Chapter 118 - Live and Let Die

“Well, this certainly is a dilemma…” Death mused, waving his skeletal hand in front of Morrigan’s face. “I suppose it isn’t entirely unsurprising, though.”

“I wonder if it only expanded to the areas where it dug into her?” Hilda murmured, leaning against her staff while making sure Morrigan stayed focused on it. “You know, just replacing the damaged parts automatically.”

Death inclined his skull slightly. “Well, that would explain the expansion, but not the healing of her other wounds. The evidence suggests its cells are proliferating throughout her body. The real question is whether the changeling will develop a true will and personality of its own—or if, in time, it will consume her entirely.”

“I don’t know,” Hilda admitted. “I mean, I’m pretty sure it was dead before we grafted its flesh onto her. It’s not like some separate entity is lurking in there. It’s just… cells doing what cells do. I think.”

“I thought you said you were no demon expert,” Noir interjected, his tail flicking.

“Yeah, come to think of it…” Hilda eyed Noir. “Shouldn’t you know more about this than us?”

“And why would you assume that?”

“Well, you’re kind of demon yourself, right?”

“Voidlings and demons are nothing alike!” Noir complained. “Demons come from a realm of chaos, while Voidlings come from the space between worlds. We are not the same in the slightest.”

“I mean, could have fooled me.” Hilda shrugged. “You damn demonic cat.”

Noir turned back to Death, ignoring her jab. “More importantly, it is largely thanks to her”—he flicked his tail toward Hilda— “that we resorted to this method to keep Morrigan alive in the first place. If there is no way to stop its spread, then should we not consider simply discarding the flesh and be done with it?”

“I don’t think so, Noir,” Death said.

Hilda blinked at Noir, her expression snapping from amusement to horror. “Hold on—what did you just say? Discard her flesh? You mean, like, just—just tear it off? That’s your solution?”

Noir perched primly on the edge of the coffee table, his tail flicking lazily. “It’s not like she would get to keep it forever anyway. If the changeling’s influence is spreading, then removing it at the source would be the most logical course of action.”

“Logical?!” Hilda gestured wildly at Morrigan, who was still slumped in the chair, hypnotized, her gaze fixed on the glowing gemstone and a bit of drool slipping out of the corner of her mouth. “That’s not a damn tumor, Noir! It’s a grafted part of her body, and it's deep inside her! She can’t just go around with a gaping hole in her back—that’s the whole reason we had to do this in the first place, remember?”

“Ah, I see it seems you’ve misunderstood. What I meant is to discard all of her flesh.”

He sat there with his tail flicking calmly as if that solved everything.

Hilda just stared at him, jaw slack, blinking in stunned silence. “Okay, that’s it. You’re officially getting kicked out of this brainstorming session.” She turned her gaze to Death. “So, what do you think we should do?”

Death, who had been watching the exchange with an unreadable expression—well, as unreadable as a skeleton’s expression could be—finally spoke. “I agree with Miss Hilda.”

Noir’s ears twitched. “Master? Are you certain?”

“I am.” Death crossed his arms, his bony fingers tapping against his elbow. “Whether the changeling is truly sentient or simply a mindless extension of her body remains unclear. However, abruptly reducing her to a skeleton would likely result in immense psychological trauma. Besides, the situation does not yet seem dire enough to warrant such action.”

Hilda huffed. “Exactly! We don’t even know what we’re dealing with, and you’re just tossing out ‘discard her flesh’ like that’s some easy fix.” She pointed at Noir accusingly. “You are a terrible pet.”

“I am not a pet,” Noir snapped, his fur bristling.

“Oh, my mistake—terrible little demon cat,” Hilda corrected.

Noir turned his head away with a haughty flick of his tail, as if her childish antics weren’t worth dignifying with a response.

Death returned his focus to Morrigan, still caught in the hypnotic trance. “For now, our priority should be determining how much control she actually has over this transformation. If the changeling is responding to her injuries by healing her, then it is not entirely adversarial. In fact, one could argue that it is attempting to preserve its host.”

Hilda frowned. “So… what, we just wait and see?”

“Unless you have a method to contain its influence, we have little choice. And with time, we may find a way to reinforce her control over it.”

Hilda eyed him warily. “And would you happen to have an idea of how to go about that?”

Death’s sockets glowed red faintly as he considered the question. “No… I do not yet know.”

Hilda sighed and looked back at Morrigan, still slumped on the couch, blissfully unaware of the conversation happening around her. “Well. Guess I better bring her out of it before she starts drooling on my couch.”

