Chapter 119 - Calling (Out) All Readers

Morrigan leaned back against the wall and watched as Death scuttled over to one of the nearby bookshelves and began scanning the titles. She was in a bit of a rush herself tonight, considering the longer she took to get back to the shelter the higher chance of her getting caught, but she decided to just enjoy this for a moment. A typical night of reaping involved at best rudimentary conversation with Noir but more often he was the one urging her to hurry about and just do her job.

“My, Mrs. Mercer is certainly quite the collector,” Death marveled. “Now, none of these titles seem too incredibly rare, while many are quite old. But, I’m willing to bet that her true treasures are hidden elsewhere.”

“Why are you so sure about that?” Morrigan asked.

Death scoffed. “Do you think I leave my most prized volumes in haphazard stacks around my living room? Oh no, Morrigan. Every collector has a room or shelf they are most proud of that they keep secure.”

Morrigan spotted a bit of movement at the top of the steps and pointed. “Well, you can always ask her yourself.” Morrigan walked over to the bottom of the steps to see the spirit of an old woman looking down at them. Her white hair was tied back in a bun, she had large round-rimmed glasses, and wore a flowing white nightgown. “Um, Miss. Mercer?” Morrigan asked.

“Pardon me,” the spirit answered with a somewhat strict tone. “But who are you and what are you doing in my house?”

Morrigan cleared her throat, preparing to ease into her usual speech about who she was and what she was doing here. She liked to begin by first assessing if the spirit knew they were dead or not. After all, she like avoiding upsetting her clients unnecessarily when possible and you’re dead and I’m here to reap you can come off as a bit of a punch in the gut at times.

“Well… we are here doing an important job, Miss. Mercer. You see, as I’m sure you’re well aware—”

Death interrupted her and said, “Ma’am, we are reapers. Our job here today is to guide you to your next plane of existence. But I must apologize for my distraction, as I was simply overwhelmed by your outstanding collection!”

Morrigan quietly hissed, “Death!”

However, Miss. Mercer didn’t seem as upset by the sudden reveal of her own death as Morrigan had worried. Perhaps she had already figured that part out, and Death, the experienced people-watcher that he was, may have already been able to tell and that’s why he opted for being so direct.

“Ah… I see…” Mrs. Mercer said with a contemplative expression as she looked over the two of them. “So, I suppose that’s how this works, then? I must be frank and admit I feel like I’m dreaming, I never would have imagined it would be handled so… casually…” She turned her head to look down her nose as at them, as if chastizing them for the unprofessional behavior.

“I can see why you would assume as such,” Death said, bowing slightly with a skeletal hand over his torso, “But the truth of it is that the afterlife is often much less dramatic than the living imagine. It is, in many ways, just another part of the journey.” He straightened, his hollow sockets fixated on the woman with interest. “But I must say, Miss Mercer, your collection is most impressive. You clearly had an exquisite taste in literature.”

The spirit of Mrs. Mercer adjusted her glasse, trying to maintain her stern composure, though it wasn’t lost on Morrigan how it had slipped ever so slightly. “Of course. My life had been spent among books—curating, preserving, and appreciating the written word. Why, I should hope my collection reflects that.” Her gaze flickered toward the shelves. “Though I’ll admit I always meant to organize them better…”

Morrigan crossed her arms, smirking slightly as she watched Death’s entire posture shift into that of an overenthusiastic bookworm. “Yes, yes, I completely understand. The trouble of a true collector—too many books and not enough time or space to shelve them all properly!” He waved a hand toward the precarious stacks. “I must confess much of the space in my own home is occupied in the same way.”

“Well surely there are worse ways to fill ones life,” Mrs. Mercer said with a smile finding her lips despite herself.

Morrigan couldn’t imagine getting through just one of these shelves in her entire life. Well, she supposed she did have time now—immortal reaper and everything. She wasn’t the biggest reader hereself, though had a few favorites of her own.

“Um, so how many of these have you read?” Morrigan asked.

“Quite a few, my dear. Not all, of course. It was a lifelong pursuit, though I do wish I had finished just a few more.” She let out a wistful sigh. “I suspect even given another hundred years I may not have finished them all

“Speaking from experience,” Death said, “It is indeed an uphill battle. Even if you have, presumably, all the time in the world.”

