CHAPTER 4

Gray.

Abigail turned all shades of color before fading into an ashen gray. Green eyes wide, she shot to her feet, and the thick book she held crashed to the oak floor with a sharp thud.

Her hands gathered at her stomach, where she fisted the thick black sweater. "You," she breathed.

"Me," he replied plainly, fighting the smirk that tugged at his mouth. Amused, he stepped closer and recovered the fallen book. He tucked the spilled music sheets back within the leather cover and straightening; he set it on top of a crate stuffed with records.

Abigail remained gray.

"Your book?" he motioned with a tilt of his head.

After a moment, Abigail broke from her mental pause enough to shake her head. "It–it–it isn't mine." Her stare darted all around as if to catch the eye of another store visitor.

Marcus trailed her gaze, perplexed. Didn't she want him there? She'd wanted him there that morning, having searched for him, called for him. Yet there, under the florescent lights that hummed in the silence, she practically sent out smoke signals. She returned her bemused attention to Marcus, visibly shaken, shivering, in fact. She reached for the book and clutched it tightly against her chest.

"Pardon me," a voice broke in from behind. The older man Abigail had greeted at the front of the store stepped beside her. Mr. C. Owens, Marcus noted on his nametag.

"Is this man bothering you?" he asked Abigail, his eyes trained squarely on Marcus.

Abigail gasped. She clenched the book tighter, digging her nails deeper into the leather cover. Her mouth moved convulsively in search of words, but no words came, just intermittent stutters of confusion.

"You mean—you mean you can see him?" she asked finally, touring her gaze between Marcus and Mr. Owens.

Marcus suppressed a smile, but his face reddened nonetheless. It wasn't that she was looking for help before rather confirmation. She wanted to know if he was really there.

Mr. Owens' eyes narrowed and he reached a hand to her shoulder. "Abigail, are you feeling okay?"

She swiveled away. "I need to know if you can see him. Tell me he's here." She turned to him. "Tell me you see him standing right there, black coat, black hair, pale—standing right there?"

Mr. Owens' brows gathered. "Why wouldn't I see him? Not only do I see him now, but I've been watching him lurking behind shelves, watching you." He turned to Marcus. "I suppose you followed her here, too. I don't know where you came from, son, but I suggest you leave this young lady alone."

Marcus stared at Mr. Owens levelly, replaying his words in his head. 'I've been watching him lurking behind shelves...'

How was that even possible? How could Mr. Owens have noticed him before he'd willed himself seen? Numb, Marcus assessed the man. For him, spotting a liar was as easy as lying itself. Mr. Owens was not lying. That only left one prospect, but before Marcus could dissect the possibility, Abigail sucked in a breath and tore him from the thought.

"You've been following me," she echoed. As the weight of this settled on her, she shifted back, adjusted her scarf higher, and clutched the book tighter. Emotions chased each other across her features, from shock to embarrassment, until her glare skewered Marcus. "So it was you then. You were there this morning in my room. You didn't say anything, but I felt you. You were there!"

A choking sound exploded from Mr. Owens. "That's more than I need to hear. I'm calling the police this instant. Come, Abby." He reached for her.

"You can't be serious. I can assure you, sir. I have no need to go lurking about girls' bedrooms." Marcus crossed his arms over his chest, smug. "Certainly not hers."

At this, Abigail stiffened, offense flashing across her eyes. She bit her under lip and recoiled.

Marcus cursed inwardly. They were thoughtless words. He shouldn't have said them. He hadn't meant for it to come out so harsh. But the melancholy that now shadowed her eyes told him it was for the best. Her look before had been a painful mix of expectation and memory, as if she too remembered the intimacy that flowed between them that morning. Marcus swallowed at the recollection, at her small hands reaching for him, wanting him, needing him. He adjusted his collar that suddenly felt a little too tight.

Remembering how close he'd come to touching her, he dug the blade of his insult deeper. "And for you to think that I have any interest in Miss Archer is a bit offensive, really. I only wanted to apologize to her for last night. Nothing more."

"Last night?" Mr. Owens' brow lowered. He turned a concerned glance to Abigail. "So you know this man?"

Abigail was quiet. Marcus could see his hurtful words settling in her mind just as he'd hoped. With eyes downcast, she nodded. "We've met before."

Marcus exhaled. "See, I mean no harm. She knows me."

"But he was just leaving," Abigail said and, turning, started for her corner.

