoring me. "I wish this were a joyous occasion." I blink. She knows who he is; she can step over the threshold.

    I stare at Death, trying to fit all of my questions into my gaze, but he purposely doesn't meet my eyes, rushing to meet the newcomer. His hands are trembling. "Let me take that. Make yourself at home, please." He removes the woman's shawl, and she turns critical eyes on the crimson smears on the floor and furniture and the paint-splattered residents. I have a hard time discerning the expressions on their faces.

    "Keeping things interesting, I see," she drawls. Lovely as she is, nothing seems to penetrate the coldness behind her eyes. I'm reminded of the unnatural stillness of Death in his Reaper form.

    "It's nice to meet you," I say, stepping forward and reaching out a hand as Death hangs her shawl on the coat rack. "My name is Cara. I'm staying here for a few weeks while I renovate the house."

    She stares right at me for several long moments, and my skin starts to crawl with awkwardness and the disconcerting feeling that I don't belong here at all. She doesn't take my hand. "You are alive. That is most odd."

    "So I've been told," I mumble, utterly cowed. I send Death another quizzical look and he ignores me yet again.

    "What brings you here?" He asks the woman, the muscles jumping in his jaw. I notice that he's positioned himself in front of his residents, as if shielding them from the visitor. Her eyes narrow the slightest bit and for a split second she glances towards me.