Death Is A Bitch

By Cate Masters

Eternity can suck when it’s all work, work, work. Death harvests souls even when they stack up faster than pancakes in an all-you-can-eat-buffet. No wonder she can’t shed the Grim Reaper rep.
As the patron angel of death and dying, Azrael works closely with Death but is dying for true intimacy. She’s the only immortal who’s ever aroused such powerful emotions in him. One taste of her leaves him needing her like humans need air and food, but will a demon’s lies leave a bad taste?
No one escapes Death – except King Sisyphus. Twice. With the help of Damien the demon, Sisyphus tries again, and she’s determined to have justice. Some say Death’s a bitch, but only when she has to be. But will the price of justice be a broken heart?
Expanded edition of previously published ebook

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cate Masters
• Release date: Jul 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311609915

Cate Masters

Dog lover. Dreamer. Writer, reader, book hoarder. Multi-published in contemporary to historical, fantasy/dark fantasy to paranormal, award-winning author Cate Masters loves a good story, and sometimes mashes genres. She also writes women’s fiction, fantasy and speculative fiction as C.A. Masterson. Visit her at https://catemasters.wixsite.com/cate-masters---c-a, or her blogs at http://paintingfirewithwords.blogspot.com and http://catemasters.blogspot.com and in strange nooks and far-flung corners of the web.

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Cate Masters on Smashwords

Death Is A Bitch

Copyright © 2016 by Cate Masters

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To Gary, always. Blue skies ahead, babe.

Chapter One

Death stepped from the shadowy curtain of night along a deserted stretch of road. She lowered her head scarf, and stardust glinted in the black hair that dipped to her waist.

The crescent moon hanging low in the sky cast a pallid light over the mangled hunk of cherry-red metal that used to be a sweet Z240 sports car. Inside, a thirtyish man slumped behind the wheel, the air bag deflating away from his near-lifeless body. Blood oozed from a nasty gash to his head. Should have worn his seat belt. Too late for life lessons, though. Those weren’t her expertise anyway. Just the opposite.

Beyond the stand of trees along the road, leaves crackled in the underbrush. Her senses on high alert, Death gripped the silver charm bracelet on her wrist. She poised her finger poised near the hidden latch, ready to release a stream of lightning.

A deer. The animal stilled, its wide eyes fixed on her.

Seeing nothing else, she continued with a modicum of caution. Taking souls didn’t exactly make her popular, and after so many millennia, she should’ve been used to it. The bad jokes. The Halloween parodies. A scythe? Please. She’d never used cheap props. Only the finest weaponry. No mortal ever suspected the intricately designed baubles adorning her bracelet were anything more than ornamental.

The curves of the sports car caught the faint light, and she ran a gilded nail along its hood. She wouldn’t mind taking one of these babies for a spin. In its former condition, of course, before this guy took the curve too fast and wrapped it around a tree.

Humans. Always rushing everywhere, sometimes straight into Death’s arms.

Hearing the man’s moan, she released her grip on her weapon. This one would give her no trouble. She fingered his blond hair, matted with blood. What a shame. So young, and so handsome. He’d leave at least one lover grieving, no doubt.

His eyes fluttered open. When he looked up, recognition intensified the flicker of life in his eyes.

She needed no introduction. Like every dying soul, he knew her, unmistakable in the glimmering black filament gown, its folds revealing a glimpse into infinity.

The stilettos usually earned a second glance, the four-inch heels glistening like fool’s gold. The butterfly tattoo spanning her upper arm likewise drew curious looks, which inevitably changed to horror when the dying recognized the face imprinted within that colorful ink: their own.

Some were even glad to see her.

Not this one. He had denial written all over his blood-streaked face.

No, please. His whisper quaked like every other part of him, except his stare, reaching into her, seeking redemption. Unfortunately, it wasn’t hers to give.

Such desperation. Much as she hated to, she had to break it to him. It’s time.

With a groan, he shifted, like a futile attempt to get away. But I’m about to make a killing on my IPO. Things are finally going right for me.

That doused any sympathy she had. Money? Had he no better argument for staying alive?

She had her own killing to make. I don’t make the rules, I follow them. She reached for him.

Shrinking away, he begged. Please. Can’t we make a deal?

Suppressing a sigh, she folded her arms. Oh no. You had to say it.

