CHAPTER SEVEN

Marcus gazed down at the folded paper in his hands. There was nothing wrong. His list had been waiting in the stackable filer as was common. But in silence he stood in the darkened hallway of the watch repair shop and stared down at the folded sheet of lined paper as the truth of it all sunk deeper into his bones. It had slowly become a torturous ceremony that with each day grew more painful. But that night everything had changed. The waiting and wondering if Abigail had been spared one more day was eclipsed by one single thought. Mr. Owens was dead and now Marcus was all Abigail had left. She needed him and he needed her, but in looking down at the list, worry surfaced. Would he ever have the chance to prove it to her? Marcus gripped the sheet music entrusted to him tighter as the enormity of the situation hit him all at once. What would he see upon reading the names on the list? He squeezed his eyes shut.

He had to open that list.

He couldn’t open that list.

Light filtered down the hall from the Timekeeper’s workroom. Unopened list in hand, Marcus approached and hovered just outside the threshold, watching the Timekeeper care for another clock. Each screw was tended to with measured breaths.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Kent?” the Timekeeper said from over his work, his gaze not lifting from the exposed watch. Marcus moved farther into the dimly lit room, much more than he dared the day prior. He didn’t answer.

Fifteen minutes later, he had yet to say a word.

The creases in the Timekeeper’s forehead deepened. “Your list was there, was it not?”

Again, Marcus offered nothing. Instead he took in a deep breath and absently held up the list, in no way understanding the nervousness that plagued him. Well, understanding it yes, but denying fully.

“And what did it say?” the Timekeeper asked. While sounding undaunted, Marcus noted how rigid the old man grew in asking the question, his secret fear betrayed by the slight pause in his work as he waited for an answer.

“I’ve yet to open it,” he admitted quietly. “But I was thinking that maybe…well, it just seems to me that…” He paused. “When I retrieve the list, it’s folded. Surely someone is responsible for doing so. I thought that would be you, and perhaps when carrying out your task, you noticed the names on the list…” Marcus trailed off in hopes the Timekeeper understood his silent plea.

The Timekeeper let out a measured breath. He swiveled around on his chair and reached to a shelf in the shadows above him. When he turned back to Marcus, he held a thick ledger whose leather cover was cracked with age. Various slips of yellowed paper spilled out from within, as if pushed out by the newly added white sheets.

With one hand, the Timekeeper gently brushed aside the clock being repaired and set the ledger down in its stead. He breezed through the first few pages in silence.

“I never know of the names on the list,” he revealed and, finding what he searched for, turned the book, and slid it across the desk to Marcus. Marcus instantly noted his name scribbled on the top right hand corner of the page. Below his name was a row of numbers running the length of the gridded page. Beside the numbers, there weren’t any names.

“Every day, each time the arrow strikes twelve, there is a knock at that door.” The Timekeeper jerked his chin in the direction of a wooden door at the far end of the room. Marcus’s eyes narrowed, adjusting to the darkness. There was indeed a door. He’d never noticed it, but then again just two days ago, he never would have dared enter the workroom.

The Timekeeper continued. “When I answer, there is only a box with an assortment of clocks, and folded lists in pairs, one for the collector and one for me. I set yours in your mailbox. I take mine and wait. Unlike your list, the names appear on mine only when the soul is about to be collected,” he explained. “I’m sorry I can’t be of help. I am simply the messenger, Marcus. Nothing more.”

Without any further explanation, the Timekeeper put the ledger back on the shelf and resumed his work. Marcus slid Abigail’s sheet music into his coat breast pocket and took to an aimless wander, tapping the edge of the list against his palm in a broken melody. He clenched his jaw. There was nothing more to be had. He would have to open it and, if Abigail’s name was listed, he would have to take her.

