Agonal Breath (The Deadseer Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  Contents

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  For Sylvia

  CHAPTER ONE

  On the night that I was born, the dead came around to call; at least, that’s what I found out years after the fact. Any chance of leading a normal life that I might ever have had, a life full of football and camping and above all, an easy time in school, pretty much disappeared when they showed up.

  Would you believe that I consider that little nugget to be only the third most significant event that took place on that day?

  You’d think that the most important thing by far to happen on May the 19th, 1999, would be the fact that it was my birthday, and my first ever birthday at that. Yes, you could absolutely be forgiven for thinking that. But you would be, if you’ll pardon the crappy pun, dead wrong. Marking my delivery directly onto the center stage of this jacked-up melodrama we call life still only rates as the second greatest arrival of the day. Important, yeah – but overshadowed by something much more so, an event of such staggering awesomeness that it would burn itself permanently onto the dying days of the Twentieth Century like a – I don’t know, like the sun scorching an afterimage of itself onto the retina of somebody dumb enough to take a good, hard look at it.

  Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace was released in movie theaters.

  Oh sure, you can laugh – but I’m a total Star Wars nut; have been since the day I was born. Do not underestimate how big a deal that is for me. It’s freaking huge. Star Wars casts a shadow over my whole life, and without it being there, that safety net in a galaxy far, far, away, I’m pretty sure that I’d have been locked up in a room somewhere out of sight…one that had padded walls and just a little slot in the door for them to look in at you through, or maybe pass you your dinner plate.

  Sorry, I’m rambling. Off point again. I tend to do that when I’m stressed, and you’re just going to have to forgive me.

  What am I stressed out about? I mean, I realize how I come across — hardly your typical fourteen year-old boy. Pretty damn literate, for sure – the end product of reading science fiction and fantasy novels like they’re going out of style, not to mention genuine works of art like Sandman and Watchmen. I’m smart, and not humble enough to try and pretend any differently, no matter who’s looking over my shoulder. You should see inside my head, see the things that I see and think the stuff that I think.

  On second thoughts; if that actually happened, and you saw the world through my eyes…they’d probably put you in that padded room and toss the key.

  So just take my word for it. I’m smart as all get-out. I won the cerebral lottery, I guess, though that’s not the only reason; it took some of the air out of my tires when I was told by my spirit guide (more on her later) that I was an ‘old soul,’ one who had kept some of the intellect and personality from earlier incarnations. It’s why an American kid my age can sometimes sound like Sherlock Holmes or Aragorn, son of Arathorn, I guess.

  And in a few years, when I graduate from college with a degree and maybe a Master’s in something (I haven’t figured out exactly what just yet) that’ll pay me six figures right out of the gate, I’ll be the guy who’s getting his latte served by gym-rat jerks like Brandon Monroe and his crowd of douchebag sycophants. I can already see it happening, clear as day; me, Danny Chill, sitting down in the java joint to work on writing my script for this month’s issue of Justice League in some relative peace and quiet, while El Douchebag (can’t you picture his stained green apron already, and the mandatory seventeen pieces of flair? — oh wait, wrong chain) serves up those refills, working minimum wage in a job he hates, but hey — how else is he going to pay for that gym membership, and all the steroids he’s got to be taking? Because no kid even close to my age should have arms that size, or a neck that short and thick.

  Problem is, that’s a good few years into both of our respective futures. Monroe has a couple of years on me; he turned sixteen back in March, I think, or pretty close. All of which brings us right back to the here and now, where his squat, ape-like frame is lurching towards me down Seventeenth Avenue; it’s almost as if a fire hydrant somehow pulled itself out of the ground and decided to try walking for the first time, and not entirely successfully. Three of his suckups are in tow behind him. I recognize them all…Snyder, Langley, and Foster. Just four knuckledraggers out for a stroll, and who just happen to be bored, mean, and looking to take that out on an easy target.

  In other words, somebody like me.

  On a good day, brown-haired, brown-eyed me might weigh in at around a hundred pounds…maybe. Dad used to like to joke that I lost the genetic lottery, or at least got most of my genes from Mom’s side of the family. I don’t think he ever realized how much that used to hurt, not even for a second, and now that he’s gone, I’m glad I never told him.

  There’s also the small fact that Brandon Monroe enjoys way more than his fair share of fame around the school for his number one hobby: he’s apparently a Krav Maga champion — you know, that Israeli martial art with the flying fists and feet — and had even won a couple of trophies for it.

  “Chill,” he said.

  I felt myself blanch. His tone was almost conversational, but the fake smile-slash-sneer wasn’t fooling anybody, least of all me. I don’t think it was ever really intended to. We’ve played this game before, Brandon Monroe and I. It always ends up the same way — one of us humiliated and knocked down on his ass, the other strutting and laughing, having once again established his manliness again in front of the pack. I’ll leave you to guess which one of us is which.

  Damn, but I hate him.

