Free How to be Death by Amber Benson

respectively, went home with an equal amount of candy in their buckets, so there’d be no squabbling over the spoils.
     
    Now, here I was twenty years later, following in my dad’s footsteps. I’d fought my fate for as long as I could, never realizing that maybe it wasn’t such a terrible fate after all. Death was the great leveler between Heaven and Hell, Good and Evil … and it was up to me to make sure that things stayed in balance.
     
    Of course, the nagging little voice chose just that moment to rear its nasty head.
     
    If you’re up for the job, that is,
it whispered.
The balance will be kept only if
you
can manage
it.
     
    Then with doubt simmering in my brain, I took Noisette’s gown from the armoire and began to get ready for my first ever Death Dinner and Masquerade Ball.
     

five

    The gown was delicate black gauze, spreading out around my feet in waves of fabric that simulated the nacre layers of a bed of oyster shells. The boning in the bodice held tight to my rib cage, dipping down to expose the rounded curves of my cleavage before nipping in at my waist and flowing sinuously over the arc of my hips in ragged swaths of material. In keeping with my position as Death, two large rhinestone skulls decorated the bodice. Except that, considering Noisette’s bill, there was a good chance they were not rhinestones …
    The gown swayed as I walked, the tattered gauze flowing around me like kelp caught in the undulating currents of the sea. I’d borrowed a pair of strappy black high-heeled sandals and some simple diamonds from my mother—heck, it wasn’t like she was there to care if I raided her amazing, designer-strewn walk-in closet—but I’d eschewed any other adornment, thinking it would weigh down the ephemeral qualities of the gown.
     
    “You look amazing,” Runt said as she watched me snap on the back of my left earring then adjust the bodice of the gown so my cleavage was a little less exposed.
     
    “It’s the dress. Whoever said that clothes make the man, well, they were on the money,” I shot back at her, but inside Iwas just as blown away as Runt was by how good I looked. Noisette was the couturier to the Gods for a reason, I decided. The woman had to weave magic into her creations because I’d never looked half as beautiful as I did in this gown.
     
    Of course, I’d helped the gown out a little bit by doing a pretty bang-up job on my makeup and hair. After taking a quick shower, I’d set my lanky locks in hot rollers and applied a healthy dose of smoky silver eyeliner and shadow. Then I’d released my hair from the torture devices (the hot rollers) and used a spray borrowed from my sometimes-Goth kid sister, which darkened my usually fairly nondescript brownish hair to a mysterious glossy black. Then I blew it out, poufing it up far more than usual, then pulling down a few strands in what I had to admit were some pretty darn sexy wispy bangs. No denying it—I looked hot.
     
    There was a rectangular mirror attached to the back of the delicate oak vanity and I stood in front of it, admiring my handiwork. In its surface, I could see the whole room reflected back at me: the two hand-carved teakwood beds with their glorious gold-and-scarlet coverlets, the gold gilt mantel, curving art deco armoire, and matching deco dresser that took over the far corner of the room, the delicate tracery desk and chair next to me—the whole space was a potpourri of dark wood paneling and spicy red-and-gold accents.
     
    As I stood in my glittering black gown beside Runt, who was wearing her best dress collar (red, which looked especially nice with her fur), my dark eyes seemed lit from within. I surveyed the beauty that surrounded us and realized that I looked as if I was born for the part I was about to play.
     
    There was a polite rap at the door—a patented Jarvis move—and Runt and I called out “Come in!” at the exact same time, which totally made us giggle.
     
    The brass knob turned,