The strange female voice cut through the fog holding his mind hostage. Sam whipped around, mouth dropping as he saw the girl standing on the other side of his bed, grinning casually at him. He promptly proceeded to fall off the bed.

A light tapping followed Sam's fall and he very slowly poked his head over the top of the bed to see the girl still standing there, tapping her foot and lifting an eyebrow at him.

She stood in a relaxed posture, black hair drawn back into a loose braid. Strands of the black hair were dyed a bright blue, weaving in and out of her braid, and miniature black scythes dangled from her earlobes. A black ring pierced through her upper ear. The girl had angular features, with eyes so blue they were black, a strong shade of blue eyeliner covering her eyelids, the same color blue splashed across her nails, and she had a strong but slender build. Despite her pleasant expression, Sam had no doubt she could kill him if she wanted to.

That feeling was no doubt helped by the sword strapped to her back.

Dressed in a long-sleeved blue shirt with a black leather vest layered over it, her jeans black and ripped tastefully, the girl wore black combat boots with silver laces to complete the look, several silver bracelets looped gracefully around her wrists. A black chain necklace hung around her pale neck, lacking a pendant or ornament.

"Sam Walker, I presume?" she asked.

"Who are you?" Sam asked, a little freaked out at her sudden appearance in his bedroom. "And what are you doing in my room?"

"It's Thursday," the girl stated. "October 24. You were due in court half an hour ago."

Sam's eyes widened. The Grim Reaper Services! That was today? Dammit!

If you miss this court date, your life will be terminated immediately.

"You're lucky my brother opted not to kill you immediately," the girl continued conversationally, like they were talking about the weather and not about life or death. "I was sent to bring you in. If you refuse to cooperate, then you shall be terminated, effective immediately."

"I'm not refusing," Sam said, lifting his hands as if in surrender. "I'll come, no trouble."

"Good," the girl said, gesturing for him to stand up. Sam did, still keeping his hands where she could see them. He was giving her no excuse to unsheathe that sword on her back.

"So, are you the Grim Reaper?" he asked, for the sake of saying something.

She shook her head. "Nope. That would be my brother. I'm Cate."

Sam waited. "Cate...?"

Cate raised her other eyebrow at him. "I suppose you could call me Cate Reaper, but in all honesty, I'm just Cate. Unlike my famous brother, I don't really have a moniker in this culture."

"Infamous, more like," Sam muttered.

Cate shook her head vigorously, eyes darkening momentarily. "No, he's famous. You don't want to see infamous in the death community. Anyway, Pete's not bad, he's just doing his job."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Sam had to work to stifle a laugh. "Pete?"

"My brother," Cate answered. "The Grim Reaper, otherwise known as Death?"

"His name is Pete?"

"Well, he's been called many names over the centuries, but Pete is his name now, in your culture."

Sam snorted, still trying his best not to laugh. "What kind of name is Pete for the Grim Reaper? Isn't his name just supposed to be Death, or the Reaper?"

Cate scowled at him. "Pete is his real name now, no matter what everyone else calls him. I could call you Dumbass, but that doesn't make it your real name, does it?"

Sam sobered. She was right. Also, she still had a sword. "So, uh, what now?"

"I bring you to the courthouse," Cate answered.

"How?"

"We could call a cab," she suggested. When he stared at her incredulously, she laughed. "I'm joking. I hate cabs. We'll take the Void."

Sam's eyes widened as she reached out and fastened her fingers around his wrist. Slashing her other hand through the air, she stepped into the sudden darkness spiraling through the air from where she had gestured and dragged Sam with her into the inky blackness.

For a long moment, Sam was disoriented, varying shades of darkness swirling all around him. The only thing he could feel was Cate's fingers wrapped around his wrist. Everything else felt like it was dissolving, fading and igniting and fading again in a tornado of darkness. He couldn't feel his arms and legs, couldn't really even see or hear anything. Cate was the only point of contact keeping him tethered to some sense of reality; without her, Sam had a bad feeling he would go drifting off forever into the void, unable to recover his body or any sense of guided movement. It was like he was disembodied.

He dearly hoped Cate wouldn't let go.

Then suddenly, the darkness had vanished, replaced by dull white. Sam stumbled as his feet touched the ground, the sudden return of his sense of feeling hitting him like an electric shock. His knees slammed into the unyielding floor as Cate released his hand, wiping her hand off on her ripped jeans.

"Okay, we're here," she remarked conversationally.

Sam glanced up, slowly getting to his feet as he glanced around the massive chamber. "Where is here, exactly?"