The thought alone tangled his resolve. A secret part within him whispered odd and curious words that burned in his core. If her name was indeed on the list, then you can touch her…

His body tightened and he blinked as secret desire took flight. He would have to touch her to break the bonds of life. How would he spend that last moment? Would he simply place a hand on her shoulder? Would he kiss her hand or caress her cheek to feel her soft skin beneath his fingers? He suppressed a shudder. He knew exactly how he would take her, and the thought clipped his wings. He would tell her everything he needed against her lips. He would tell her he had been selfish and that he was sorry. He’d confess that although she bothered him in the strangest of ways, her kiss was a gift he did not deserve. The only way she would lose her life would be in their kiss, and in his arms.

He cursed, crashing back to reality. What on earth was he doing thinking of such things? Especially when in his hands, there was still the list. Rejecting the agony, he unfolded the first flap. From the corner of his eye, he noted the Timekeeper’s hands hung suspended above the broken timepiece, in wait.

Resignedly, Marcus lowered his eyes to the list. Cold waved through him, and he lowered the page.

“Her name,” he murmured. “It isn’t on the list.”

A quiet minute passed. The Timekeeper set down his screwdriver to wipe his hands on his apron. He cleared his throat. “Maybe you shouldn’t be wasting your time hanging around here then,” he said with a firm nod.

Marcus’s relief withered. He would have to see Abigail. A certain song promised that and the death of a certain man guaranteed it. He raked a hand through his hair, suddenly breathless. How would Abigail react in seeing him again? Worse, how would she react when she found out about Mr. Owens?

A dismal thought settled in his mind. He turned to the Timekeeper. “What happens after I deliver a soul? Like the older gentleman from last night, Mr. Owens? You said you direct them to that door, but then what?”

The Timekeeper’s eyebrows rose. “You’re asking me about a delivered soul? Interesting.” He closed the newly fixed watch, slipped it into a clear plastic bag, and put it in a bin marked Repaired. “Are you sure you want to know? Perhaps it’s better to leave things as they are. Regardless of what we have done on this side of the door, her fate will be the same once she walks through that threshold. Once they are delivered, it’s out of our hands. I have no power on the other side. I told you, I’m just—”

“The messenger, I know. But I’m not asking about Abigail. Well, not only about her,” Marcus clarified. He held the Timekeeper’s stare, unwavering. “I took his soul, Timekeeper. Mr. Owens was her only friend, and I took that from her. I just want to know what to tell her when—if she asks. I don’t want to lie. Not to her, not anymore.”

The Timekeeper leaned forward onto his elbows and studied Marcus. “This is worse than I thought,” he muttered as if talking to himself. His shoulders dropped with a resigned sigh. “Very well, I’ll tell you two things. The first, I am confident, is advice that comes too late, but here it is anyway. Attachment is far worse than loneliness. It would do you a great deal of good to remember that.” He reached into the Damaged bin and retrieved another plastic bag. “As for Mr. Cornelius Owens, I didn’t hear or smell anything when he closed the door behind him.” With one last nod, the Timekeeper lowered his eyes and began to inspect the broken watch.

It went without saying. The Shadows, with their torturous moans and singular smell, would have been unmistakable. Relief flooded Marcus.

“Is that all?” the Timekeeper asked, preparing for his next dissection.

Marcus nodded and walked to the door. He stopped, half turning. There was indeed one last thing. “Do you know of the nearest payphone?”

The rumble of storms loomed overhead and threatening clouds veiled the sun. Marcus leaned back against the closed record store window and stared unseeing at the blur of cars that streamed past. His thoughts drifted far off, consumed by that sheet of music tucked in his inner pocket and the melody it produced when played.

The distinct blare of would-be salvation tore thought the midtown streets, jolting Marcus from his thoughts. A police car and ambulance stopped before the quaint record shop, and the rhythm of passersby slowed to a stop. Looks of wonder and curiosity swept through the gathering crowd as the paramedics unloaded the stretcher and the officers approached the store. Patches of conversation drifted past, all questioning who it was that needed help, and why. Grimly, Marcus stared at the swirling red lights until it hurt his eyes.