"What? Miss Archer, please wait." Marcus stepped toward her.

Mr. Owens blocked his path and tilted his head to the door. "Abigail says you were leaving. I suggest you be on your way."

Marcus ignored this and stared past the man. "Miss Archer, please. I just want to talk about last night," he said, a frightful gentleness afflicting his voice.

Abigail didn't move. Neither did Mr. Owens.

Marcus clenched his fingers into a loose fist. It took sheer will not to move the man. "Miss Arch—Abigail, please."

Abigail spun on hearing her name, yet said nothing.

"Please," Marcus went on. "I just want to talk, and apologize, of course. If after I'm done you still wish for me to leave, I will. All I'm asking for now is a chance to talk."

Abigail stared on. She studied him earnestly, unsmiling, the debate clear in her mossy eyes. Marcus found a secret part of himself uttering prayers in hopes she would accept.

After an eternal second, she nodded, just barely.

Marcus exhaled, unaware he had held his breath the entire time. Still it was a hesitant breath. If Abigail's nod was any indication as to her conviction in his words, he knew he tread on unstable ground.

Mr. Owens cleared his throat, clearly unconvinced. "I'll be in the front. If you need me, just say the word," he told Abigail in passing. He spared an added glare for Marcus then walked to the front of the store. Neither Marcus nor Abigail watched him walk away, their attention undisturbed from one another.

She was quiet and the void was unnerving. Marcus spoke first. "Miss Archer—"

"If you don't mind, could we stop by my house so I can get my suitcase before we go?"

Cut off before he'd started, Marcus's eyebrows bowed. "Go? Go where?"

She shrugged. "I'm hoping Heaven, but I guess it isn't up to me."

"This is unbelievable. I told you last night that I am not going to take you. Not yet, at least."

Abigail's green eyes darkened, the white glinting with unshed tears. "Then you should go," she said tightly and retreated to her corner. She slipped on her coat and wound the scarf around her neck, promptly hiding her reddened cheeks.

Marcus stood still, his heartbeat falling off tune. How could she be finished when he had barely even explained why he was there? Hadn't she been waiting for him the night before?

He frowned, realizing his only option was that she had to trust him. There was only one path to trust and it was one he rarely traveled. Yet, for some reason this shadow of a girl with downcast eyes was going to force him down that lane of Truth.

He cleared his throat. "I was there, in your room this morning."

Abigail turned. "Then why did you lie?"

"I couldn't have admitted to being there. The old man already thinks ill of me. If I confessed to being in your room, he would think me a psychopath and never have let me explain, or apologize."

"Apologize for last night or for this morning?" The corners of her lips drooped. She lowered her eyes and stared at the openness between them. "I'm sure you had quite a laugh watching me walk all the way home last night, or were my sad efforts in trying to find you this morning any better?"

Her acidic tone felt like salt on a fresh wound. Remembrance of the intimate moment swelled in his throat and warmth coursed through his veins.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," he said firmly, unable to let her believe he thought their secret affection a joke. "Last night, I had others to collect. As for this morning, I arrived just as you were walking from your room."

She met his eyes. "Why didn't you say anything then? Why are you here now? If you don't want me, what's the point of this?"

Marcus thought to speak, but the distinct sensation of being watched stayed his words. One quick look over Abigail's shoulder confirmed Mr. Owens' glare.

"I have all intentions of discussing that, but not here." He flicked his gaze to the storefront window. "We can go to that deli there across the street and talk."

Abigail took an uncertain step back.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Marcus tried, but her look that moment told him it was too late. He already had.

"Abigail," he started, but stopped. If he said those next words, there was no turning back. His heart pounded. He shouldn't have done it, yet moving closer, he looked down into the depths of her green eyes. "Trust me."

Her lips parted with a breath, but she didn't respond. Her gaze traveled along his face in quiet scrutiny, as if she searched for the truth of his words along his features.

Finally, she sighed. "Okay."

Her soft voice was a blow, winding tightly around his lungs. He had asked her for trust and she gave it to him. He'd hurt her, left her, and she gave him her trust still. Suddenly Marcus felt in possession of something so fragile he didn't dare breathe for fear it would shatter. Breathless, he followed as she led the way to the front of the store.

Abigail placed the book on the counter and opened the door.

Behind her, Marcus stopped and took the book from the counter. He reached into his coat breast pocket and withdrew his wallet. With Mr. Owens busy with another customer, Marcus flipped the book around searching for the price.

