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  Kevin Solomon Missal

  Acknowledgments

  To start with, I want to thank God.

  I wouldn’t have completed my novel if it weren’t for my parents, Leslie and Jyotsna Missal, who always believed in me and supported me.

  I’d like to thank my brother, Ryan Mario Cardoza, who not only helped me with my novel in giving me views of what to write, but also helped me in deciding the

  cover for it.

  I want to especially thank Pawan Pandey, who helped me to give a shape to the novel itself and to find the loopholes in it.

  A sincere thanks also goes out to my friends, as well.

  Wr

  eck

  Caspar Socrates was going to die soon if he didn’t do something about it. His face had gone chalk white and his bronze eyes were now pale. He bit his scarred lips and pressed against the lower vertebro-sternal rib where a long gash oozed blood - thick, fleshy, and dark.

  Poison...That was what the knife had been dipped into before it pierced his diaphragm, searing bones and flesh.

  I am poisoned, he thought.

  Shock and fright eluded him. A profound numbness was now present. The numb truth that life was leaving the mortal confines of his body.

  He shrugged out of his trench coat and slid his t-shirt over his head, revealing his bare chest. The wound was threaded and bloody. The gash wasn’t what caught his attention. He stared at the long, spinning blue lines spiraling across his chest. They curved upward like a ferocious venomous river toward his throat. The poison was infecting each and every cell.

  Antidote? He had none. Nor did he have any idea as to what to do.

  Except...Except... His eyes narrowed as he lost himself in thought. Yes! Yes!

  His nose flared slightly as he smiled. With one hand pressed over the wound, he made his way toward the bookshelf, slowly tracing the leather-bound collection with the other hand. He brushed the sweat off of his brow and withered in desperation. There was a scripture here somewhere. He knew it.

  Ten minutes. That’s how long he had before the blue vines reached his brain and sucked all the fluids into their ferocious wombs. He would then succumb to a deep, deathly slumber.

  The yellowish tint of the papers, collected and tied by a silver string, was tucked inside a double-bound dictionary. With shaking fingers, he withdrew them and found the summoning ritual of the fourth Horseman, Death.

  Seven minutes.

  Can’t someone borrow me more time? Anguished, Caspar cursed.

  He found what he was looking for within the scripture’s pages. Drops of red clambered along his waist. He dipped two fingers within the wound and slowly traced the sigil, craftily and with no hesitation, upon the oil-tainted wall. He pulled himself back to examine his handiwork. A pentagram in between several runes with stars around it now lay before him.

  Six Minutes.

  He began chanting in Latin. “Cum aperuissetsigillum quartumaudivivocemquarti animalisdicentem: Veni! Etvidiet ecceequus pallidus; Nomensedebat Morset inferussequebatureuma tergo. Data est illis potestassuperquartam partemterraeinterficeregladio fameet peste, et a bestiisterrae.”

  Nothing happened. Seconds went by. The poison was spreading. The light blue streaks were getting thicker. It was just a matter of the spell being right.

  He looked at the sigil again to see if something went wrong. Everything was perfect. The pentacle was subtly drawn with mortal blood. The runes and the devil’s mark were exactly what they should be. Even the incantation, which he’d said in Latin, was right to the point with spotty pronunciation. Yet what was wrong?

  Four Minutes.

  Damn!

  “This better be important, mortal,” a sly, threatening voice echoed from behind him.

  He turned around to find a tall, lean man with a Scottish descent staring back at him. His face was angular and tight with round, oval emerald eyes encircled with eyeliner. His hair was a deep brown with a mixture of black, sticking up like lightning bolts. His chest was bare and he wore a large white overcoat that consistently changed its color from ashy to pale to green along with burgundy-colored pants and white slippers on his long feet. Piercings and tattoos of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs marked his body.