The chamber they stood in looked like it had no limits, the ceiling so far above them that Sam doubted it even existed for a moment. Thick white columns, crafted from marble in a Grecian design, rose to support it, and he found the ceiling by following one of the columns with his eyes all the way up to its eventual end. Behind them was a pair of tall oaken doors, padlocked with a thick length of chain.

Directly in front of Sam and Cate and to their left and right, there existed three more entrances. To their left was a tall, black paneled door, with an old-fashioned door handle and knocker, shaped like a skeleton head. To their right was a pair of steel grey elevator doors, complete with a panel of buttons and an indicator above the doors to show which floor the cab was currently at. Sam had to blink and reread the sign several times before he determined that he was reading the indicator correctly: the cab was in oblivion at the moment.

But the door in front of Sam wasn't really a door at all. Instead, it was a black barred gate, the spikes on top rising to a peak in the center of the gate and descending on either side. Behind it, a short walk led up to a flight of stairs, leading into a chamber beyond.

"We're in the Atrium," Cate said, running her gaze across the space as she answered his question.

"I thought we were going to the courthouse."

"We are," Cate asserted. "It's through that gate." She pointed to the black gate blocking off the pathway. "Your DA awaits you."

Sam frowned. "DA?"

"Death attorney," Cate clarified. "In the case of Death v. Walker. It's a big deal around here. Almost as big as the pending Death v. Unknown Serial Killer 492 case."

Sam blinked. He wasn't sure he had understood all that. "What?"

Cate waved her hand dismissively and started walking. "In naming legal cases, precedent frowns on using their monikers when we don't know their real names, so we use numbers. Come on."

Sam hurried after her, glancing around the Atrium as they approached the gate. Behind them, a figure sprang into existence, shrouds of darkness clinging to his form as he landed in a kneeling position before rising and walking briskly toward the black door. Sam watched the figure curiously, who was clothed in black casual, until he ran into something hard and unyielding.

The cold metal of the gate slammed into his skin and Sam staggered back. Cate laughed, her hand on the bars, as he regained his balance and shook his head. "How about you watch where you're going?"

"Who's that guy?" Sam asked, gesturing toward the black figure disappearing through the dark door. Cate flicked her eyes in the direction of the door.

"That's a DBI agent."

"DBI?"

"Deathly Bureau of Investigation."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"I'm not exactly sure I'm hearing you correctly," Sam muttered as Cate shoved open the gate and walked down the pathway toward the marble steps leading up to the gaping entrance. To either side of the pathway were tombstones, inscribed with names and dates.

Jack the Ripper. Joseph Stalin. Attila the Hun. Henry VIII. Adolf Hitler. Sisyphus.

"What are those tombstones for?" Sam asked, frowning.

"Death Enemies," Cate said, giving the tombstones a satisfied smirk. "Just a few of the names we've crossed off our Most Wanted wall." She gestured off to the right. "The names continue on for several miles on either side. It may take us some time, but we always get our man eventually. Nobody escapes the clutches of death. Well...yeah."

Cate continued up the stairs and Sam followed her, mounting the steps to stand in the portico before the entrance. It looked like a typical courthouse, but he still was tense, not sure what sort of surprises he would find inside. For all he knew, there could be an axe-wielding maniac inside.

They walked into another atrium, a much smaller version of the one they had materialized in earlier. The same color scheme of dull white marble prevailed. In the center sat a guillotine, a robed figure polishing the blade. Sam stared at it as Cate headed past the elevators toward a pair of open double doors, leading Sam through a winding hallway toward a row of dark oaken doors on either side of the corridor.

"Here we are," Cate said, stopping before a door with a golden plaque reading Stanley Tect. She rapped smartly on the door. "Stan will take good care of you."

The door opened and a harried looking young man stood on the other side, his hair sticking up all over the place and his expression a bit annoyed. "What?" he snapped, before the door was even completely open, and then his face paled. "Oh, I'm sorry, Cate, I didn't know it was you –"

"Save it, Stan," Cate told him. "This is Sam Walker, of the Death v. Walker case. You're his DA, remember?"

"He didn't show for his court appearance," Stan said stiffly. "And I'm a bit backed up –"

Cate held up her hand. "Look, orders come down from the top on this one. Sam's court date has been rescheduled to...twenty minutes from now. See you in court."

Cate turned and strode down the hall, leaving Sam with his DA. Stan sighed, shaking his head wearily. "Nobody cares I'm backed up a couple hundred years," he groused. "No 'How will this affect your schedule, Mr. Tect?' Nope, just 'How in the hell can one rescheduling set you back ten years?' I'll tell you why: because we can't send everyone to hell, dammit!" Then he seemed to realize Sam was standing right there, giving him a strange look, and sighed again. "Give me a sec," he told Sam. "Let me grab your file first."