Morrigan narrowed her eyes at Death. “Come to think of it. I’ve never actually seen you reading a book. I’ve seen you playing plenty of video games though.”

Death recoiled slightly and coughed (unnecessarily) into his hand. “Ah yes, well… admittedly, I may have gotten a little distracted in recent decades.”

Morrigan grinned, but she suspected they might be here all night without a little prodding. “Anyway… love that you found a book buddy but we are on a schedule, you know. Remember the whole guiding the dead thing we’re all about?”

Mrs. Mercer turned to her, looking mildly affronted. “Well, I hardly see the rush. A woman should be allowed to make peace with her passing.”

Morrigan opened her mouth to argue, but Death raised a hand. “Ah, actually, we do have a bit of time before our next appointment, Morrigan. There’s no harm in letting Mrs. Mercer enjoy a few last moments in her home.”

Morrigan narrowed her eyes at him. “This is actually about you wanting to see more of her collection, isn’t right?”

Death said nothing.

Mrs. Mercer folded her hands neatly as a smile forced its way onto her lips. “Well in that case… Perhaps you’d like to see the special collection I keep locked away?”

Death made a sound that could only be described as pure, unfiltered joy. “Miss Mercer, you are too kind.”

Morrigan sighed heavily as Death eagerly followed the spirit up the stairs. “Of course. Of course, this is happening. Why wouldn’t it be?” she muttered to herself.

With a shake of her head, Morrigan trailed after them, figuring she might as well make sure he didn’t try to smuggle any books into his robes before they left.

Mrs. Mercer led them down a narrow hallway, past more towering bookshelves, before stopping in front of a sturdy oak door with an ornate brass lock. She gestured toward it with a knowing smile. “And this, Sir Reaper, is where I keep my most treasured volumes.” She began fumbling over the pockets of her nightgown. “Ah… how silly of me. I seem to have left my key elsewhere. I’ll be back in just a—”

“Actually,” Death interrupted. “I think you may find some difficulty in getting this door open in your current form, with or without a key.” Death said then slipped his skeleton key out of his robes and inclined his head polietly. “I, however, have one of my own. If you wouldn’t mind, of course.”

“Well, I don’t see the harm,” Mrs. Mercer said, “Please, by all means.”

Morrigan noticed the slight giddiness in Death’s movements that he was trying to contain as he moved the skeleton key towards the lock. As it came closer, just as always, the shape of it morphed slightly to fit into the lock. Mrs. Mercer watched with interest as he did so.

Once it was unlocked Death held the door open and politely said, “Please, after you.”

Mrs. Mercer nodded approvingly before stepping inside, her ghostly form passing over the threshold with an air of reverence. Morrigan followed behind, and Death—despite his apparent eagerness—entered last, as if savoring the moment.

The room was smaller than Morrigan expected, but it was packed with towering bookshelves, each one meticulously maintained. Unlike the rest of the house, where books had been left in precarious piles or stuffed into whatever space was available, here everything was in perfect order. The shelves were made of polished mahogany, and the air had the faint scent of old paper and leather. A large wooden desk sat in the center, its surface clear except for a single hard-cover book, resting as if it had just been placed there moments before.

Death took a slow, deliberate breath, despite having no lungs. “Mrs. Mercer… this is magnificent.”

Mrs. Mercer’s expression softened. “I am rather proud of it. These are not here just based on value—mind you—but the books that defined me, that changed the way I thought, that shaped my beliefs and inspired me throughout my life.” She drifted toward one of the shelves, running an incorporeal hand along the spines. “I spent years searching for some of these. Traded, bargained, even traveled just to get my hands on certain volumes.”

Morrigan smiled. “Wow. Sounds like a modern-day treasure hunter.”

Mrs. Mercer chuckled. “That’s exactly what it was, my dear. Books are treasure. Knowledge is wealth.”

Death hummed in agreement as he scanned the shelves. “Indeed, indeed! Oh, I see you have an original printing of The Whispering Cedars! A wonderful saga about the rise and fall of a 17th-century logging town—criminally overlooked in modern times.”

