The Ferryman Institute (52 page)

Alice's eyes took to studying his new office. “Nice digs,” she said. “Can I sit in one of your fancy chairs?”

Oddly enough, that was what removed Charlie from his stupor. “Sure.”

“Thanks,” she said, even though she was practically sitting in
one before he'd replied. She folded her legs, crisscross, and let her hands fall in her lap. It looked grossly uncomfortable to Charlie, but it seemed to suit Alice just fine.

“So, is
how are you doing
considered classified information nowadays given your fancy new title? I'm dying to know.” She grimaced after she spoke. “Really poor choice of words just now. Sorry.”

But Charlie waved her concerns away. “No, and fine. Lots of things to keep me busy. In fact, I'm surprised the Council even let you come visit me with everything going on.”

“They didn't,” Alice replied nonchalantly. “But Cartwright might have strongly hinted at where I'd be able to find you. Besides, it's not like I'll ever be back here, so fuck it. What are they going to do, shoot me?” She let out a mock laugh. “But seriously, please don't let them shoot me. I've had enough guns pointed in my general direction to last a lifetime. Two or three, even.”

“I don't know . . . What's in it for me?”

Alice considered that for a moment. “My undying gratitude . . . ?”

“Please. I don't want anything that's undying for the rest of my mortal life.”

Mortal life.
Now, there was a phrase Charlie hadn't thought he'd ever use again in reference to himself. But it was true . . . he was mortal. Maybe not quite a normal human, per se, but not far off. It was the only thing he'd wanted for so long—not because he wanted to be a regular person, but because he wanted to escape his life as a Ferryman so desperately. So much death, so much pain . . . and now, he could finally leave—say his farewell, bow, and wait for the curtain to fall. For the first time, that was his choice to make.

But he no longer wanted that. The constructs of his life that
had been pulling his sanity apart now stood silent. In fact, Charlie was having a tough time understanding it himself. And yet there it was . . . The girl in front of him—this strange, wonderful girl—was his reminder that there was more to living than just watching it end.

“Nothing undying, huh . . .” Alice stood up from the chair and began to stroll around the room. “What about undying love?” She picked a random book from the bookshelf and began to absentmindedly thumb through it.

“Exceptions to every rule.” Charlie carefully rose to his feet, barely even wincing this time. He slowly hobbled his way over to where she was standing, book open in her hands. “Do you want to go for a walk with me?” he asked blithely, and for a moment, the past and future simply melted away and he was left to exist in just that moment.

“Around here? Won't you get in trouble for that?” Alice replied.

Charlie shrugged. “You only live once, right?”

Alice laughed, genuinely and fully, at his admittedly awful joke. Her smile seemed, for the very first time, carefree. It was what Charlie knew was lurking there all along, hidden but not forgotten. Later on in his life, he would point to that moment as when he knew things he couldn't possibly have known, but which all managed to come true anyway.

She rolled her eyes. “I swear to God, the absolute cheesiest dork
I have ever met
 . . .” She closed the book in her hands and set it aside on his bookshelf. “Sure, I'd love a tour of your office. Lead on.”

Charlie held up a single finger and limped back to his desk. “One second,” he said as he pulled a pen from the canister on his desk. With a flick, he pulled off a sticky note, scribbled a brief
message on it, then opened the binder to the very back and attached it to the folder Melissa had left for him. “All right, good,” Charlie said, and he circled back around to the door where Alice was waiting.

As he opened the door, he didn't look back at the universe floating above them in his window, at the stars flickering like lighthouses on a galactic sea, or at the poorly written note he'd left.

Charlie closed the door softly behind them, off to show Alice a glimpse of the world between the living and the dead.

A place they'd both already been.

J
ames stared at the man sitting across from him and beamed. It had been so long since he'd had a chance to interview a potential new recruit, especially one with this remarkable of a background.

“You sure I can't get you anything? Water, coffee, tea?” James asked.

The man sat, eyes glaring, and said nothing.

“Okay. No problem at all. Just perk up if you change your mind.” From the top of his desk, James pulled out a small manila folder and opened it, making a show of examining its contents even though he'd just about memorized the file at this point.

For years, James had heard rumors of a rogue Ferryman. Of course, the Institute always denied it—as well they should, given all the headaches that would cause, internally or otherwise—but James had a good nose for these things. Where there was smoke, there was fire, and he'd always gotten a whiff of fumes whenever the topic came up. Now he had confirmation of its truth.