One officer ordered all onlookers back, while the other led the paramedics into the store. The left side of Marcus’s mouth twisted into a small smile, thankful he’d remembered to unlock the door when he arrived.

He crossed his arms tightly and walked through the gathered spectators to the opposite side of the street. Theories on what happened headlined the murmurs, but Marcus remained quiet and gathered his breaths, collecting them steadily as the minutes splintered away. From a distance, he peered into the open door and groaned. What on earth could be keeping them? He would have called them much earlier had he known they would take so long. If the prior day was any indication, Abigail would arrive shortly.

Murmurs coalesced with the thunder overhead. Finally, a young police officer walked out, the paramedics close behind, and between them the blanketed body of Cornelius Owens. The crowd grew quiet. Respectfully, Marcus straightened. His breath caught in his throat then when, from the corner of his eye, he saw her.

Abigail fumbled toward the music store, her face crestfallen, downcast. Just as she didn’t notice any of the people she bumped into, she also hadn’t noticed the ambulance, the crowds, or Marcus.

But he had noticed her and, drawn to her, he moved through the crowd. He didn’t know why he approached her, but Mr. Owens’ words strummed in his mind and encouraged his feet to move forward of their own volition.

Abigail’s steps slowed. She had yet to notice the procession exiting the store, but she stiffened still. Her head snapped up and wide eyes met Marcus’s, instantly, through a curious parting in the crowd.

He stopped mid-step, as did Abigail. Her face remained indifferent, but her anger was unmistakable. She shook her head and made to leave. She would have, had not the police officer lurched past between their stare. Abigail’s brow knitted just a little and time for Marcus slowed.

Silence settled above the crowd, and all onlookers unwittingly offered their moment of silence as Mr. Owens’ blanketed body was rolled past. Abigail trailed it slowly, awareness dawning in the same speed. She closed her eyes and blinked them open, as if with each blink, the scene would change. But in watching the body of her only friend disappear into the waiting ambulance, she closed her eyes and didn’t open them again. The simple action rooted Marcus to the pavement. He could only watch on, helpless, as the blood drained from Abigail’s face and her mouth parted slightly. Through the constant deafening pulse of the city, he heard her faint intake of breath, calling his own from his lungs.

The world blurred around him, except for the sight of Abigail. He saw her clearly and drank in every change in her stare, in her awareness. He wanted to move, but stood motionless, accepting blame and all its discomforts. He forced himself to watch as her knees buckled and she crumbled slowly to the ground. He didn’t look away when a frigid wind gust blew her hair from her face, just as the first tear fell from her eyes.

Rain fell steady now. The crowds and the ambulance were gone, but Abigail remained in the middle of the street, oblivious to the stares and gathering puddles around her.

Against all shame, Marcus approached her.

“Abigail,” he said more to himself than to her. She didn’t move and so he moved closer until he towered above her. This time, her head lifted from her hands. She looked at him, but didn’t say a word.

“It’s raining,” he said. “Why don’t we go somewhere warm and dry, and...” He trailed off under her bloodshot stare. Abigail studied him for a moment until, wordless, she rose. Unsure whether she was going to faint, fight, or flee, he moved a little closer.

“You did this,” she said, her voice rusted. She said it again, a little stronger, and pounded frantic fists into his chest. “You did this! You took him—why? What did he ever do to you?”

Her voice broke with emotion as she punched him repeatedly, but with less vigor each time. She fisted his shirt, tangling her hands in the wet fabric. “What of me? Why didn’t you take me instead?” she moaned. Undone, Abigail crumbled onto him.

Marcus clenched his hands into tight fists and stood firm as Abigail clawed desperately at his chest. Soul stirring sobs wracked her frame. Passersby didn’t spare their judgmental looks. They uttered simple truths that he was a jerk, that he hurt her, and should comfort her. He could only close his eyes. Yes, it was true. He was a monster who had hurt her twice and then again. Yet, frozen under her girlish punches and shivering frame, the warm feel of her cries on his skin was a shock of pure electricity. It jolted his heart, even as his body begged him to move away—especially his tightly wound hands. Marcus never felt his purpose had ever been so great, so meaningful, in an otherwise meaningless life.