Morrigan’s eyebrow twitched. “Yeah, that sounds like a real page-turner.”

Mrs. Mercer ignored her and turned toward the desk, eyeing the book resting there. “Ah, my final read.” She reached for it but, of course, her fingers passed right through. A small sigh escaped her. “I didn’t quite get to finish it.”

Death tilted his head. “An unfortunate reality of mortality—never enough time to finish every book.”

Mrs. Mercer turned to him with a small, wry smile. “That’s where you and I differ, isn’t it? You do have the time.”

Death was silent for a moment before nodding. “Yes. But the joy of reading is not merely in finishing a book—it is in the experience of it. The journey through its pages, the time spent lost in its world.” He gestured toward the shelves. “You may not have finished your last book, but look at all you did read. All you experienced, all you learned.” He placed a skeletal hand over his chest. “That is a life well lived.”

Mrs. Mercer’s expression softened further, though a flicker of disappointment remained in her gaze as she regarded the book on the desk. “I do understand that… But even so, there’s a certain frustration in knowing I’ll never see how it ends.” She let out a small chuckle. “It’s a silly thing to dwell on in the grand scheme of things, I suppose.”

“Not at all,” Death assured her, his voice carrying a gentle warmth. “Unfinished stories, unanswered questions… they linger. They weigh on the mind, even beyond death.” He turned his gaze to the book and tapped his bony fingers against the desk. “Ah, but as it happens, I have read this one before.”

Mrs. Mercer blinked, then straightened slightly, her hands folding together at her waist. “You have?”

“Oh yes,” Death said, tilting his skull slightly. “It has been some time, but if my endearing young apprentice wouldn’t mind a mild detour in our night’s activities, I would be happy to reiterate its ending as best as I am able.”

Morrigan gave him a flat look. “You’re asking like I actually have a choice.”

Death turned to her with a mock gasp, placing a hand over his ribs as though deeply wounded. “Morrigan, you wound me! I would never force you to indulge in my literary musings against your will.”

She stared at him.

He stared back.

Mrs. Mercer, seemingly amused, glanced between the two of them before settling her gaze on Morrigan. “Would it truly be such a terrible thing? I would be grateful.”

Morrigan sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “Yeah, yeah, please, don’t let me stop you. I mean, if we have the time.” She shot Death a pointed look. “We do have the time, right?”

Death gave an enthusiastic nod. “Oh, plenty. And I shall endeavor to be as succinct as possible while maintaining the heart of the tale.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes but allowed herself a small smirk. “Alright, let’s hear it then.”

Death settled himself against the desk, one hand resting on the closed book, the other gesturing theatrically as he began. “Now, where to begin… Ah yes! In the final arc, our protagonist finds herself at the the gates of the walled gaurden, the truth lingering just beyond her reach…”

***

Mrs. Mercer listened intently, her translucent form still and focused, as if absorbing every word. As for Morrigan, severely lacking context of what exactly this story was about, found her mind drifting. She thought back to one of her early reapings—the client she had met in the mountains of Wyoming when she had stollen Death’s truck.

She winced inwardly as she realized she never made good on her promise to read his book, but she supposed she’d been busy enough since then she couldn’t be entirely blamed. After all, It wouldn’t be the first time she promised to read a book but never got around to it.

Death’s voice carried through the library, his usual theatrical flair giving life to his recounting of the tale. Morrigan wasn’t exactly following—she’d already zoned out somewhere between precipice of discovery and ephemeral longing—but Mrs. Mercer Mercer was enraptured, hanging onto every syllable as though she could absorb the story through sheer will alone.

Finally, Death reached the end. His voice, usually so dramatic, softened into something almost reverent as he recited it the final words:

"And so, weary and longing, she turned to the sailor and spoke her last true desire. ‘Take me back to Eden.’"

Silence followed. Mrs. Mercer closed her eyes for a moment, as if savoring the words. Then she let out a small, trembling breath and nodded.

“That’s… that’s a beautiful ending,” she murmured, wiping a tear from beneath her round-rimmed glasses. “Thank you.”

