Death stepped from the shadowy curtain of night along a
deserted stretch of road toward the mangled hunk of cherry-red metal that used
to be a sweet Z240 sports car. Stardust glinted in the black hair that dipped
to her waist.
She kept a safe distance from the wreck. Inside, a thirtyish
man slumped behind the wheel, the air bag deflating away from his near-lifeless
body. Blood oozed from a nasty gash to his head. Should have worn his seat
belt. Too late for life lessons, though. Those weren’t her expertise anyway.
Just the opposite.
Leaves crackled in the underbrush beyond the nearby trees.
Death gripped the silver charm bracelet on her wrist, her senses on high alert.
Her finger poised near the hidden latch, ready to release a stream of
lightning.
.
A deer. It stilled, its wide eyes fixed on her.
Seeing nothing else, she continued with a modicum of
caution. Taking souls didn’t exactly make her popular, and after so many
millennia, she should’ve been used to it. The bad jokes. The Halloween
parodies. A scythe? Please. She’d never used cheap props. Only the finest
weaponry. No mortal ever suspected the intricately designed baubles adorning
her bracelet were anything more than ornamental.
Moonlight gleamed off the curves of the sports car, and she
ran a gilded nail along its hood. She wouldn’t mind taking one of these babies
for a spin. In its former condition, of course, before this guy took the curve
too fast and wrapped it around a tree. Humans always rushed everywhere,
sometimes straight into her arms.
The man’s moan signaled she had no need for weapons. This
one would give her no trouble. She fingered his blond hair, matted with blood.
What a shame. So young, and so handsome. He’d leave at least one lover
grieving, no doubt.
His eyes fluttered open. When he looked up, recognition
intensified the flicker of life in his eyes.
She needed no introduction. They always knew her,
unmistakable in the glimmering black filament gown, its folds revealing a
glimpse into infinity.
The stilettos usually earned a second glance, the
four-inch heels glistening like fool’s gold. The butterfly tattoo spanning her
upper arm likewise drew curious looks, which inevitably changed to horror when
the souls recognized the face imprinted within that colorful ink: their own.
View more about Death Is A Bitch at http://catemasters.blogspot.com/2011/04/death-is-bitch-dark-paranormal.html
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