Stan reentered his office and Sam caught a glimpse of mountains of paperwork, stacks of files reaching to the ceiling and littering the floor. Stan grabbed a thin file and a pad of paper off the desk and stepped back outside, slamming the door behind him. Through the door, Sam heard a dull thud as one of the file stacks toppled over.

"Not again," Stan sighed, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. "Man, what I'd give for Doomsday to have already happened."

"Why would you want that?" Sam asked as they started down the hallway.

"Because then I wouldn't have any new cases," Stan said, gesticulating wildly and sending papers flying out of Sam's file. With several muttered curses, Stan bent and snatched up the papers, stuffing them back into the file wrinkled and bent. "If everyone's already dead, I don't have to worry about unexpected new cases, just catching up on the old ones."

"That's morbid," Sam commented, furrowing his brow.

Stan raised an eyebrow at him. "You try being a DA. There's so much paperwork! People just don't stop dying! It's downright inconsiderate at times. I haven't had a vacation since I took this damn job, and I won't get one until the humans figure out immortality and decide to leave peacefully, or until Doomsday. The latter's far more likely to happen first."

"I'm sure they don't plan on dying," Sam said a bit vehemently, the image of Jake's body surfacing in his mind.

"It feels like it," Stan retorted. "Sometimes, it just feels like a massive conspiracy to make me want to go jump off a bridge. And I can't do that, because I can't die!"

"Wait," Sam held up his hands. "Back the truck up. You can't die?"

Stan shook his head. "Nope. Most people in this business can't, Walker. At least...not the way humans can. Our deaths are messier, more complicated, and cause a hell of a lot more paperwork and court appearances and competency hearings and it's just not worth it."

Sam was starting to get a headache and was missing his morning coffee. What he wouldn't give to be in class instead of here right now, or to even be working with Selena.

Selena. I never did find out what she meant about seeing death.

Stan opened the door to a conference room and Sam stepped inside, pulling out a chair and taking a seat. Stan sat across from him and opened the file, setting the legal pad and a pen next to the table, and folded his hands before glancing up at Sam. "So, Mr. Walker, I presume you know why you've been summoned."

"No, I don't," Sam said. "See, I got this letter about missing Life Returns, and the Grim Reaper Services having no record of my life? I'm not sure what they're talking about."

Stan frowned. "Well, it's self-explanatory. No Life Returns, no record. No record, no info. No info, no afterlife. No afterlife – well, I'm getting ahead of myself."

You sure as hell are. "What's a Life Return?"

"You're familiar with taxes, correct?" Stan asked. When Sam nodded, he continued. "Life Returns are similar. Except, instead of money, they track your life. The ups, the downs, et cetera. It tells us how many near death experiences you've had, how many were accidents, self-caused, or coerced. Judging by that record, we then know whether you get a refund of good luck, or if you owe us luck. And I'm not an expert – you'll have to talk to the CDAs for that." At the look of confusion on Sam's face, Stan added, "Certified Death Accountant. Except that's sort of a misnomer – they deal with life, not death, and only have to file a once a lifetime Death Return. Mostly, they deal with live people."

"And you don't?" Sam clarified.

Stan shook his head. "Nope. I'm a DA, and since people need to be dead to face judgement, I deal with dead people."

"I'm not dead," Sam pointed out.

"I'm aware of that," Stan assured him. "That's what makes your case, ah, special."

Sam didn't like the way he said that.

"Anyway," Stan continued. "Let's get down to business. There's no use in denying you didn't submit the Life Returns – Anna will tear you to shreds if you try to state that."

"Anna?" Sam said, hoping the whole tearing into shreds bit had just been an expression.

"The AE," Stan said. "Anna Devoire. Assistant Executor."

"Assistant Executor?"

"Yes, she's the one representing Death in your trial."

Starting to feel like that tearing to shreds expression might have been meant literally.

"Look, just don't lie," Stan advised him. "Concealing the truth is a different matter, but don't outright lie. That way you don't give her an excuse."

An excuse to do what, exactly?

"Okay, look," Sam said. "I don't know how to file a Life Return. I never have, because I was never told."

Stan pushed his glasses back against his nose. "You don't file it directly. Your CDA does. And you don't have a CDA."

"This is sounding like I'm not liable here," Sam said.

"No, you are," Stan asserted, looking serious. "A CDA can only be prevented from filing such a return by the individual it represents. So yes, you are liable, because this is all your fault."

