Even more terrible curses were falling from Mabel's lips when—but two days later—she was out grocery shopping and saw "Death" standing in the Frozen Foods aisle. He was towering (as usual) over a woman who looked like she'd either been sucked through a tornado, or was just frazzled beyond belief.
Something told Mabel it was the latter.
Shadow-man bent forward to say something in the woman's ear, and when he pulled back the woman was crying hysterically. "No!" she shouted, falling to her knees, eyes bloodshot and crazed, "Please, no! Death, please!"
So everyone calls him Death, Mabel realized, watching with rapt attention as a male store employee rushed up to the woman, looking bewildered. "Ma'am," he cried, kneeling next to the sobbing woman. "Are you alright? What's wrong?" he shifted to look at Mabel. "Did you see what happened?"
Snapping out of her daze, Mabel shook her head to the negative and wandered closer. "Excuse me," she called softly, "Miss, what's going on?"
Still no answer, as the woman only rocked back and forth, clutching her knees to her chest and looking like someone had ripped the world out from under her. The employee continued talking to the woman, and Mabel tore her gaze away, looking for the so-called Death.
He stood at the end of the aisle, his face grim. Mabel cocked an eyebrow in question, but he only shook his head slowly. Just as she was considering the idea of cornering him and demanding answers, Death took a step back, nodded at Mabel, and melted away.
Realizing nothing could be done, she twisted back around, returning her efforts to the woman on the floor. "Ma'am, please," she tried again, sharing a desperate look with the employee, "we can't help you if we don't know what's wrong."
As if Mabel had cast a spell, the woman stopped crying and sat up abruptly. "You can't help me," she murmured slowly, eyes wide as they soaked in some terrible realization. "Oh, God! No one can help me now. I need to—I need t-to go," she scrambled up, stumbling multiple times as she careened unsteadily out of the store.
Mabel was left with the stunned store employee, and neither said anything for several minutes. Finally, the store employee shook his head, as if clearing it of cobwebs, and asked, "What the Hell just happened?"
Gazing at him for a beat, then returning her stare to where the woman had disappeared through the front doors, Mabel wasn't sure she wanted to find out. "I have no idea." she muttered, "But I don't think it was anything good."
That statement was confirmed when, the very next day, the woman's vacant eyes and blue lips were pasted on the local news.
***
"Hey, Herman?" Mabel asked several weeks later, flipping through a stack of order forms she had yet to fill.
There was a thud in the older man's office, and then Herman careened around the corner, almost tripping several times. "Yes, Mabel, what is it?" His salt-and-pepper hair was especially disheveled, and his circular glasses laid crooked on his face.
Choosing to ignore his behavior (it was a Saturday, after all, and he was always a klutz when he was hungover from Friday night binge-drinking), she tapped her pen against the papers. "I'm trying to finish up Mr. Gruden's order, but I can't find any mustard seed powder. We're not out, are we?"
Herman tapped a hand against his chin, yawned, and then teetered to the side, barely catching himself before he fell over entirely. "What? I mean, yes. No. In the back room." He blinked hard, eyes squinted against the light.
Rolling her eyes at his behavior, Mabel snatched the back-room's key out of the register and spent the next half-hour sifting through the many stacks of unorganized boxes crammed into the small room; whenever she suggested sorting the chaos, Herman would call it a "perfectly organized mess" and insist that she leave it alone.
After finding many questionable substances that were probably not legal in any country, Mabel let out a cheer when she uncovered a container of mustard seed powder. She locked the door behind her and trotted back to the counter with a grin. "I've got it, Herman!" she called, knowing he would hear from his office, "Thanks!"
There was a grunt from in front of the register, and Mabel's brows furrowed with confusion. Peering over the obstacle, her mouth swung open at the sight: with his head slumped against the wood, Herman was slouched against the side of the counter, his face angled to the light, his eyes shut.
"Herman?" she asked frantically, scurrying around the counter and kneeling to shake his shoulder. "Are you okay?"
There was no answer, and Mabel felt the beginning of true, undiluted panic forming in her gut. Had he overdosed on something? Oh, God, how was she supposed to explain this to the hospital—or worse, the police? "Herman?" Laying a hand against his cheek, her eyes widened at the feel of his skin.
Ice cold.
Goosebumps formed on Mabel's arms, but she wasn't cold. Twisting her head so she could see over her shoulder, she wasn't surprised at Shadow-man's—Death's, she reminded herself—presence right behind her.
"He is fine," he rumbled, arms crossed over his chest and expression bored as he peered down at Herman.
Mabel shifted her gaze back to her boss. "Are you sure? Wait," her eyes narrowed, and when she returned her eyes to Death, it was to glare at him. "What did you do to him?"
