“Than, this is Harold, the library’s index. Harold, this is Death, though he prefers Than while he’s on vacation.”
“My pleasure.” Harold thrust out his hand for a shake.
Than stared at his hand for a moment, then gravely placed his palm against Harold’s.
“Indeed,” Than said.
“Excellent,” Harold said. “Myra, will you be having a hot cup of tea with me?”
“All three of us,” I said.
Harold executed a smart half-bow and strode toward the narrow little kitchen tucked in the back. “I have drawn the curtains in the sitting room,” he tossed over his shoulder.
“Thank you. This way,” I said to Than.
“Why are your books alive, Myra Reed?” he asked as I sauntered off to the corner sitting room.
“Whatever do you mean?” I asked innocently. “All books are alive. Mine are just a little more obvious about it.”
“Ah, Ordinary.” He shook his head and said no more.
I stepped into the little room decorated somewhere between English cottage and French farmhouse, and plopped down on the big overstuffed chair that was covered in a fabric of purples and golds and blues and pinks that should not work together but did. The chair made me happy just because the big, clashing, ugly, beautiful thing existed.
Than chose the more sedate love seat. Behind him, record folders stacked flat and on edge in the slotted shelves, created a pattern that was almost modern art, it was so easy on the eyes.
This room held the loose leaf, handwritten records and tallies, little snippets and bits of forgotten passages orphaned from larger works.
It was always comforting hanging out with my fellow misfits.
“Do you know how to kill Bathin?” I asked.
“I know how to kill all things.”
“Do you know how to kill his father?”
“Yes.”
“If I asked you to do that, would you pick up your power and kill the king of the Underworld?”
He folded his long fingers together. “I rather enjoy dancing, what I have seen of it over the years. Did you know there is not a culture that has not discovered some form of it? Such a graceful thing, using one’s body for nothing more than the desire to better experience music, movement, and perhaps another living being.”
“Okay. Dancing. I like it too. Is that what kills the king? A dance off? Tell me it’s not a dance off.”
“It is not a dance off.”
“I’m listening.”
“Death is, in some ways, like a dance. Its partner is time. When one falls out of step with the other, the dance is broken, faltering. The partners fumble, trip, and the music stops.”
He leaned forward slightly. “It is a metaphor. Death and time dancing.”
“You’re saying death happens when it’s the right time, otherwise it screws up the natural order. Did I get it?”
“On the nose, I believe one might say.”
“So I can’t hire you out as my personal hitman. No big surprise there. Will you tell me how to kill Bathin?”
“Am I not an officer of the law?”