  Caspar glanced at Death’s staff. It was long, broad, and gold-plated. The length and slight sharp turn of the staff made him think. He had seen that kind of shape somewhere, though he couldn’t remember. The memory soon surfaced within his mind with crystal clarity. It was in a shape of a was sceptre. The only difference was a white gem was attached to the end of the twisted handle.

  Truth be told, he didn’t expect Death to have piercings and eyeliner on his face. As far as he knew, Death was the oldest entity to have lived on the face of this universe. Older than time itself. He knew he shouldn’t have thought about Death, then and there. He had more important issues on his hand.

  “I am going to die!” he cried with agony.

  “I can see that, Mortal,” Death replied, his voice emotionless. His look was unnerving. “What does that have to do with me?”

  “I need to live.”

  Death cracked a smile. “You are not the first person to say that.”

  Caspar hesitated. It may have been because of the pain, which didn’t let up so he could say what he needed to say. With force and fury, the words burst from his lips: “I...h – have heard . . .” he coughed loudly. “You are the only...ah...person who can help me.”

  “Of course,” Death mused. “After all, I am Death.”

  “What do you want? What should I present to you as an offering?” Caspar snarled with impatience.

  “I am not a stupid animal.” Death moved forward, his thin lips twitching with amusement. “Aren’t you...? Well...you are Caspar Socrates, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have heard about you.” He sensed that Death was up to something. Death’s green eyes were sparkling and he wore a mischievous smile upon his lips. “All right. I’m ready to help.”

  Caspar narrowed his eyes. One minute. The blue streaks of venom raced across his cheek, spreading down his chin and up to his forehead. He fell to his knees, hands shaking, lips trembling.

  “Why t – the s – s – sudden change of t – thought?” “Would you rather hear an explanation than live?” “Okay. Proceed.”

  Caspar surrendered. He couldn’t guess as to what the manipulative motives behind Death’s sudden agreement to let him live were, but he didn’t care. For now. He only resented the fact. He didn’t want to die. Not now, at least.

  “Before I help you, I need you to know that you will fulfill a contract with me. I will grant you rebirth and in return, I will need something from you. I will not tell you now, but after you are saved, your questions shall be answered. So, before

  anything, do you really want to live? Be sure, for you are going to have a deal with Death.”

  “Yes, I am sure.” Caspar felt his nerves explode, his heart breaking. “I want to

  live.”

  Five seconds. Four. Three. Two.

  “Good,” Death touched his blue swollen forehead. “Because you are going to make a deal, Mr. Socrates, I should say . . .” he paused. The sparkling within his eyes faded and the hollowness of his malevolence was visible. “For everything, there’s a price.”

  Without another thought, Caspar collapsed.

  ***

  Caspar’s eyes shot open. The rending pain had drained from his body. He didn’t know why or how, but he felt quite energetic. He pulled himself to his feet and stared at his pale hands, touching his cheeks, neck, lips, nose, and ears with disbelief. It was unimaginably strange to find himself standing there alive and well. His hand slid across the area where the gash had been. He touched h
is skin, slowly, hoping to find warm, oozy flesh. Instead, he found the gentleness of his cold flesh.

  His eyes fell upon a corpse lying next to his booted feet. It was one he was familiar with. Why would he not be? It was his own body that lay there, tortured and convulsed because of the venomous blue ink coursing through his veins.

  He couldn’t believe that his dead body was lying there in front of his eyes. He was dead. Yet he was also standing there in spirit form. He never used to cry, but right now, with his being dead, he didn’t care if a few tears tumbled from his eyes.

  “You are such a wimp,” Death replied, his voice interrupting his thoughts. He turned to face Death. He was the same as ever with his glossy hair and

  luminous green eyes. “You said I wasn’t going to die!” he bickered as his bronze skin gleamed.

  “Oh, shut up, Mortal!” he replied and pushed the nineteen-year-old boy gently, almost like a fatherly pat. “You are not dead. You are just gone. Well...you’re in a coma, so to speak. You are neither dead, nor alive.”