Death dipped his head, his skeletal fingers folding neatly over his chest. “It was my pleasure, Mrs. Mercer.”

Mrs. Mercer turned to Morrigan suddenly. “You’re quite young,” she noted. “Do you read much?”

Morrigan hesitated, thrown off by the abrupt question. “Uh… sometimes, I guess? I used to do it a lot more.”

Mrs. Mercer’s lips pursed as though considering whether that was an acceptable answer. Morrigan resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“I was meaning to read something this summer, actually,” Morrigan admitted. “I just never got around to it. Twilight of Swords, I think it was called. Apparently it just came out.”

Mrs. Mercer made a sound that could only be described as a dignified scoff. “That drivel?”

Morrigan blinked. “Uh, yeah? I mean, I haven’t read it yet, but—”

“Oh, don’t waste your time, dear,” Mrs. Mercer said with a dismissive wave. “It’s nothing but overwrought melodrama. Terribly written. Poorly paced. And the author, Sam something—” she wrinkled her nose, “—tries far too hard to sound clever, but all he accomplishes is sounding insufferable.”

Morrigan had to hold back her grin. Insufferable was certainly one way to describe that guy. “I mean… okay, but you still read it, right?”

Mrs. Mercer huffed, adjusting her glasses. “Of course I did. I make it a point to be well-informed before forming an opinion.”

“It couldn’t have been that bad, could it?”

“Well, perhaps it wasn’t entirely without merit.”

“Oh?”

Mrs. Mercer smirked. “The cover art was lovely. And it had a reasonable following so perhaps it just wasn’t for me.”

Morrigan hoped that was the case. If the majority of readers gave the kind of scathing review as Mrs. Mercer, Morrigan thought maybe Sam was lucky he died before seeing it published.

“Ma’am… if it’s alright, I think it’s time now,” Morrigan finally said.

“Of course. Thank you again for humoring me, and… Death was it? Thank you for your wonderful reiteration of the ending.”

“It was and shall forever be—my pleasure,” he said with a bow.

Mrs. Mercer giggled like a school girl and if Morrigan wasn’t mistaken she may have even blushed. “Oh, if only we had met fifty years earlier, Death.”

Morrigan began to raise a finger and point out how that wouldn’t have been such a good thing, but then held herself back. Instead, she summoned her scythe. “Good luck on your next journey, Mrs. Mercer.”

“Thank you dear. I am sure it’ll be a wonderful sequel to this life.”

Morrigan swung the scythe and a moment later she was gone.

Morrigan stared at the empty space for a moment before shaking her head. “I think I liked her.”

Death adjusted his robes. “Yes, a fellow lover of books. She will be missed.”

Morrigan rolled her shoulders, already moving toward the door. “Alright, guess that didn’t take too long. I need to get back to the shelter so lets try to get through the next two names on my list a little faster.”

***

Morrigan and Death managed to wrap up the rest of the night’s reaping without too much trouble. The second soul had been a lonely old man who took a little convincing before he was ready to move on, and the third had been a teenager who died in a car accident—unfortunate, but at least he didn’t put up a fight.

By the time they were heading back toward the shelter, the sky was starting to lighten at the edges, the deep black of night softening into early dawn hues. This was certainly the latest she had ever gotten back before and dreaded waking from the minimal amount of sleep she’d be able to get tonight.

Death dropped Morrigan off down the street. She made her way behind the Tiffany’s Youth Shelter and slipped through the back entrance, careful not to let the door creak. She had left it unlocked before sneaking out, with the extra scrutiny she didn’t want to risk having to explain how she got through the door from the outside—she was running out of excuses for her magical lock opening abilities.

The hallway was quiet. All she had to do was make it down the corridor and back to her room without—

“And just where have you been?”

Morrigan froze mid-step, her heart plummeting.

Miss Cheyenne stood at the other end of the hallway, arms crossed over her chest, her sharp eyes fixed on her like a spotlight. Her expression was a perfect storm of frustration and disappointment.

Crap.

Morrigan forced a sheepish smile. “Uh. Bathroom?”

Cheyenne’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s it, young lady. You are all out of chances now.”

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Chapter 120 - No Rest For the Morrigan