Death - cryer

Behind him the Master of Ceremonies cleared his throat. His eyes took on a distant, glazed look.

“The Stealer of Souls,” he said in the faraway voice of one whose ears aren’t hearing what his mouth is saying, “Defeater of Empires, Swallower of Oceans, Thief of Years, The Ultimate Reality, Harvester of Mankind, the—”

ALL RIGHT, ALL RIGHT. I CAN SEE MYSELF IN.

Mort paused with a cold turkey leg halfway to his mouth. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to. There was no mistaking that voice, felt rather than heard, or the way in which the air chilled and darkened. The chatter and music of the wedding reception slowed and faded.

“We didn’t think you’d come,” he said to a potted fern.

TO MY OWN DAUGHTER’S WEDDING? ANYWAY, IT WAS THE FIRST TIME I’VE EVER HAD AN INVITATION TO ANYTHING. IT HAD GOLD EDGES AND RSVP AND EVERYTHING.

“Yes, but when you weren’t at the service—”

I THOUGHT PERHAPS IT WOULD NOT BE ENTIRELY APPROPRIATE.

***

Mort p204