"Look here, mister," Sam growled, leaning forward and glaring at Stan. "I didn't interfere with my CDA. I didn't even know I had a CDA until today, and I hadn't even heard of a Life Return before you sent me that damn letter."

Stan was silent for several long seconds, holding Sam's angry gaze without flinching. "Man, you're good," he said finally. "You'd fit right in with Bundy and Sisyphus."

"What?" Sam exclaimed, mouth dropping as he sat back.

"Your kind," Stan clarified. "The type of people who can give Death the finger? Yeah. They tend to also give their CDAs problems, and also deny it at trial. Anna has a field day with them. Looks like everyone's in for a good show today."

Sam slumped back in his seat. His headache was intensifying. Bundy...Sisyphus...wait, do they think I'm a serial killer? I don't even know who Sisyphus is!

Stan checked his watch. "Time to appear in court! I've prepared a defense for you; I'm sorry I don't have time to run it by you, but we need to book it if I want to keep to my always getting pushed back schedule."

[----]

The courtroom was large, the ceilings high and vaulted, but unlike the Atrium, it was made from black marble. The only change in color in the chamber was the judge's bench, crafted from mahogany wood, and a pair of golden scales sitting in the center of the courtroom, perfectly balanced.

Three figures occupied the silver bench, dressed in flowing black robes and holding silver daggers. Before them sat two dark tables, one of which was empty. The other was occupied by a short, squat woman.

One look at the woman and Sam knew he didn't want to get on her bad side. Despite her diminutive figure, she had a feral look in her dark eyes that concerned him. Her honey brown hair hung loose and thick around her shoulders, and when her eyes alighted on Sam, she gave a toothy, sharp smile, sort of like a shark's. She could have used a pair of braces as a kid, in his opinion.

"Ms. Devoire," Stan greeted, nodding at her as he led Sam to the second table. Anna just smiled widely, her tongue running across her teeth as her eyes followed Sam's movements. On the table in front of her, sitting on top of a file he guessed was his, was a long, thin dagger. He doubted it was for cutting anything domestic like tomatoes.

Stan dumped his file on the table and took a seat, gesturing for Sam to sit next to him. With a dubious look over at Anna, Sam obeyed, feeling very uncomfortable. The Assistant Executor watched him like she was a cat and he was a mouse, about to be at her nonexistent mercy. If she was the assistant, he'd hate to meet her boss.

"Does the defendant wish to enter into a plea deal, at the Assistant Executor's discretion?" the judge seated in the middle asked. He appeared middle age, but had old eyes. His hand, casually gripping the dagger, rested on the top of the table, his other hand out of sight.

"A plea deal?" Sam asked hopefully.

"Death doesn't see fit to propose a plea deal at this time, your Honor," Anna interrupted, standing and facing the bench. "We will proceed to trial."

"Very well," the judge nodded. "Have the jury brought in."

Sam glanced across to the jury box and paled. It was a huge, wooden shape, seven rows of six seats each, sloping down to the floor like the seating in a movie theater. "Why are there so many seats?" he demanded of Stan in a whisper.

Stan gave him a weird look. "To fit all the jury members. There are forty-two of them, after all."

Forty-two jurors? What the heck?

Then again, this was the court with an executor for a prosecutor, three judges with daggers instead of gavels, and where Death pressed the cases instead of the government. Perhaps forty-two jurors weren't outside the realm of madness here.

A black clad, hooded figure moved across the floor toward the jury box and Sam felt drops of sweat slide down the back of his neck. This was really happening. He was at trial for something he hadn't done, and it didn't look like prison would be the punishment.

A line of forty-two people trailed into the courtroom and entered the jury box, filling up all the seats. Sam gawked at them, for the jurors all wore the same flowing white tunics. There was something off about them, something Sam couldn't put his finger on, but it was there, nonetheless. They simply didn't appear all the way...human.

"Let the trial of Death versus Samuel Walker proceed," the middle judge said, raising his dagger into the air. The other two mirrored him, one a woman with a distant gaze but stern features and the other a one-eyed man who had forgone an eyepatch in favor of looking really intimidating. All three of them looked like they could kick your ass if you looked at them the wrong way, so Sam averted his gaze, feeling sick to his stomach.

"Objection!"

The shout ricocheted around the room and the three judges all frowned. Stan and Anna both looked at each other, glaring in accusation, and then their expressions shifted in puzzlement when they realized that neither one of them had spoken. Sam, meanwhile, had twisted, looking toward the entrance into the courtroom.

In the doorway, the doors flung wide open, stood the dark-robed man Sam had seen standing by Jake's body yesterday.

Before anyone could say anything, the man spoke again. "Death offers a plea deal to the defendant."