  I had no choice but to stop. The bullies had fanned out into a half-circle, totally blocking the sidewalk, but without looking like they were trying to block the sidewalk. Class was out for the day, they’d been forced to endure the miseries of actually trying to learn something, and now they wanted to let off some steam and have a little fun…preferably at my expense.

  “So we’ve been wondering…” The smile-sneer had split the difference now, settling into more of a smirk. “Are you still in the closet, or is it too crowded in there with all of those Batman comic books and Darth Vader figures?”

  A predictable snort came from the pack, who were obviously enjoying watching the skinny young guy start to squirm uncomfortably.

  But they were actually wrong for a change. On any other day, the usual way that this would have played out (assuming that I was suitably deferential) was that I might – if I was lucky— have gotten away with just being called a homo, or some other brilliantly witty insult like that; then perhaps I’d have been shoved in the chest by Monroe or one of his goons, maybe jabbed with a couple of fingers, then jostled by the douchebags as they swept past, jostling me from the sidewalk and out into the street.

  But on this particular day, for whatever weird reason, that isn’t how it was going to go down. Things were going to be different this time, simply because I just didn’t feel like playing the victim any more.

  I’d had it.

&n
bsp; The pack were waiting for me to respond, nudging one another and trading snarky comments in low voices. They were probably expecting a politely mumbled laugh from me, with perhaps an embarrassed little smile to go along with it; you know, all of the usual signs of a weaker kid trying to placate the stronger ones that clearly outnumber him and mean to rough him up.

  Well, too bad – they weren’t going to get it.

  My spine straightened as I stood taller, stiff-backed, squaring off against Brandon Monroe in a way that they had never seen before. The four of them stiffened in response, probably reading my body language as it changed in a new and maybe even slightly challenging way.

  And just like that, I dropped the bomb.

  “You know that she’s disappointed in you, right?” I asked.

  “What are you talking about, moron?” Brandon frowned, clearly puzzled. “Who’s disappointed?”

  I let the question hang silently in the air between us for a while, watching them get a little antsy and really enjoying the feeling.

  “Your grandmother,” I said after what seemed like an age. “Gilda.”

  Straight away, Brandon’s fists bunched up, seemingly of their own accord. He took an angry step towards me, and then another. I didn’t so much as flinch, or react to his threat in any way. To show even the slightest hint of weakness in the face of a bully like Brandon Monroe would always end badly. I should know. I’d tried that approach before, and gotten bruises to prove it.

  “What…did…you…say?” Each word was annunciated slowly, delivered through gritted teeth. He was getting really angry now, I could see it. The flushed red skin of his face reminded me of a traffic signal that needed to change to green.

  In a calculated display of confidence that I was actually starting to feel now, wonder of wonders, I locked eyes with him and wouldn’t drop my gaze. Mine were gazing calmly and clearly, his were narrowing in anger.

  “Gilda never did like bullies, did she, Brandon?” I went on, pushing my luck just a little further. “She couldn’t stand them. At all. That’s why she’s so disappointed with how you’ve turned out. Her own grandson, trying to prove how tough he is by pushing smaller kids around. She’s just glad that Grandpa Norman isn’t here to see it, Brandon. He’d be so angry, it wouldn’t be good for his blood pressure, and he isn’t ready to join her quite yet.”

  “You little...” Brandon’s face had turned from red to purple. His balled fists were clenching and unclenching, opening and closing over and over again. He took another step towards me. There couldn’t have been more than three feet between us now, four tops. “Who the hell spun you a line of crap like that?”

  My gaze drifted across to a space just behind Brandon Monroe’s right shoulder.

  “She did,” I shot back. “Just now.”

  The bully stopped, slack-jawed. I think he was trying to decide whether to break my jaw or burst into tears. His cronies definitely knew that something wasn’t right, they were starting to look uncomfortable now, beginning to drift away from the scene that was playing out between Brandon and myself.

  His lips moved, but no sound came out.

  “I mean, she’s standing right there.” I pointed with my chin, nodding towards his right hand side.

  “LIAR!”

  Brandon knew I was right. Shame was written on every line of his face, from his bulging eyes to his jutting chin, with a lip that was struggling not to quiver — and pretty much failing. It was obvious that he was going to fall back on his default behavior, just as he would in any uncertain situation, choosing violence, the easy out. It was a much more comfortable alternative to actually thinking.

  He took yet another step forward. I tensed, standing my ground despite the stink of his sweat and breath that was now bearing down on me. Smells like somebody had a burrito for lunch.

  Just two feet between us now. Another stride. We were nose to nose.

  The blow came out of nowhere.

  I mean that quite literally, at least so far as Brandon was concerned. We both felt the air move, disturbed by something that I could plainly see was a hand, but which he couldn’t see at all. This time I did flinch. The aftershocks from that slap echoed from the bully’s right cheek.

  Brandon staggered backwards, reeling. He was taken by surprise as much as anything. It wasn’t a really hard slap, but boy was it effective. Eyes widening in shock, he clamped a hand to his face, feeling the flushed skin already turning a deeper shade of red where he had been struck.