She picked up the staff again, tapping the gem lightly. “Morrigan? You’re starting to wake up now. Your mind is becoming clear again, but you will leave a few things behind. You will remember coming into my apartment, and you’ll remember me treating your wound, but nothing else. You simply fell asleep, and now you’re waking up.”

Morrigan’s breath hitched slightly as her eyelids fluttered.

“That’s it,” Hilda continued, her voice smooth and soothing. “The weight is lifting. You’re feeling like yourself again. Awake. Present.” Hilda reached forward and snapped.

Morrigan blinked rapidly, her gaze refocusing. She stiffened slightly, shaking her head as if trying to clear away cobwebs. “Wha—what just happened?”

"Guess the late hours are really getting to you," Hilda said with a casual shrug. "We were just sitting here talking, and you passed out."

“Oh… I did?” Morrigan muttered, rubbing her head. “Wait, did you heal me?”

“Yup, Little moon water and some herbs did the trick. Well, you still have a little healing to do, but it shouldn’t take much longer. Probably a week, and you’ll be back to a hundred percent.”

“A whole week?” Morrigan asked.

“Eh, maybe sooner. But I’d say a week of recovery for BEING STABBED isn’t that bad.” Hilda nudged her shoulder. “So be grateful.”

“Right…” Morrigan sighed and said, “Oh yeah, with all of this, I almost forgot. There is something else I wanted to ask you about… You know your offer to foster me?”

“Yeah?” Hilda asked.

Morrigan sighed as she looked around the apartment. She guessed she would be living here pretty soon. “I think I’m ready to take you up on it. I know I can’t stay at the shelter much longer.”

“You sure, kid?”

Morrigan nodded, then glanced over to Death. “That is, if you think it’ll be okay for me to stay just a little longer while they get things finalized or whatever.”

“I suppose that would be fine,” Death agreed. “But just be careful. And Miss Hilda, are you sure about this? You know you are taking on responsibility for her going to school and other such normal responsibilities if she is continuing to pretend to be human.”

“Yeah, we already talked about it, and we’re good. Just try not to get picked up by the police anymore.”

Morrigan took another long look around the apartment, noting the chaotic mess of tools, car parts, and magical supplies. “UH… Hilda, you know you might have to clean this place up a little first. Pretty sure CPS will want to check out the residence first.”

Hilda winked. “Ah, no problem. I can use magic to help with that.”

“Magic to clean your apartment?”

“Well, I wouldn’t use the word clean. It's more like sweeping under the rug. Bewitching works essentially the same as glamour, it's just a little more of a process.”

Morrigan grinned. “Or, you know, you could actually clean.”

Hilda narrowed her eyes at her. “You know, for all the free medical service you’ve been getting from me, you should watch your attitude, kiddo. Maybe I’ll make you do the cleaning as repayment.”

Morrigan shrugged, “Sure, if you trust me not to accidentally throw anything away that might be valuable. I don’t really understand all this witch stuff, so who knows.”

“Alright, alirght, you little brat. Now don’t you have some reapering to get back to before I change my mind?”

Morrigan chuckled, “Yeah, I guess so… Uh, so do you think I’ll be able to shadow step?”

“I believe it would be best not to risk it,” Death chimed in. “That is why I’ll be accompanying you tonight, so I can give you a ride.”

Morrigan grinned. “Alright, sounds just like old times.”

***

The Death Mobile tore through the night, blasting Blue Oyster Cult, which seemed to be one of Death’s favorite bands.

Morrigan leaned back in her seat, watching the city lights blur past. “So, before television and radio, were you just… bored all the time?”

“Oh, no! Hardly!” Death waved a skeletal hand in dismissal. “There were always sights to see, live music and plays to experience, and of course—books! Books, most of all, have been my greatest companions. Even for an ageless reaper, there simply is not enough time to read everything worth reading.”

Morrigan gave him a skeptical glance. “Yeah, I don’t know. Still seems like you’d get bored eventually. I mean, it’s not like today, where you can just pull out your phone and listen to music from hundreds of years ago whenever you want.”

Death made a dramatic scoffing noise. “Ah, but recordings pale in comparison to the real thing, Morrigan! Have you ever heard Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 performed by candlelight in Vienna? Felt the ground tremble beneath your feet as an opera house echoed with Mozart’s final composition? No digital medium can ever capture the soul of a live performance.”

Morrigan’s brow lifted. “Wait… you actually saw all that? Like, when they were still alive?”

“But of course!” Death’s voice carried a note of fond nostalgia. “I was there for Beethoven’s last performance.”

