On Dragons Wings excerpt

The first time I saw her…

It was a Tuesday, I think. In the morning. Definitely in the morning. Sometimes things get a little muddled, but that’s only to be expected. I’ve seen a lot of Tuesdays, after all. I’m Death. I don’t say this to be pompous. Nothing could be further from who I am. I merely tell you this fact to establish the validity of the story. After all, if you can’t believe in Death, what are you left with—taxes?

That was a joke.

I digress. Most humans spend their entire lives denying my very existence until I arrive to carry them off to. . . Oops, almost gave it away. Can’t let that out of the bag. Mystery and all.

Most humans think I wear a black hood and carry that silly scythe. I don’t carry a scythe, nor do I dress in a black cape. What I look like to you depends entirely on how you view the end of your mortality, which is, of course, a function of how you judge your life. If, say, your life was full of missed opportunities to forgive your fellows, or devoid of love given freely, or empty of friends and family, you’ll see me as something fearful.

Terrible.

If, however, your life was one of passions embraced, family and community enjoyed, and life really lived, a loved one will appear to your eyes.

Welcoming.

Peaceful.

A well-earned rest at the end of a long day.

I’m a mirror of sorts. I reflect your soul.

But this story isn’t about me. It’s about Molly. An altogether endearing eight-year-old with hair the color of fawn’s fur in the spring and emerald eyes that cut right to the heart of the matter. Her room smelled like. . . antiseptic. Harsh, astringent, all alcohol and medicine. The smell of hospitals in winter only grieving parents understand. I try not to form attachments to scents or sounds, because… well…

I mostly concentrate on emotions, which is what brought me up short at Molly’s bedside. She looked right up at me with laser-sharp eyes and smiled.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hi.”

“My mommy says you aren’t real, so you can’t be here.”

This was a new one on me. I glanced down. I was covered in scales. They started out a deep sapphire along my spine, fading to a light sea-foam green on my underside. A glance at Molly’s bedside table explained my appearance. A book with a dragon on the cover lay there.

I stretched out my leathered wings and it felt good. I’m nothing if not flexible. I pulled my dragon’s mouth into my most charming smile, teeth and all.

“I’ve come for you, Molly. To take you away from the pain and the fear and the tears so if you’ll just jump on my back—”

“No.”

“No? You don’t understand. I have a schedule. So if you’ll just—”

“No.”

It wasn’t said in fear. I’m used to that. There was no quaver in her voice, no smell of adrenaline on the air. I dropped onto my haunches. “But you have to.”

“I can’t.”

And here was my undoing.

Her certainty.

It stopped me. “Why?”

“Because I have too much to do.” A missing front tooth lent her a lisp.

“You’re a child.”

“I won’t be a kid forever.”

“What do you mean you have too much to do?” I’d heard this argument before. Usually from workaholic CEOs, or athletes on a winning streak, their celebrations cut short by a bridge abutment or a jealous spouse, but never from an eight-year-old child.

She pulled her pale lips into a line and set her jaw at a stern angle.

“I’m going to be a writer. I’m going to tell stories and make people laugh and cry and forget how ’fraid they are of the scary things.”

I folded my wings against my flanks. “But you’re supposed to come with me. Now.”

With her eyes never leaving mine, she reached over to her bedside table, pulled her book to her chest, and crossed her arms over it like a shield. “I tol’ you, I can’t. Besides, Mommy says you aren’t real, so you have to go.”

“But—”

“Don’t be sad.” She smiled at me then, and time stopped around us.

This… little girl—anemic skin, hands shaking in a subtle tremor only I could see, and a sick, weak, heart racing like a greyhound’s after a race—was determined. Man, was she determined. But there was more.

Inside.

Steel between a hammer and an anvil—hard and sharp. And so hot it hurt to look at it.

And she was comforting me. Me.

I shouldn’t tell you this, but I have the option to postpone the inevitable. You’ve heard the stories. The light, the floating, the family members, yada, yada. It’s interpretation. Sometimes, once in a million, give or take, I can wait. Something to do with the greater good.

Don’t try it.

You can’t bargain with Death. You can’t cajole, or out-maneuver, or tempt me. I can’t be hornswoggled or bamboozled. I can’t be corrupted by guilt or shame. whatever scheme you can think up, I’ve heard it, trust me. This was different. Molly believed. In a way most TV preachers would empty their accounts just to glimpse. Trust me. I know.

“You can’t stay forever.”

“I don’t need forever.”

“There’ll be pain.”

“I know.”

“And heartache.”

She nodded. Not agreement or resignation, but simple acknowledgement.

“You’ll have failures. You’ll have to live through the betrayal of false friends, the grief of lost loves, the pain and suffering, and in the end, I’ll be back.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“You’ll be sick for a long time.”

“What’s wrong with me?”

It was out of my mouth before I could stop myself. “That silver liquid you found in the garage, the one you’ve been playing with, is poison.”

“The merc’ry?”

“Yes. I should go. I have other pickups to make.”

“What’s your name?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“It’s a secret?”

“Yes.”

“I like secrets.”

“Good. Then we understand each other.”

She nodded. “Life is gonna suck, and you’ll come back someday.”

“’Bout sums it up.”

“Okay. Goodnight, Dragon.”

I spread my wings and moved away. I’d allowed myself to get behind, and Death must be prompt.

*

The second time I saw her…

CONTINUED

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