"What are you doing?" Abigail asked. She let the door close and stepped toward him.

"You were looking at it, quite fondly in fact, and I wish to buy it for you," he replied simply. She'd gifted him something as precious as her trust. It was the least he could do.

Abigail reached to take it from his hands, but instincts flared, and Marcus jerked his hands away.

She shifted back, her small hands gathered into tight fists. "Look, just put the book down. I can't afford it, alright?"

"Yes, well, I'm paying for it. Think of it as retribution for this morning, or last night, or however you wish to see it."

"Put it down. I don't want it," she warned through gritted teeth.

Marcus let out a laugh. "It didn't seem that way earlier."

The change came on fast. One moment Abigail stared at him, the next her small hands clawed at his chest while she reached for the book that he held over his head, not in jest, but in fear. Her weight knocked him off balance, and he fell back, her body tumbling down onto his.

Dead silence.

A dangerous silence suspended between them. Only able to see her eyes, Marcus drank in the shock of her widened stare as her body lay flush against his. A warm tremor coursed through him whenas her hair rained onto his face, veiling their shared stares and the secret desires that lay there.

Behind these curtains of crimson hair at either side, Marcus and Abigail said nothing. They didn't even breathe. They only lay rigid, warmth and darkness enveloping them in the privacy of that space.

An accomplice to the madness, Abigail's scarf loosened, exposing the delicate curve of her mouth. Marcus tensed. There were secrets there, things he didn't know he wanted and found himself increasingly curious to discover with every breath. She was curious, too. Her fingers trembled against his chest and she made no effort to move away. She looked to his lips, and then back to his eyes.

The shudder in her inhale tore Marcus back to their glum and hazardous reality. He breathed a curse. After their morning liaison, why had he bothered following her? Couldn't he just have taken her and be done with it?

"Get off of me this instant," he snapped. If he had to endure another second, no book on earth would keep his hands, or worse, his lips from her.

Pale, Abigail nodded dumbly and pushed off his chest, back onto her knees.

Marcus sprang to his feet and tossed the book at her knees. Abigail lowered her eyes to the sheet music fanned around her.

"Do what you want with the damned book. I'll be outside," he said curtly, adjusting his coat. Throwing what proprieties remained of his gallant years to hell, he ignored the stares and subsequent murmurs and stormed out. Filling his lungs with the glacial air, he squeezed his eyes shut. It was an error, he reprimanded himself. It had been a complete blunder. He should have gone home. Interacting with Abigail had been grave, grave foolishness. Asking for her trust? A tragic mistake.

Regret hummed its familiar tune and at once his skin felt like a prison. In all his years of life and service, he hadn't learned a thing. If so, he would have known that by asking Abigail to trust him, he had already let her down.

**

Marcus stared down at his cup of tea with a scowl, watching the floating tea bag smear the hot water. Shame swirled equally in the pit of his stomach, and guilt lingered close by. Things had not turned out at all as had imagined. He lifted his eyes, looked at Abigail across the wobbly metal table, and shook his head. The red hair, the sad green eyes...He sighed. He shouldn't have asked her to come. Having her there would change nothing about the past.

Sadly, it was too late. He'd asked her for her trust. How could he then ask her to leave, or worse, leave her again? Flustered by the intrusive thoughts, Marcus coughed to fill the uncomfortable quiet. "For our own sanity, I must implement some rules," he said. "They're simple, but will cause us a lot less problems."

From over her untouched coffee, Abigail nodded. Her gaze remained downcast as if finding the disposable cup most captivating.

"There will be no touching, whatsoever. You will not touch me, I will not touch you. There should be no brushing past, no clawing." He gave her a pointed look. "If you are to approach me, announce it beforehand. No contact. Is that clear?"

She leaned forward onto her elbows and let out a breath that lowered her shoulders. "So, Death is a germaphobe?"

Marcus nearly choked. A retort on the tip of his tongue, he bit back his words, silently thanking Abigail for the rather odd response to his peculiar request.

"Yes, I am a germaphobe as you call it. You can't begin to imagine how many souls I'm forced to collect due to a common cold."

"Then why do you do it?"

Marcus tore open a packet of sugar and poured it into his tea, watching the small crystals dissolve into the murky water. "Do what?"

"You say you are forced to collect souls. Who forces you?"

"That's private," he clipped and sat back, tense. He looked at her and paused. Her face was hidden behind the brown scarf and stringy hair, and it took every ounce of willpower to keep from tearing it from around her neck.

