"I'm your biggest fan." The voice drifted out of the shadows, squeaky with excitement, as I stood over my latest job. I looked up, startled. You don't usually get fans in my line of work. The kid walked out from behind a fire escape, detaching himself from the night. With his spiked hair, gauged ears, and numerous facial piercings, I couldn't decide if he looked more like a porcupine or a pincushion. A badly-rendered drawing of myself stared at me from his black t-shirt, the logo of some obscure death metal band. The lead singer himself had drawn it; I'd met him 15 years ago, in an alley not unlike this one. Drug overdose. He had blamed me. Most of them did, although I was just the first being they met after they crossed over.

I quickly stood up, pulled my cowl over my face, and hid the scythe behind my back. Usually anytime someone sees me they take off screaming. It gets tiresome, especially when I'm pursuing said panicked person, so I remain unnoticed when possible. But this kid came right up to me, stepping over the body sprawled on the filthy ground by my feet. Stabbing victim.

"Can I have your autograph?" He produced a pad of paper and a pen from somewhere in his black trenchcoat. His smile, shining with the twin silver tracks of braces, melted his overdone attempts to look badass. I would have rolled my eyes if I'd had any in my sockets.

"Um--sure, why not?" I fumbled with the pen, scratching my name across the paper.

The kid ogled the scythe leaning against the graffiti-covered wall, and glanced down at the dead man. "Do you actually--you know, use that on your victims?"

I grinned at him from behind my hood, but that was just my default expression. I would have preferred to scowl. "They're not my victims, kid. The blade is just--decorative. Ceremonial."

"Oh. Well, it's awesome anyway. I wish I had one." He took his notebook and pen back. "My name's Roger. But my friends call me Spike."

"How original. Excuse me, kid."

"Are you looking for another victim?" He took an eager step forward.

"I told you--oh, never mind. And no, you can't come along. You'd better get away from that body now, before someone finds you here and draws their own conclusions."

I curled my bony fingers around the scythe, swirled my cloak about me, and left the kid in a swirl of smoke.

* * *

"I saw you do it that time! That was unreal, man!"

The kid bounded out from a pile of crates. I stepped away from the old woman lying facedown on the concrete. Transient. She'd actually thanked me with a grateful smile and a touch on the cheekbone before fading away. And the kid had ruined the moment.

I rounded on him. "How did you find me again?"

"Dude, I'll give you forty bucks for that thing."

I pulled the scythe away from him. "No deal, kid. You'd kill someone

with it."

"But you said it was only ceremonial!"

"I can't hurt anyone with it, but in the hands of a mortal it could do as much damage as a butcher knife. Now how do you keep finding me?"

* * *

"Sir, I'm telling you one more time. Without a driver's license, or any kind of ID, I can't help you." The clerk glared down her clumpy eyelashes, trying to peer past my gray hoodie. I pulled it farther down over my skull, feeling naked without my scythe and cloak. But this was personal business; nothing wrong with going casual every now and then, even if the jeans kept trying to fall off.

I leaned forward to read her name plaque. "And I'm telling you, Martha, I can't get rid of this kid. Every time I come into town for an assignment, he's there. I've had to get rid of him nine times this week alone."

"Is he threatening you?"

"No, he's just--there. Won't say a word about how he knows where I am. Keeps trying to steal my equipment."

"Steal your equipment?"

"Well--it's more like he doesn't take no for an answer. He's up to offering me fifty-nine dollars, a nose ring, half a box of fruit roll-ups, and a big rusty key that he says is antique."

Martha smirked. "Sounds like you've got yourself a fan. Why don't you just sell him whatever he wants in exchange for leaving you alone?"

"I can't! It's a specialized piece of equipment! It's irreplaceable, and I could get seriously demoted for letting a mor--a non-employee even touch it."

"So you're telling me a grown man like yourself can't deal with a teenage boy on his own?"

"I've tried everything short of throwing the kid off a cliff," I growled.

"Well, sir, it's like I said before: Even if Jesus Christ Himself walked in here without proper identification, I couldn't start the paperwork for a restraining order."

