O Death

Ghost feels stupid in his tie-dyed T-shirt and torn jeans, for the first time in his life he feels stupid because of his clothes. He should be dressed in black silk and lace, his hair should be dyed black and his eyes should be circled by black, too.

At the same time, clothes would not make him more prepared for the meeting. Only more appropriate.

“Sit.” The tone is polite, but impossible to refuse, so Ghost slides down on the chair. He draws a shaky breath, fingering the hem on his T-shirt. His fair hair falls in his face, veiling his pale blue eyes from the intrusive gaze of the person sitting opposite him. Yet so, you can't hide anything from Death; Ghost can't either.

“You are not scared of me, Ghost,” Death speaks calmly, making the boy look up. “That is unusual. But then again, you see me, which is unusual too.”

Ghost isn't sure what to reply. At first he felt something he thought was fear, but he realised it was just respect. The overwhelming feeling of respect for the creature sitting across him, a creature who could destroy the world with a snap of his fingers. A creature that could take all gods Ghost ever heard about and kill them like bugs. There is power all around Death, an aura of incredible, undefeatable power that makes goosebumps appear on Ghost's skin. Yet all Death can bring is dying and Ghost is familiar with that.

“Dying is not scary,” he replies eventually. Dying is a lot of things; sometimes bloody, dirty and terrible, leaving imprints of pain and agony that Ghost's mind collects like pebbles and stores them, useless and heavy to carry around. Sometimes dying is clean and peaceful. Ghost remembers when his grandmothes died. He was nine and already knew far too much about this to be scared. It was quick, leaving a whisp of air and strong smell of herbs.

Death looks almost surprised by the answer. He nods. “Unusual,” he says softly, leaning back in the chair. His hands are resting on the table; Ghost's eyes notice a ring on his finger. The boy waits for a moment, but Death doesn't seem to want to say more about the subject.

“Am I dying?” Ghost interrupts the silence then. Death has heard the question often, but this time there is no panic swirling between the words, no desperation or fear. It's a matter-of-fact question by a boy with a brilliant mind sensitive to the future and the past who would like to know the answer.

Death smiles. “No,” he says then.

This time it's Ghost that looks surprised, “I'm not? Then why are you here?” The instant the surprise is replaced by fear, terrible, gut-wrenching fear. Ghost is still not scared of Death, but he is terrified that Death came to collect someone else's soul, the soul of someone who lives with Ghost and comforts him when the demons drive the boy to tears in the middle of the night. “Not Steve, right?” he stutters.

The smile is still on Death's face. He doesn't reply for a moment, watching Ghost pale eyes widened in fear, but picks his walking stick and palms the handle. “Maybe there is something scary about dying in the end, isn't it?”

Ghost wants to get up and run to the bedroom where Steve is sprawled on the bed, empty beer bottles scattered on the floor. He wants to lie next to Steve, their bodies touching, and listen to Steve's snores and feel Steve's elbow pressing in his side. He wants to beg Death to not take Steve, even though he knows it would be a useless thing to do. Ghost's grandmother taught him enough about natural order of the world and Ghost knows better than to mess with it.

The window on the living room bursts into thousands of tiny pieces and Death disappears from Ghost for a moment. Three figures appear in the room instead, dressed in expensive black, their hair dyed and their skin pierced with little hoops. Their smiles are wide and their teeth are filed sharp.

Ghost recognises them. He doesn't know their names, but he recognises the green-eyed devil with a purple, green and gold strand adorning the veil of his silky black hair. He recognises the half-healed wounds on his face; the wounds that Steve's baseball bat caused barely two hours ago.

He recognises the revenge and murder that is showing bright in the green orbs. The vampires are back to get revenge.

“You knew we would come, wouldn't you, my pretty seer?” Zillah practically purrs and Ghost shivers. He steps back, which only makes the vampires grin even more. One of them, Ghost doesn't know his name, screams like some wild animal on a hunt. The prey is in front of them, scared and helpless. They won't be hungry tonight; they step closer like one man.

Ghost feels Steve's presence before the raven-haired boy storms in the room in a haze of fury and alcohol. Four shots are heard; Ghost doesn't know where Steve got the weapon or how he even knew they have unwanted visitors. Two of the bullets hit one of the nameless vampires in his head and his chest; he crumbles down like a card house. One bullet hits the wall and remaining one hits Zillah in his chest. Straight through his heart. The light behind the wild green eyes flickers and dies and he falls next to the first vampire. The last one stops, bewildered, but before he can react, Steve is there and the kitchen knife is driven through the vampire's heart.

Ghost is shaking. He turns to look at Steve who is panting, staring at three bodies on their floor; Ghost can feel the confusion that starts to replace the anger.

Steve looks up, and straight through Death who is suddenly standing between them, leaning against the polished walking stick. He doesn't say anything, because there is nothing to be said. Relief spreads through Ghost's body; he can feel the vampires' anger stabbing at his mind, its imprint permanent in the living room, but he doesn't care.

He takes a few quick strides and wraps his arms around Steve. The smell of beer and sweat and adrenaline fills his nostrils, the smell of Steve; and his thoughts, tangled mantra of you're -here's and don't-leave-me's.

In the corner of his eye Ghost can see Death lean forward and touch something even Ghost can't see. In a moment, there is no trace of vampires he can feel. No trace that could not be removed with soap and good deal of scrubbing.

As Ghost clutches on Steve and Steve clutches on Ghost, it is only thankfullness Ghost feels.