“You know, I have to say, it's really remarkable you found this place. We're not an easy organization to find. To do it in only five years . . .” He whistled appreciatively. It was true. They were a
group that could generally only be found when they wanted to be. For this man to seek them out on his own . . . well, it only piqued James's interest that much more. “Let's just say I wouldn't want to find out what it's like to be on your bad side.” He rattled with hearty laughter.

For what seemed like the first time since he'd arrived, the man moved, leaning forward in his chair. “No,” he said flatly, “you don't.”

James smiled brightly, nodding vigorously. “Of course not, of course not.” He closed the folder and gently tossed it on his desk. With his legs crossed, he placed his hands on his knees and looked across, grinning. “So what can I do for you today, Mr. Toulouse?”

Toulouse didn't move, instead staring straight ahead. James got the feeling Toulouse was trying to stare
through
him, but he didn't mind. The newbies only ever ignored him in the beginning. They all learned not to with time.

“I'm here to speak with Death,” Toulouse said.

“Oh, exciting! Unfortunately, he's unavailable for the foreseeable future. However, I am his second-in-command if you have any questions . . . ?”

Toulouse frowned, but continued anyway. “I'd like to work here. I have . . . business in this industry that needs finishing. And please . . . call me Javrouche.”

James's grin somehow stretched even wider at this. It was just as he'd hoped. The former Inspector Javrouche, sitting right in front of him. It looked like James's sources had been right, after all. Sure, James had felt relatively confident about the man's identity after acquiring Javrouche's file from the Institute. But there was no doubt now—he was the real deal. And what a prize this could be! Here was a man who'd not only managed to make contact in only five years—five years!—but had done it all while
avoiding capture by the Ferryman Institute. At the risk of gushing a bit too much, the whole thing was downright impressive. Javrouche was
exactly
the sort of recruit James had been looking for, and he'd pretty much fallen right into his lap. Of course, the Inspector undoubtedly had some attitude issues they might need to iron out, but James never had a problem with attitudes for very long.

Javrouche's arrival also meant something James had suspected but could never prove. Now he had his proof: the Ferryman Institute had been lying to him. James
hated
being lied to. He was not the man you tried to cheat, no, sir. But there would be time to deal with that. For now, it was time to settle in his greenhorn.

“Well, that is fantastic news! We're always looking for exciting candidates here, and let me tell you, I think you've got a lot of potential, Mr. Javrouche.” James extended a well-manicured hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is James. Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Death Inc.”

W
illiam Henry Taylor Cartwright IV stood, poised motionlessly on the edge of the cliff. The gentle breeze rustled through his hair and even played with the twirled-in edges of his mustache. The last dying rays of daylight imbued the scorched earth of the canyon walls with the colors of the vanishing sun, and the sky, once a vivid blue, had been transmuted as if by some unseen alchemist into a dazzling selection of pinks and purples. Cartwright saw all this and let the beauty of it wash over him.

Then, he jumped.

As his body plummeted down into the canyon below, his thoughts drifted back to earlier that afternoon.

“I HOPE THE TEA
is up to scratch,” Charlie said as he set the cup in front of Cartwright. “We don't have any Earl Grey, but I've been told by a reliable source that this is good.”

Cartwright sipped from the small cup. It wasn't what he normally went for in the tea department, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't impressed by the beverage in front of him. “I must say, this
tea is actually rather enchanting. It's honey-vanilla chamomile, you say?” he said, before taking another sip. “Not my usual cup of tea, to very literally borrow a phrase, but wonderful all the same.”

Charlie took a sip from the bottle of beer he'd just opened. “I could serve you the worst brew of tea you've ever had and you would tell me you find it exotic and interesting.”

Though he tried to hide his grin behind the cup of tea, Cartwright doubted he'd succeeded. “I'm afraid I've not even the slightest idea what you're talking about. I'm well known in many of my circles for my brutal honesty.” Even years later, it was still a joke they both had a good laugh at.

Cartwright set down his tea and crossed his legs one over the other. They were out on Charlie's deck—Cartwright's favorite spot on the entire property, which he had no shame in saying—and the summer sun filtered through the rustling leaves of the oak trees planted in the backyard. When the chirping of the birds quieted down, which was admittedly rare at that time of the day, he could hear the creek that marked the end of the yard. He had no qualms congratulating Charlie on a job well done. It was a beautiful place for a home.

“So, my good fellow,” Cartwright said, “you've officially been our president for five years now . . .”

Charlie choked slightly on his beer at the abrupt change of topic. He coughed and sputtered for nearly half a minute afterward. “Sorry,” the former Ferryman said as he pounded his chest, “I didn't know you were here on business.”

“I'm not,” Cartwright replied, taking a sip of tea in between his statements. “I'm asking as a comrade, not a colleague.”