  Caspar narrowed his eyes. It was called Limbo, a neither dead, nor alive state. Limbo is a way of communicating with people who had died whose eidolons and spirits walked the face of earth, unsatisfied and unreconciled with their death. They wish to stay on Earth.

  That means . . .

  He moved over to the window and saw souls walking aimlessly down the streets. They were many, almost twenty, glancing at each other, swollen and broken down.

  “Those are all . . .”

  “Yes, I know. The ones who are neither dead, nor alive,” Death quipped. Caspar noted Death’s playful expression. “Like me. Boring!” he whispered,

  frowning. “So what is this all about?”

  “For the love of me, you were poisoned. You were almost going to die. That poison was rare. It was hard for me to find its cure, but I did. I cured you, though the healing process is a bit...slow. You are in Limbo until the process completes.” He made his way toward the sofa and made himself comfortable. “And yes, since we have some time, shall we discuss the formalities of our contract? That would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

  Caspar ran a hand through his thick, curly hair. He said ‘yes’ to something he didn’t know anything about. But then, he would have died without Death’s help. He didn’t like owing favors. Nor did he like owing things to anyone. Now was one of those times.

  “Going against the contract would fairly be of no use, I assume?”

  “You can’t cheat Death.” He smiled and scoffed. “I would snap my fingers and you would turn into dust.”

  “I saw. You were somewhat happy by the fact when you . . .”

  He narrowed his thin, golden eyes and ‘recognized’ Caspar. Death smiled. “Guilty.” He waved his hand about. “I have heard rumors about your past

  endeavors. They really fascinate me.”

  “Rumors?” Caspar spat the word in disgust. “What?”

  “Rumors are like poison,” Caspar muttered.

  Death’s smile turned cool and indifferent. He pulled out a small shadowed teal-colored scroll out of his pocket. He gave it to Caspar. “This is the contract. You have to sign at the end.”

  “I am not gonna sign!” Caspar responded. “Until you tell me what is in it.” “You will be my executor and will perform duties on Earth for me.

  Essentially, you will find and hunt necessary creatures. You will be the fixer.” Caspar had a hard time in understanding the part where he was going to be a

  fixer. However, he did grasp the concept to what an executor was. “I already do that. Hunting. Why you want me to do what I already do?”

  “Oh, no, boy,” Death replied. “This would not be an ordinary hunt for you. That would involve what you call ‘mythical beings’ like the Kraken and Anubis. It

  would include vicious creatures that live in darkness and come from other realms. No ghosts and mummified zombies, though.”

  His eyes glinted in the light as he assessed Death. He hummed beneath his breath, bitter thoughts racing through his head as he tried to think of what to say. He could back off and die, but he didn’t want that. Not now.

  With no other option available to him, he grabbed the quill out of Death’s hands to sign the contract. He didn’t ask as to why Death was letting him live in order to work for him. Granted, he did want to know the reason. He was curious, after all. Nevertheless, he scrawled his signature across the parchment.

  Death examined it and gave him a crispy, cold smirk. “Well, it’s done.” Caspar remained quiet. It was the best thing to do right now. Death, with a

  queasy expression upon his face, hauled himself up with the help of his gemmed rod. “Why haven’t you asked for a reason?”

  “Because I know you won’t give me one,” Caspar replied.

  “You are wrong about that. Why wouldn’t I tell you?” Death winked. “As you are now my right hand man, I am obliged to tell you everything.” He glanced at Caspar’s muscular chest. “Get dressed. We are going to my palace.”

  “For what?”

  “For the reason, boy! I have a purpose!” His eyes were full of gentle brusqueness. “You must know why I am doing this, because if you don’t, everything you will do for me would not matter much to you. Like my intentions, I need someone to share that purpose with me, even though it will be against his will.”

  Caspar pulled on a blue silk shirt and a coat, buttoning the front. It was a surprise that he could wear clothes while in spirit form. Yet he was in Limbo and that somehow made his apparition have a physical touch. He brushed his hair to tidy it up.