  “You hit me!” he blurted out, stunned that I would even dare. I just shook my head slowly. My hands were still at my side, had never left there. I wiggled my fingers as though to prove it. His buddies knew that I hadn’t hit him either; they’d been watching every detail, eagerly anticipating the spectacle of their fearless leader wiping the floor with the skinny little nerd. They’d also heard the slap, and watched his reaction.

  Almost as one, they turned and bolted.

  That’s the thing about bullies. When the pack leader gets humbled, the rest of the pack just melts away. Snyder, Langley, and Foster were just like that. Risking a quick glance into the distance past Brandon, I could see them flee through the school parking lot as though all the hounds of hell were snapping at their heels.

  Cowards, I thought. Not that that was news.

  “I didn’t hit you, Brandon,” I said evenly. Oh, I had wanted to, but I hadn’t. He could have wiped the floor with me, even with one hand tied behind his back…which it wasn’t. “She hit you. And believe me, it hurt her more than it hurt you.”

  Which, judging by the look of sorrowful disappointment on the ghostly old lady’s face, it genuinely had.

  Gilda Richardson, Brandon’s grandmother on his mom’s side, was a sweet little old lady. At least, she had sure seemed like one when she stepped up behind him and introduced herself to me just a minute before. She was wearing white sneakers with Velcro straps, beige slacks, a turquoise knitted sweater, and a thin silver necklace that closely matched the color of her hair.

  She was also wearing an expression that was trapped somewhere between heartbroken and royally outraged.

  Like most returned spirits, her body was about halfway transparent, and outlined in a blueish shade of energy which ebbed and flowed in accordance with her mood. It always reminded me of the Force ghosts of Obi-Wan and Anakin whenever I saw it. This particular aura was bright and livid, like the electric blue on a neon sign.

  “Brandon Michael Monroe, your parents raised you better than this! You should be ashamed of yourself, picking on a nice young man like this when you ought to be at home, studying hard to make something of yourself!”

  He might not have been able to see the outraged old lady jabbing an angry finger at him for emphasis, but Monroe sure knew that something was wrong. Like most “normal” people – the polite word that those of us that can see the dead use to describe those of you who are blind to their presence – his body could tell that it was in the presence of something supernatural. It was your typically warm Spring Colorado day, basically tee-shirt weather; but not for Brandon Monroe, because I could see the gooseflesh rising on the backs of both his arms, responding to that weird and unnatural chill that is normally a by-product of a spirit manifesting itself here on our material plane.

  “She’s telling you to go home and study,” I repeated some of her less-choice words helpfully. “You know, work hard, make something of yourself, and stop being a bully. Don’t be a douchebag, basically.”

  Brandon was shaking his head from side to side, jaw slack, the slap forgotten.

  “You’re a liar!” he spat, arms folded defensively. I shook my head right back at him.

  “You know what they say about me in school, right? ‘Danny Chill: the creepy kid who says he can talk to the dead?’” I leaned in close, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t actually flinch and take a step back. My voice dropped to a low whisper. “Did you ever stop to think that all that stuff might actually be true?”

  T
he look that crossed his face told me that he never had.

  “When he was four years old, we took Brandon to church one Sunday morning. He had an…accident in his pants, if you take my meaning.” Gilda Richardson sighed, her anger seemingly forgotten for the moment. “He was so upset, the poor boy. I remember, he darn near screamed the place down. It was that big church out on the highway, you know — out on the way towards Lyons.”

  I nodded, and felt a sudden out-of-place flash of sympathy for Brandon. That’s not the kind of thing I would want my grandmother telling strangers, whether she happened to be back from the dead or not.

  “Please remind him of that for me, young man, if you would be so kind.” She gave me a knowing look, eyes twinkling. If that doesn’t make him believe you’re telling the truth, then I don’t know what will.”

  I repeated what she had said to me, pretty much word for word. The dumbfounded expression plastered across his face morphed at first into one of sheer disbelief, but I could see those mental wheels turning, grinding away slowly at first, but then picking up speed as he tried to figure out how I could possibly have known what I had just said to him. He finally arrived at the only possible conclusion that made any sense...

  “You’ve been stalking me, you freaking weirdo!”

  But then the tears came. Deep down, he had to know that I was telling the truth, had to feel that icy, otherworldly chill crawling across his skin. Perhaps that was why he was shivering on a warm Spring day. It would certainly explain the tears which were now spilling down his face in twin streams.

  And just like that, the two-hundred pound muscle-bound bully was reduced to a quivering wreck. He turned tail and bolted, just like his followers had.

  Gilda and I just stood there, watching him go. She shook her said slowly.

  “He might be brash and confident on the outside,” the old lady said sorrowfully. “But on the inside, he’s still afraid. His father…look, you must understand that this isn’t an excuse for his behavior, young man. There is never an acceptable reason to bully somebody. But just between you and me, his father is a little too fond of his drink for my liking. Sometimes he gets…angry with Brandon. A little rough, if you follow my meaning. In fact, more than a little, if the truth be told.”