“You should not see me,” said the dark figure wrapped in black robes, his face concealed behind a veil of solid shadow.
“Leave now,” I commanded, even though my voice shook. Not because I feared for myself, but because I knew who he was—what he was—and why he was here. “You’re not welcome.”
“I am your guest nonetheless,” said the dark figure, his tenor low and raw, rough and ragged, that of a monster with no soul.
“You said you are death,” I snarled, “but my nephew… he is not dead.”
“I said I am thehandof death,” corrected the monster. “And… he will be soon.”
“He cannot die!” I snapped, trying—and failing—to keep my volume down so as not to wake Phineas. “Devil. Iorderyou to leave.”
“Send me away,” said the ghoul, “but know that will change nothing. I will return for him later. I do not bring death. I am simply the courier.”
“You lie.”
“To what aim?”
“You cannot take him from me,” I growled.
“I must.”
“Can I not assume his place?” I asked, pleading now, for in truth, what could I, a mortal man, do to stop this creature? “Can’t you leave him and take me instead?”
“It is not your time.”
“He is but six and I am three and thirty,” I argued. “My time should come before his.”
“That’s not how it works,” said my oppressor, his tone infuriatingly gentle—likeIwas the true child in this situation.
“Then howdoesit work? Where will you take him? What is to become of him?”
“You ask me questions I cannot answer.”
“Cannot,” I challenged, “or will not?”
“The answers are mysteries to me as well,” said the specter, spreading one skeletal hand, then the terrible figure took a step toward the bed. I darted to stand in his way, my arms out as if that could do anything to keep this nightmare at bay, or Phineas’s spirit from his cold grip.
“Leave him be,” I said. “I told you. I will take his place.”
“There is no substitution. He is Fated.”
Again, he started forward, that scythe blade gleaming, but I backpedaled, keeping myself between him and the bed, him and my poor nephew. “Fated for what?”
“You must see me,” said the ghoul, “because of the child. So often they see me. As do those close enough to the young to truly understand them. A rare quality. Perhaps you are Fated, too…”
“Please?” I said, because begging was the only tactic I had left. “There is no way? I will do anything—perform any task, traverse any realm, perish myself—if you say it will spare him.”
The specter lifted his head, peering at me through that darkness, his face hidden in the gloom but then, just for the scarcest moment, faintly visible.
“There is…oneway,” said the creature. “But I hesitate to offer it. Be your answer yes or no… the price merely to consider is high—let alone the payment to accept.”
“What is it?” I insisted. “Tell me now.”
“It lies within my power to grant you a life,” said the monster. “One to spare. A single one—even a Fated—on the condition you agree… to take my place.”
“Your place?” I half asked, half huffed, the idea as terrifying as it was unthinkable. At least for the span of one fleeting moment.
“I have offered this trade a handful of times before,” said the wraith, “but no one has ever agreed. The burden of their refusal, what that refusal cost them, then became theirs to bear until their own deaths. So know that I do not offer lightly.”