Morrigan eyed him warily. “You didn’t… uh… you know. Reap him, did you?”

“Ah, if only I could have been so fortunate! To have spoken with such a brilliant mind in his final moments would have been an honor!”

Morrigan grinned. “Not sure if he’d feel the same way about it.”

“Oh, I suspect quite the opposite. Beethoven had a rather complicated relationship with fate—I believe he would have enjoyed a conversation with me in his final moments.”

Morrigan smirked. “What about modern artists? Any big names you’ve had the honor of meeting?”

Death’s fingers drummed idly against the steering wheel. “Oh, there’s been several here and there. Ah! Yes, Freddie Mercury was a delight. He had no fear. Pure passion right until the very end.”

Morrigan furrowed her brow. “Freddie Mercury?” The name was familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. “Who was he again?”

Death jerked his gaze towards her so fast his skull nearly detached from his spine. His jaw fell open in pure, unfiltered horror. “How can you not know Freddie Mercury? QUEEN!?”

“Oh! Ohhh! Yeah, that guy! Bohemian Rhapsody is great.”

"Honestly, Morrigan," Death muttered, turning back to the road, his disappointment practically radiating off him.

“Hey! It’s not like I don’t know Queen. I just… couldn’t remember his name.” She was pretty sure this was the single biggest disappointment she’d ever inflicted upon her mentor.

Clearing her throat, she quickly changed the subject. “Sooo… anyone else?”

“Ah, most recently, Chester Bennington.”

“No way. Chester from Linkin Park? I cried when I heard he passed away! W-what was he like?”

Death’s fingers drummed thoughtfully against the wheel. “A kind soul. Thoughtful. Even in his final moments, he carried deep sorrow, but also love. He worried more about those he was leaving behind than himself.”

Morrigan swallowed. “Damn.” She stared out the window, watching the streetlights flicker past. “I used to listen to so many of their songs on repeat.” Numb was one of her favorites. It just hit her in a way few other songs managed.

Death nodded solemnly. “Music has a way of expressing what words alone often fail to. He understood that better than most, I think.”

Morrigan sighed, sinking a little further into her seat. “Well, thanks for the emotional gut punch, Death.”

He chuckled softly. “You did ask.”

“Yeah, yeah…” She ran a hand through her hair, shaking off the heavy feeling settling in her chest. “Alright, let’s lighten things up. Who was the biggest asshole you’ve ever reaped?”

Death hummed in thought. “Oh, that’s an easy one—Adolf Hitler.”

Morrigan’s head snapped toward him. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“Yes… well, that was such a dark time. So much needless killing. I was glad to see it come to an end, and for once, I did not mind seeing my scythe glow red. But war, sadly, has been a recurring plight amongst humanity. If only it truly could have ended with the so-called war to end wars.”

“I was trying to lighten the mood.”

“Yes, well, levity is not always easily retained in our profession.”

Death’s car rolled to a stop in front of a weathered house nestled at the end of a quiet street. The place had an old-world charm—an ivy-covered trellis, a sagging wooden porch, and a warm glow emanating from the front window.

Morrigan unfolded her list and checked the name.

Elleanor Mercer, age 82, 1:14 A.M. 3535  Mulberry Way—Natural causes. 

She glanced at the dashboard clock—1:19 AM. “Looks like we’re a little late. Let’s do this,” she said, climbing out of the car. Death followed behind her, silent and composed. Since this was her client, he wouldn’t interfere—he was just here to give her a ride.

Morrigan retrieved the skeleton key from her pocket and slipped it into the lock, the door clicking open with ease, then opened it to an unusual yet oddly familiar sight.

Books.

Shelves upon shelves of them, stacked haphazardly on tables, spilling over onto the floor in precarious towers. They lined every wall, crammed into every available space, their spines forming a chaotic mosaic of knowledge. This collection might have even rivaled Death’s own. No—actually, with the high ceilings and sheer volume of books, she was willing to bet this woman had more than even he possessed.

“Wow. Hey, Death, check thi—”

Before she could finish, Death pushed past her, sweeping into the room with the urgency of a man who had just discovered the lost library of Alexandria. His hood slipped back, revealing his smooth, ivory skull, and his jaw fell open in unrestrained elation as he spun in a slow circle, taking in the overwhelming collection.

“My—what a marvelous collection!”

Morrigan rolled her eyes but couldn’t help a small smile. “Just don’t forget we do have a job to do.”

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Chapter 119 - Calling (Out) All Readers