Harvesting this soul wouldn’t be so easy after all. Intentionally or not, he’d summoned an intervener. Now there’d be a senseless debate, and with a full schedule ahead, she wasn’t up for what awaited.

She counted down: three, two… A thumping bass beat grew louder, and mingled with the squeal of tires turning too fast on the curves.

A groan escaped. Here he came, right on time.

Another sports car roared toward them, the Stones’ Sympathy for the Devil blasting into the night. The brakes squealed as the car slid to a stop inches from her. A whiff of sulfur suffused the balmy night air.

She knew who sat behind the wheel. Musky cologne never masked his stench.

His boot hit the gravel with a crunch, and he sauntered toward her.

Hello Damien. Outside of work, she enjoyed running into him. One of the few beings older than herself, he was also one of the few who could make her feel girlish.

Damien kissed her cheek. So nice to see you, D. You’re looking fabulous, as always.

Pleasure flushed warmth through her. The daemon knew how to lay on the charm. She hated to admit that she could say the same about him. Time immemorial hadn’t faded his chiseled features, or his washboard abs, if that tight silky shirt gave any indication. Charcoal-colored, to match his pitch eyes. They set off his layered black hair. Stubble lined his strong jaw.

She didn’t have to fake her smile, but she still stepped between him and the wreck. Always a pleasure. Except when you interfere with my work.

Damien gave a mock frown. Our work, sweet cheeks. And might I say they’re looking extra sweet tonight? His tongue rimmed his grinning lips as he stared at her derriere.

Rather than softening her, his false praise had the opposite effect.

She arched a brow. No, you may not, unless you want me to hit you a sexual harassment complaint. Let’s get on with it, shall we? At this rate, they could be there all night.

Have a heart. The victim—what’s your name again, dude? He eased around her toward the car window as if speaking to an old friend. If this human had any sense left at all, he’d never count Damien in that category.

Hope lit the doomed man’s face. Alan. Alan Archer.

Impatient, she folded her arms over her chest. Nice ploy. Humanize the soul so she’d feel sorry for him. What a waste of time. Having existed an eternity, Death couldn’t relate to the mortal.

Besides, she already knew his name was Alan Archer. What sort of soul taker would she be if she didn’t?

The daemon snapped his fingers. Alan, yes. Great guy. And he’s about to make a fortune. Damien’s body clenched at the last word as if racked by an orgasm. Not that the daemon had any need of money, but he did have a reputation of spending it lavishly while partying in the mortal world.

That’s good news for your loved ones, Alan. She hated to draw out this charade when the guy looked so pathetic. I hope you left a will so they’ll be able to enjoy the wealth. Impatient, she drummed golden fingernails on her crossed arms. Not the tacky gold polish sold in drug stores, but true ancient gold. A trick Cleopatra had taught her.

She tensed when Damien snaked an arm around her waist.

Come on, D. We can come to some sort of arrangement, can’t we? He playfully touched the delicate diamond pierced through her nostril. Alan wants to stick around to taste the sweet fruits of his labors. Right, Alan?

Arrangement? Alan visibly weakened by the moment. He was losing blood fast, and the silver thread connecting his soul to his body thinned to near invisible.

A chuckle lent the daemon a good-natured demeanor. Death hoped the gash in Alan’s head hadn’t impaired his judgment.

Absolutely. Sign over your soul to me, and I’ll make certain you’re around a good long time.

Death tried not to roll her eyes. The daemon really laid it on thick.

Damien’s hand slipped a little low on her backside for comfort, so she smacked it away.

Stop it, Damien. A double-edged warning, one for his overbearing professional side and one for the horny personal side.

Hopefully Alan would have more sense than to fall for it. But then, in these situations, most people gave little consideration to the proportion between their short life during which they’d enjoy their ill-gotten gains, and eternity, when they’d pay the price for them.

Damien gazed into her eyes, looking almost angelic. Death knew better. Sure, the daemon was always fun to flirt with, but piss him off and watch how fast he changed. He’d morph into a fanged gargoyle, a two-story python coiled to strike, or a walking mass of rotted, stinking flesh. Whereas she didn’t go in for special effects, Damien loved them.

The daemon leaned close to the dying man. Imagine it, Alan. You lounging beside the pristine water of your infinity swimming pool in the back yard of your mansion. Beautiful women in every chaise, begging to apply more sun block to your back, your… whatever.

