Death's Apprentice

16

Water rushed around my ankles, soaking my shoes and socks. I stared at Death with my arms crossed. Squatting in the creek, he poked the rocky bottom with a stick. Half of his cloak floated in the stream, making me glad that mine barely reaches my mid-thigh.

"Care to explain why we're standing in the middle of this creek? Or are you just going to ignore me?"

"Ignoring you seems like a safe option," Death said. He continued to turn over rocks and move around leaves.

"Death."

He stood and looked at me, tossing the stick downstream. "Remember what I said about the people who Life made immortal?"

"The fact that she does that or that it's hard for you to track them down?"

"Both." He sighed. "This is the last place I found one of them. It was over a century ago, but there might be some trace of her. Something I can use to find her."

"And we care about her why?"

Death rolled his eyes. "First of all, I get to kill them. That will help the balance get back to normal. Second, Life keeps wards around her dimension and she gave a key to one of her immortals. We can't get my scarf back without that key."

"What about your scythe?" I asked as I tightened my grip on mine. Everytime we would need to travel somewhere, Death would have my scythe in his hand before I could blink, and I would be left holding a hoe or a rake. Death said he could spare a little energy and give them the power to reap souls. I would raise an eyebrow and whack him with whatever I was holding.

"Yeah, that too." He flippantly waved a hand. "For now, we need to track down one Miss Harper Evans. That lady's been alive since the fourteenth century. And she's not even the oldest one."

I couldn't imagine how horrible the lady would have to look, being almost, if not at least, seven hundred years old. Her body would have had to be some sort of living skeleton. Her eyes would be sunken, her hair would be thin, and her skin would be sagging. She was probably being kept on display at a museum, roaming the hallways at night.

Death bent back down, and he reached his hand into the water. I stood there, watching as he dug through years and years of buildup. When he pulled his hand out, a worn, muddy ribbon dangled from it.

I thought he would've been happy. Even after he rinsed it off in the stream, the ribbon looked ancient. One end was in complete tatters, frayed and faded, while the other end was intact and held a rich, saturated blue.

Instead he sighed. The ribbon disappeared into one of his cloak's countless interior pockets. "I need a coffee."

"Do I need to remind you that you forced me to crawl through a cat door to make you coffee?"

"You spilled it. Besides, I need some good coffee." Once again my scythe was in his hand. I growled high in my throat and started hitting him with the rusty hoe in my hand.

"Stop stealing and just ask!"

"Why do you keep hitting me with garden utensils?!"

"Why do you keep giving me garden utensils?"

Death dodged my next strike. He lunged forward, his gloved hand latching onto the edge of my cloak, and he swung the scythe.

Booths lined the walls and high tables were scattered around the floor. An elderly couple sat across from each other, the husband tapping his spoon against the rim of his mug. The scent of coffee and baked goods swelled around me. A smile settled over my face. It was almost like the one across from the movie theater, but with more of a small town vibe.