A rush of air that might have been an insulted huff escaped the man's lips. "What I needed to do. He will be fine."
Coming to the conclusion that there was nothing she could do but trust Death's words, Mabel let her shoulders slump in defeat. "Fine. Why are you here, Death?"
Death's lips twitched into the beginning of a smirk. "Do not call me 'Death,' Little One." He reached a hand down to help her up, but Mabel swatted it away, standing on her own and scowling.
"Don't call me 'Little One,' Death." She fired back, crossing her arms and straightening her back to look taller. "And, besides, you're the one who told me your name was Death, so what else am I supposed to call you?"
The raspy growl that rolled from his throat didn't sound anything like a chuckle, but the slight smile (far less chilling—no pun intended—than the one he'd given the six men several days ago) on his face told her otherwise. "Aleron."
"Aleron," she repeated the word slowly, as if tasting the syllables. "Hm. Better than Death, I guess. Should I ask why you introduced yourself as Death, or do I not want to know?"
His grin turned sinister, and Mabel sucked in a sharp breath. There was no laughter in that smile. Only, well . . . death. "Most know why." He replied vaguely.
Taking an unconscious step backwards, Mabel cursed inwardly when her back hit the register. "I don't," she licked her suddenly too-dry lips, fingers clenched around the counter's rim. "I don't know why."
Aleron took a step forward to match her, chin angled downward and menacing smile replaced with an analyzing gaze. "Herman knows." Was all he confided, pulling his eyes from hers and staring instead at her hair. Mabel couldn't stop a flinch when he raised his hand, opening her eyes when she felt no impact. Instead, Aleron was fingering a strand of her dark, curly hair, his face filled with . . . awe?
The sudden invasion of her personal space had Mabel's brain short-circuiting. "Herman's n-not up for answering questions right now."
Aleron's eyes snapped back to hers, and she felt as though he was searing a hole right through her. His long fingers twisted around her hair once more, before sliding down and resting against her cheek.
Mabel squeaked at the sensation. His hand was colder than anything she'd ever felt, and shivers crawled up her spine.
"I am called Death," he leaned closer, his breaths tickling her skin, "because that is what I bring."
He came even closer, and—right before their noses would have touched—he smiled softly, then vanished entirely.
Mabel blinked.
Once. Twice. Three times. And then . . .
"Oh, crap, crap, crap, crap!"
Herman snapped upright abruptly, just as bewildered. "Mabel? What's going on? Are you alright?"
Mabel just moaned, head clutched in her hands. "I have no idea, Herman. I honestly just don't know."
***
Mabel worked every day at Herman's Herbs and Spices, and was no stranger to missing out on the social activities and other goings-on of their city; she had friends to catch her up on what she missed, and Herman let her close the store early every third Friday night so she could meet up with them at a nearby bar (and so Herman could go drinking himself, but she never mentioned that).
This night was no different, except Mabel was hoping to really, truly forget all about the strange man who had continuously been popping up in her life. Since the hair-touching incident, he'd been showing up randomly; every time he would pop up out of nowhere, stare at her, smile gently, then vanish.
In other words, she was utterly exhausted from being on edge constantly.
"So," her closest friend from elementary school, Kellan, started once they all had drinks, "Still working at the herb store, I'm guessing?" Mabel nodded, and the occupants of the table groaned, no doubt thinking about how poor she must be.
What they didn't know was that Mabel, while she often said she was flat broke, actually made more than enough money to support herself comfortably. Her salary had always been exceptionally high, and she refused to think about where exactly Herman was getting so much cash.
"Anyway," Lucy, her other close friend whom she'd met while in college, chimed in. "What have you missed . . . let's see: Gretchen finally divorced that idiot husband of hers, another Starbucks is opening down the road, I'm still single, and I am so done with this stupid antihero crime boss guy."
Mabel couldn't stop an amused smile from spreading on her lips. Lucy never failed to entertain, even if it often centered around her work life of being a police officer. "Antihero?" Kellan piped up, leaning forward to hear more and brushing a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "Is this the same guy who's been around forever?"
Lucy sighed, slumping back in her seat and looking utterly exhausted. "Yeah. This city isn't crazy dangerous or anything, thank God, but this guy just will not stop killing people. Granted, they aren't the best folks, but still—they should be in prison, not lying dead of mysterious causes in an alley by the police station. Guess that's why he's got the name, though."
Something about Lucy's words made the insides of Mabel's stomach clench with dread. "What do they call him?" she asked, entirely sure that she would regret it.
Kellan snorted with disbelief. "We really do need to get you out more, Mabs. They call him 'Death'. Ridiculous name, if you ask me, but some people just have no imagination."
Mabel wasn't listening anymore. Four words raced through her mind nonstop, trembling through her body and making her nauseous.
I am so screwed.