Yeeaah, came Alan’s feeble reply as he looked off into the distance, no doubt envisioning the scene, with some extras thrown in to sweeten the deal.

Great. Now there’d be no talking the man out of it.

Enough, she told Damien, and extended her hand toward Alan. It’s time.

Damien grabbed her wrist. Not so fast. Give him a second to make his decision. He has the right, remember. His canines glinted when his smile turned predatory. His grasp loosened when she teasingly pressed against him, making her aware of his growing erection. One of his few assets, if all the chatter about him could be believed. Not that she cared to find out for herself.

With a sultry pout, she murmured, Careful, Damien. You don’t want to rouse my wrath. She pressed a metallic nail to his neck, leaving a thin trail of dark blood.

He sucked air through his teeth. Thrusting her away, he hissed a curse in an ancient tongue.

Easily regaining her balance, she resisted a hiss herself. Such high theatrics. But then, most daemons played it to the hilt.

Don’t reveal your true self to Alan just yet, Damien. You’ll scare the poor boy away.

Or Alan might expire before he had the chance to decide. Then they’d all be in for a protracted session with the High Court of Pre-Judgment. If people thought the legal system on Earth a mess, a glimpse at the otherworldly proceedings would make them more appreciative. Normally, she was cool as a corpse on a morgue slab, but lawyers in both realms incited fury, even in her.

There was one way to hasten this process. She fingered her bracelet and found the silver feather. One press of the charm signaled for help. Within the silver shape was a part of a real feather from the one angel she knew she could rely on.

Straightening his collar, Damien smoothed his hair and visibly calmed. All sweetness, he clenched his teeth. If you haven’t scared him out of his wits first.

Fuming, she waited a beat before answering. If eternity had taught her anything, it was to bide her time. I’d hate for you to waste your precious time. This man’s soul must cross over. She bared her shoulder to reveal the tattoo on her upper arm. True to form, it bore a perfect likeness to Alan.

Damien’s eyes twitched as he glared. That means nothing.

You argue with the Decree? Alan’s image served as irrefutable proof, and the daemon knew it.

But already, the tattoo was beginning to change. As each mortal passed their Earthly expiration date, a new layer was added to the image. Even now, it shifted as new souls took shape in the tattoo behind Alan’s. Each new layer added more pressure beneath her skin, urging Death to retrieve them. Sometimes the tattoo felt like a curse, the weight of so many souls a burden too heavy to bear.

Damien narrowed his eyes and smirked. Alan invoked his right to challenge the Decree.

So tedious. Sure, he’d delayed the process. And her schedule. Oh gods, she hated to think about that. Her nails dug into her palm. Damien…

Her argument fell mute when the darkness shimmered blue and purple as if the Aurora borealis had descended to Earth. A column of dazzling white sparkles expanded within the colors. From within the light, a stunning figure emerged, his immense wings folding behind him.

Azrael," she said on a breath. Thank goodness. The only one who could intercede in this mess, and right on time. The one immortal whose work schedule was every bit as crazy as Death’s, yet he always answered her calls for help.

My, he looked more handsome in moonlight. Something about being on the blue planet made immortals appear even more beautiful than they did in the Great Beyond. Maybe because in the other realm, everyone appeared perfect, so their beauty was nothing special. Once they landed on Earth, they became rock stars. And if Damien was hot, Azrael was a wildfire engulfing the blue planet.

Abso-freaking-lutely wonderful, Damien muttered, then snapped his fingers in front of her rapturous face. Hello? Focus, will you? We have a situation to resolve.

If Alan minded being referred to as a situation, he didn’t complain. With his chin resting against the open car window, he looked like an abandoned puppy waiting for someone to rescue him. He didn’t ask who the players were in this bizarre little comedy. Perceptive guy.

Don’t raise Alan’s hopes, Damien. Though she knew full well that the man could cede his soul to Damien, damning himself for eternity. Such things happened, not frequently, but enough to shake her job security ever so slightly.

Slow and graceful, Azrael strode to them, the essence of controlled power. You have nothing to fear, Alan, unless you’ve already committed your eternal soul to the everlasting fires of damnation.

Death added, Then you’ll really be screwed.

Alan’s mouth gaped.

Damien winced, and moved in front of the man to block his view. "Pay no attention to them. You’ll