Abigail lifted her head, just a little. Her unsteady breaths clouded Marcus’s mouth as she whispered, “Is this my punishment for what I did?”

The memory of her crying form etched painfully into his memory. He slid his gaze past her parted lips, to the strand of hair that clung to her damp skin beside her mouth. Weakened by the fragrance of rain on her skin, he clenched his fists tighter and confessed, “It’s my punishment, Abigail. Regardless of what you may have done, I’m certain that this is all mine.”

For long moments, she stared at him and he at her. He moved closer, hoping through a primal link provided by sheer humanity, she could feel his empathy reaching for her, comforting her, though physically he could offer nothing.

“So now you feel pity.” She chuckled through a sniffle. “Don’t mock me. Whatever sympathy you want to pretend to have, save it. I don’t want your compassion. All I want is for you to take me this minute. Will you?”

Wordless, Marcus shook his head. He expected her to slap him, to curse at him, to run away as she’d done before and abandon him in the rain. Yet, hopeless, overcome, and tired, her head fell onto his chest again. She didn’t run away. Instead, her slender body trembled close and her hands gathered into small fists at Marcus’s core.

The rain steadied its tempo against her back and her shivers twisted down his spine. He had to end the madness and get her somewhere warm where he would give her the cursed sheet music and be done with it all.

He no longer wanted to know her reasons for wanting death. He wanted her, badly. That made her dangerous, and together they were fatal.

Decidedly he backed away, but she gripped him tighter, staying his retreat.

“Does your offer still stand?” she asked against his heart. “If I show you good reason to take me, will you?”

Having her so close compromised everything, especially his voice. Marcus swallowed and nodded into her saturated hair.

“Then tell me what you want and I’ll do it. Ask anything of me, and I’ll do it so I can finally be free of you.”

His jaw clenched. She was tired of him. At a loss for words, he nodded again with some effort. “Abigail, I…” he started, but the words died when his eyes flicked over her shoulder to the avenue. Standing under the shelter of the deli’s awning was the young man from the day before. Cars rushed past, as did people, but his gaze remained on Marcus. He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a folded sheet of paper. Marcus’s eyes widened. It couldn’t be…

Before Marcus could process what was happening, the man unfolded the paper and held it up for him to see. Written in large black letters was one question made up of two words. Words that sent Marcus’s blood running cold. With a knowing smile, the young blond man nodded his head in acknowledgment. A downtown bus rolled between their stares, and the man was gone.

Marcus searched frantically in every direction. All he saw was the sea of black umbrellas moving steadily about the avenue. Cold, he looked back down to Abigail. She no longer shivered, but remained close, gathered tightly against his heart. Dreamlike, as if the most normal of affections, he lowered his nose into her damp hair.

He inhaled slowly, fully, and realization slammed into him. Mr. Owens had been right. She needed him. As long as the strange man’s identity was unknown, Abigail wasn’t safe.

“Come. You’re freezing,” he whispered against her temple. “Let’s get you home. Once there, I’ll tell you everything.”

Abigail lifted her eyes with a piercing openness. “Everything?”

He ran his gaze along every inch of her face. With all the care he could garner, he lifted a finger to the red lock of hair kissing the side of her lip. He brushed it aside gently, never touching her skin. “I give you my word.”

She didn’t move away, not at first. She searched his face as if on a desperate quest for any lies in his appearance. Apparently satisfied, she let her hands slip away from his chest.

A few more steps back, and she turned around to lead the way. Where she once rested grew cold and a strange hollowness invaded Marcus.

More troubling for him, however, was the stranger. Although he was nowhere to be seen now, Marcus’s mind reeled from the black letters written on his note. One question that could change it all—

Ready yet?

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