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Slight Of Hand
KAY ELLE PARKER
Chapter One
SETH
Whistling under his breath, Seth stepped from the portal without missing a beat, merging into the pedestrian-clogged bustle of 5th Avenue, New York City as though he’d never been anywhere else—and to the bag-laden shoppers scurrying from store to store, he wasn’t there at all.
He paused, serenely consulting the watch on his wrist as people streamed past him. Any one of them could be the one he was here for, but apparently he was a few minutes early for his scheduled appointment.
Never mind.
Continuing to whistle, he meandered along, taking little notice of the gaudy store displays and bright lights luring the mortals inside to shop themselves into debt. He was more interested in the people themselves—after all, at some point in the future, he would meet each and every one of them personally.
Money made no difference, couldn’t be used to barter their way out of death. The homeless man in his tent, with old newspapers stuffed beneath his ratty clothing, would be greeted as enthusiastically as the woman whose ears dripped with diamonds that matched her yappy Chihuahua’s collar.
Begging, pleading, promises, threats, anger…
Death was immune to them all.
Seth laughed to himself, wondering what chaos would rain down on this street alone if he made his presence known, declaring himself as Death with his arms wide open. Perhaps some would run, but this was New York City, and insanity seemed to stain all its corners to the point that someone announcing himself as the Grim Reaper would likely just be ignored.
Shame. It might have been entertaining to freak the locals out.
Besides, he did get a small kick out of being feared on the deepest level when he collected a soul from a discarded shell. By then, of course, there really was nothing to fear, because someone was already dead and ready to move on…yeah, that thrill fell on the side of disappointing.
His appointment this evening should be a quick affair—Lara Townsend, thirty-two, unattached female who had an impromptu date with falling debris from a building in approximately three minutes, just twenty feet from where he stood.
A messy death, he mused, but it should be over and done in seconds.
Biding his time, Seth straightened the dark grey jacket of his three-piece suit, shooting the cuffs of the white shirt. Over the centuries, he’d gained the reputation of wearing the drab black cloak of death, complete with the ridiculous hood and scythe—in truth, he preferred to feel more distinguished and less macabre.
As he adjusted the sleek knot of his tie, he felt the base of his skull tingle in a way that surprised him. He wasn’t prone to tingles or shivers, which made him stand taller and assess what might be affecting him.
Scanning face after endless face, becoming increasingly frustrated by the revolving carousel of mortal features, he finally found what he thought was the issue. Or should he say who was the issue?
Pretty, he thought, for a mortal. On the shorter side, maybe five-five, with a figure bordering on the edge of curvy. Well dressed in black jeans, a checked dress shirt, and a leather jacket, with heeled boots. Golden blonde hair twisted into a fastidiously neat tail which curled over her shoulder and draped down over her left breast.
But it was her eyes that caught his attention most—big green eyes looking right at him from thirty feet away.
Impossible. Mortals couldn’t see him unless he demanded to be seen, which hadn’t happened since 1863 when a supposed male witch had been forced into an English pond to prove his innocence…and failed. Not for lack of trying—Seth had materialized when the man attempted a third try at escaping the water, and persuaded him that the fates required his presence elsewhere.
The English had gotten their pound of flesh, and he’d collected his designated soul.
But this…this was strange.
Sure he was imagining that startled green gaze on him, Seth took a step toward her, only for her to stumble back. He tilted his head, intrigued and a little suspicious now. Lifting his hand, he offered her a casual wave, his eyebrow lifting when she hesitantly raised hers, fingers wiggling uncertainly until she closed them into a fist and shoved it in her jacket pocket.
The smell of fast food from a corner vendor drifted past him, making his nose wrinkle in distaste. He could smell different colognes and perfumes—some sweet and floral, others cloyingly masculine—but when he caught a whiff of something earthy, spiced with fear, he was certain it belonged to her.
Who was she? Why could she see him?
Some kind of supernatural, he wondered, or did she descend from a mortal line of seers? They were few and far between, most of them hermits, but he supposed there could be a stray one strolling around without a care.
Conscious of the time, Seth checked his watch again, noting they were down to seconds before the main, grisly event. Ignoring the woman for a moment, he glanced up past the eerie glow of the lights to the top of the buildings, then tried to identify his next collection.
The woman mirrored his actions, peering into the dark, then turning sheet pale.