"Why on earth do you wear that thing? It's distracting. How are we supposed to have a conversation when I can barely hear your voice through that dratted scarf?"

Abigail sat back with an exhale. Her hands rose to the brown fabric, and she unwound the scarf, one slow rotation at a time. Marcus felt each one fasten around his lungs. Breaths harder to come by, he sought to ignore her rite. He looked away only to find all eyes had strayed toward her, especially those of the blond man right over her shoulder paying for his cup of coffee. The stranger's gaze lingered for longer than what Marcus found appropriate.

"So?" Abigail asked. Marcus forced his eyes back to her. She clutched the scarf tightly at her chest and shrugged. "Is this better?"

Underneath the scarf and the misery, Marcus saw traces of a quiet, gentle beauty, that of undisturbed snow, pale and pure. He liked the way her nose seemed to melt into her face, not as pronounced as Margaret's. And there were freckles, a small dotted path beneath dulled green eyes. Indeed, she was lovely.

"Yes, much better. Thank you—" Marcus stopped. Awareness pricked his skin. Glancing around the store again, his brows creased. The blond haired man now sat across the room and still stared at Abigail. His gaze flicked to Marcus over the rim of his cup and he looked away.

"So Mr. Death, or..."

Abigail trailed off expectantly, pulling back Marcus's attention. He picked up on her cue. She wanted to know what to call him. But that familiarity only brought attachment, or so he believed. They couldn't afford that.

"I'm not Death." He avoided purposely. "I'm just a collector. Death is a greater being. He is who the souls I gather get delivered to. There are far too many souls for him to collect all on his own, don't you think? That is where I come in. There is a large group of us actually."

She twisted her fingers around the stringed tassels of her scarf on the table. "And you were supposed to collect my soul and deliver it to Death?"

"Something like that." Marcus didn't elaborate.

Abigail bit her lip and kept to her silence a moment. "Then why do you do it? Is it your punishment for something?"

Marcus cradled the hot cup in his hands and took a sip to delay answering. No one had ever asked him why. How was he supposed to answer that? And why did she care? He tried his best to not seem visibly bothered by the question, but it was hard. It did bother him. She didn't need to know his reasons. She wasn't supposed to care. But he couldn't dismiss yet another one of her questions. He had already refused her his name. Frustration soured the tea in his mouth.

He swallowed. "I do it for life," he answered. It wasn't a lie. He set down his cup sharply hoping it would put an end to the issue.

It didn't. Leaning forward again, she plucked a nervous tune on the plastic lid of her cup while brooding over his words. He glanced at her hands, small and clean, lowered his eyes to his own, and then looked away.

"Seems a bit strange," she said over the quiet ticks of her song. "Is life really all that grand to subject yourself to working for Death in order to keep it?"

"Yes, well, it isn't for you to understand now, is it?"

Abigail stared at him intently, her song coming to an end. Her hands slid off the table and onto her lap. "Fair enough," she breathed, staring down at her fingers.

Silence.

She pushed her cup aside. "Then tell me something I will understand. Why are you here? If collecting souls is what you do, why didn't you take mine?"

"Because I didn't, and still don't, understand why I should." He settled back, glad to change the subject of why he collected souls. That reminded him and he reached into his inner breast pocket for his watch. He flicked it open.

8:39 a.m.

Past experience told him he had at least half an hour before Margaret awakened, that is if she had slept at all. No doubt she would worry. She always did. She hated the city, hated being alone for a minute in it. She wasn't too fond of Paris either as London and all its comforts was her home. Even then, regardless of where they were, she was unhappy. She missed her old life, a time long past. She missed something Marcus could not give her. Cognizant of their lack of time, Marcus abandoned all tact. "Miss Archer, what I am going to ask of you is simple."

"What if I refuse?" she retorted.

"You won't want to."

Abigail's eyebrow rose, calling his bluff.

Marcus smirked. "You were the one waiting for me, remember? And I will not take you until you show me damn good reason why I should."

Her brows lowered as her challenge withered. She swallowed visibly. "Why are you doing this? I just want to go."

"Tell me why," he said, hardening his voice against the sight of her, against the pain on her face that hurt him as well.

"Why do you care? You're death, for God's sakes. Just take me and be done with it all, please." She reached over the table.

