Free His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) by J. Eric Hance Page A

trouble,” I somehow managed without stammering. “I’ll take care of it.”
    “Nonsense.” Her smile stretched wide, almost beyond what seemed humanly possible.
    Though, to be honest, that might have been my overactive imagination.
    “We’ll be seeing a lot of each other. It’s the neighborly thing to do.”
    I swallowed hard.
    We walked down the stairs in silence—if you ignored the constant growls from Elliott at our heels. Emma peeled away as we reached the second story. She walked up to suite 2E, the one marked “Massage,” and unlocked the door with a key from her pocket.
    “This is me.”
    Of course it was.
    At the far end of the hall, the next set of stairs began to pulse red.
    “Thank you, Emma.”
    She smiled, and it was the kind of warm and genuine smile that lights up an entire room. “It was my pleasure.”
    I started to turn away, but she reached out to grab my arm.
    I only flinched a little, I swear.
    “Hey, I still don’t know your name.”
    “Yeah…that makes two of us.”
    She shrugged, unconcerned. “Okay, well, let me know.”
    With a final smile, Emma disappeared into the suite.
    Elliott’s growls slowly subsided as we descended toward the first floor, though his hackles remained slightly raised. Of course, Emma had just dumped a bucket of water on him.
    And me.
    Now that we were alone, the robe swirled around me once again, drying me completely.
    Elliott, still soaking wet, silently glared.
    The pulsing red light flared up around the door out to the street. I took a long, slow breath and held it until my lungs began to ache. Exhaling, I stepped back into the dark Seattle evening.
    The red light no longer bounced, but rather slid sullenly to the left. It stopped, waiting for my next move.
    My first step was the hardest. The weight of a mountain was chained to my ankle, holding me back. I shoved both hands into the pockets of my trench coat as I struggled through the second step, and then the third, the mountain shrinking as I advanced.
    The red light perked up at my approach. By my fourth step, it started to hop happily in place. As we neared the intersection, it jumped exuberantly and bounced on down the street ahead of Elliott and me, leading the way.
    It led a few blocks north, where a cab idled in front of an art gallery. The cab driver read his newspaper in the front seat, finishing the last few bites of a sandwich. He made an obvious point of ignoring me.
    My bright red guide bounced into the gallery window, where it briefly vanished. The gallery was closed, and its window was dark. On display were several caricatures of celebrities and famous people from history. I didn’t recognize the artist’s name. I’ve never been into art, but I didn’t think it would have mattered; the faces were recognizable, but just barely.
    One, in particular, began to strobe slowly with a red glow.
    I turned back to the cab. The driver sighed, nodding to me over the top of his paper.
    I nodded back.
    He folded the paper, taking exaggerated time and care in laying it on the front seat as the remaining sandwich vanished in two bites. Finally, with a smug smile, he rolled down the passenger window.
    “Need a ride?”
    I nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”
    The back door clicked, unlocking. I slipped in, holding the door open long enough for Elliott to sneak quietly onto the floorboard at my feet, out of the driver’s sight. He curled up on my shoes, soaking them again.
    I doubt that was accidental.
    “Where to?”
    I sighed in resignation. The flashing caricature was Martin Luther King, Jr.
    “M.L.K. Way.”
     

     
    Elliott mewed softly as we looked up and down the street. It was a little after midnight, and the area was largely deserted.
    “You sure you gonna be all right, buddy?” The driver was only willing to roll the window a quarter of the way down to ask the question.
    Elliott’s soft mews sounded suspiciously like the word “no,” but I nodded…not quite trusting myself to