"Jesus wouldn't have any trouble with the ID," I muttered, turning to go. "He has passports and driver's licenses for every country in the world." As an afterthought, I pulled out my appointment book, thumbing through the entries. I allowed a flash of my bony grin to escape the confines of my cowl. "And if you don't stop sucking on those cancer sticks, Martha, I'll see you again in about eight years."

Martha let out a squeal and tipped over backwards in her chair.

* * *

"Who's the kid?"

The man stared over the railing. An endless stream of rush-hour traffic poured through the underpass. I hovered just behind his shoulder, throwing a shadow over his hunched form.

I looked to the left and saw the kid running up, waving helpfully like I'd lost him in a crowd. "Damn it! I even showed up five minutes early to try and shake him off. How does he do that?"

The man chuckled, returning his attention to the tunnel eating the traffic below us. "I don't suppose you're here to try and change my mind?"

"I wouldn't be here at all if there were any doubt," I answered quietly.

Roger caught up. "Dude, you're a freaking psycho! I figured it out, though. My number's not up yet. Is it?"

I nodded; I hadn't needed to look in my planner to guess that he had a long time still to go. I'd figured that the bus whose path I'd thrown him into wouldn't kill him, but maybe it would have slowed him down a little. A hospital stay would have kept him out of my way for weeks, at best.

But he'd come out of it without so much as a bruise.

The little creep was actually laughing. He crept closer, staring hungrily at the scythe's blade. "I'll give you--"

I dropped the scythe and grabbed him, holding him over my head for an instant before I threw him over the rail. At that moment, an open-topped truck carrying a load of tomatoes emerged from the tunnel, bearing Roger swiftly away.

"That doesn't look so bad," the man said, and vaulted over the barrier. I sighed and drifted down toward the sound of screaming tires and crunching metal. It was going to be a busy afternoon.

* * *

My assignment slumped against the wall for a second, perspiration beading his face. I snapped back to attention. It wouldn't do to cause him needless suffering because I couldn't keep my mind on the job. I glanced at my watch. I still had a few minutes.

The kid was being more cautious lately, but he was around. I could feel it, could smell his adrenaline every time he saw me at my work. Morbid little nutjob, obsessed with death and pain. As if looking scary and carrying around a wicked blade were enough to do the job right.

The bouncer pushed off the wall and lurched to the front of the line. He inspected someone's ID card, ripped it in two with his bare hands, and with a light shove, sent the impostor sprawling out into the gutter. Then he waved several attractive women into the club.

I raised an imaginary eyebrow and stroked my chin, looking him up and down. He looked like someone had stood a ratty couch on its end, and stuck a head on top of it. The veins stood out on his bulky forearms. Popeye on steroids.

It wasn't against any rules to hire an assistant. I could offer him a deal for a much more rewarding career in the afterlife than he enjoyed now. I'd heard bodyguarding was a lucrative business. And wasn't that what celebrities did, hired bodyguards?

I chuckled to myself, trying out the word: celebrity. These days even Death had a crazed stalker. I glanced behind me, to where the glint of metal piercings shifted in the shadows.

The crowd in front of the club gasped as the walking couch suddenly clutched his chest and stumbled. I tightened my grip on the scythe and strode forward. Even as he sank to his knees, the bouncer grabbed a teenager by the collar and tossed him out of the queue.

Yes, he'd do.

Author Bio

Kristin considers it a miracle that she finds the time to write, with her six kids, four cats, a dog, and a couple of parrots taking up most of her time. Books and writing have fascinated her since she first learned to read, and she tries to write a few pages every day to continually hone her skills. She's currently sending out queries to agents for her first novel, The Moongate, and is now working on a steampunk pirate book as well as The Moongate's sequel.

Aside from voraciously reading books in her favorite genre--young adult fantasy--Kristin's interests include cooking complicated meals (and usually filling the kitchen with smoke), Dance Dance Revolution, pirates, steampunk and Victorian-inspired goth, loud music, and anything that makes her laugh until she cries. She and her family live in Sparks, Nevada.

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