Marcus flinched back. "Miss Archer, I can't—"

"Then why are you here?" she exploded. Her breath hitched and the first tear fell. "Why are you following me? Either take me or leave me. You won't be the first. It isn't that hard!"

At his subsequent silence, Abigail shut her eyes. She recoiled, and her hand slid back across the table. Seeing it retreat, Marcus felt as if it grated across his chest.

She opened her eyes, but no longer looked at him. Shaking her head against whatever thought possessed her mind, she gathered her scarf into her arms, holding it tightly as if it was armor, and rose. "I suppose you're leaving me then," she said. "Well, have a nice life, or death, or whatever it is that you are. Just leave me alone."

She turned to leave. As if tied together by an invisible string, when she took a step, Marcus rose.

"I've collected and delivered far too many souls. Many who willed themselves to Death and others who were forced there. Regardless of why I have to collect them, when I take their lives and deliver them to their final destination before judgment, do you know what it is I see? Tears, just like yours and regrets, lifetimes of them. They cry and tremble. They say they have made a mistake and that they have barely lived. They beg for more time. You, Miss Archer, will be one of those. You think you want this, but you won't know what it is you truly want until it's too late. You've been given more time to live, to discover these things, but you insist on accumulating more regrets at not living, which will only lead to more tears in the end."

She turned, met his eyes with a steely gaze, and shrugged. "So be it."

He shook his head at the violent truth in her stare. "Isn't there anything you care for, anything at all? What of your parents?" His voice dried up remembering the scene from the prior night.

"They aren't my parents," she replied. There was pain in her voice that begged Marcus not to ask any further.

In thinking of nearing her, he grasped the chair severely. "What of your real parents? What do you think they would say—"

"Stop. Just stop!" Abigail held a rigid hand between them that curled into a trembling fist. "You are such a hypocrite and I need you to stop. You come for me and then refuse to take me without so much as an explanation. You sit there and ask of me without so much as telling me your name. You demand of me that I live or else you won't take me. Why? What is it that you want from me?" Her face flushed, and she cried now, openly. "You think because you have this power over me, because you have the one thing I want most, you can just use me for your own amusement? Is that it? You're bored with your forced duty and need some excitement? Does seeing me suffer make you feel more powerful? I suppose you expect me to fall at your feet and, what, beg for mercy?"

Marcus was frozen. He wanted his little fairy to show some life and there it was, bursting from her.

She zipped her coat hurriedly and chuckled to herself. She looked tired. No doubt the walk back home the prior night was part of her fatigue, but that wasn't what he saw. The faint dark circles that cradled her eyes were not those of one hard night. They were those of endless, sleepless nights and days. He knew this. He saw them every time he looked in the mirror.

She straightened her spine and held her chin a little higher. "Tell me now."

He didn't look at her. It would only confound things. He glanced around the room instead, grateful it had cleared out, save for the blond man who now stared at his clasped hands.

"Well?" Abigail pressed. "Tell me."

Marcus's lips drew to a taut line. "Tell you what?"

"Are you going to take me?"

The world went quiet, and though Marcus knew the answer, he too fell silent. This was it—their breaking point, and he was helpless against it. When he answered her question, she would leave without answering his. He slid his hands into his pockets and looked at her evenly. "No."

Her eyes snapped shut and she turned away, as if scared of what he might see there. She was too late. Through the windows of her eyes, he saw her soul crumble. He felt it in how she tensed when hearing his answer. Worse, he heard it in the broken sigh that escaped her before she spun on her heels and ran out.

Defeated, Marcus squeezed his eyes shut, trying to find some solace in the darkness. All he found there was the image of Abigail's silhouette rushing past the storefront window until he saw her no more. All air left him in one harsh breath. He opened his eyes. Things went worse than he could have ever imagined.

He threw away the filled cups of cold tea and strode to the door. Grasping the cool handle that on any day would have eased the pain in his hand, he paused. He didn't deserve it this day. Masochistically, he looked back to the small table where everything had fallen apart. He stared an added moment, unblinking, hoping to ingrain his folly into his memory, to the point the pain in his heart overpowered that in his hands. He made to turn when his eyes met those of the blond-haired man still sitting there, coffee cup in hands.

The man inclined his head with a knowing smile, his eyes very blue.

Marcus turned the knob and stopped. Was he supposed to know this man? How much had he heard? But in flicking his eyes to the clock on the wall, he abandoned the thought. There was no time to pursue it. He had to get home to Margaret.  

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