  “Behind every action, there’s a purpose. Everyone has,” Death said. “Not me,” Caspar replied.

  “We both know that’s not quite true.” His cheeky, sleek smile was devoid of emotion and humor. It was a hollow gesture. “You hunted creatures. There is a reason behind why you do it. Every lunacy has a past, as does yours.” He stepped toward Caspar, sniffing and clenching his jaw as he inhaled his fear.

  “Something...something is there. You hide it well. Behind that cold exterior, boy, you have the heart of a child. Something made you become like this. It’s made you do what you do right now. It’s dark, too.” Death’s pupils shimmered, his gaze unflinching beneath Caspar’s hard look.

  “Your past...it’s dark. It’s confusing.” Death stepped back and laughed loudly. “But then, doesn’t everyone have a frightening past? Yours is just...well, more frightening, that’s all.”

  Caspar’s lips thinned to a tight line. He clasped his hands behind his back and said, “I am ready. You said you wanted to tell me why you are all doing this, so let’s get this out of the way.”

  Death smiled, pleased with his determination. “Oh, yes. Yes, follow me.”

  ***

  Death hadn’t brought his bike with him. When he doesn’t run from one place to another in a blink of an eye, he’d always use his white stickered bike. Today, however, he didn’t have it with him. Being a Horseman, the bike was like his horse, one with an engine.

  Death informed Caspar that his palace was in Neitherworld. It was a no man’s land. It was where the souls rest in peace. It was Death’s homeland, his palace, his eternal dynasty.

  Throwing himself into a purple-colored vortex, Death made his way toward a portal and waved at Caspar to follow. The portal looked as if it was made of vicious colors, each running and chasing each other. Stepping through it, he found himself within a dark and glittery passage which had only a descent. No ascent was present, whatsoever.

  Echoes of the dead were heard as they walked along. There were yells and curses and painful shrieks. Caspar walked behind Death, carefully counting steps. Death, on the other hand, was reciting verses of ancient, Greek poets.

  “Sorry about the souls, Death said. “They always are really...you know, er...troubled.”

  “Oh, it’s perfectly all right,” Caspar replied, his voice full of thick sarcasm. The stairs ended and Caspar set foot upon the cold floor of the long h
allway.

  Death walked silently along their dim surroundings, tapping his rod as he moved along. At the end of the hall, Caspar soon realized that he was in another place altogether. He could feel the aura permeating throughout. It was hard and troubling as it flew across his face.

  The place resembled a cave, a humongous cave. It had skulls scattered around the corners and the edges with jaws opened and smelling foul. At the end of the cave was a throne made completely of bones. Standing with bows and hands clasped in front of them were several suited men and women. They all looked formal, tidy, and tough and were not uttering a single word between them. Briefly, Caspar wondered who they were.

  As if he’d read his mind, Death said, “They are reapers. My workers.” “Why do you live in a cave?”

  “This is a palace. It alters its appearance according to what you perceive. In other words, you are seeing what you want to see. Right now, you are seeing a cave. For me, this is a white, greenish palace with huge pillars and shiny floors. Everyone has a different eye, don’t you think?”

  Caspar didn’t say anything. His eyes narrowed as he studied everything around him, his hands behind his back. Death waved at him to follow and moved deeper into the cave to transverse another subterranean passage. He trudged behind him, trying not to trip on anything. They reached a small room. Unlike the other, it had a polished floor and was sealed from all sides except the entrance. Two reapers with tight pale skin appeared, silent as a doorknob, staring blankly at the walls around them.

  Death entered the room with Caspar in tow. He didn’t expect any surprises there. Yet standing in front of a twenty-foot tall hourglass, surprise was a mild word to even whisper. It was rimmed in gold from the top to bottom with bronze-colored sands inside of it. The sand was dripping slowly, though there was something unusual about its aura. Caspar took note of the cracks forming around the hourglass.