Death’s scythe caressed the man’s neck, and his ghost pleaded. His body was tied, dead, and abandoned in a ditch, retribution for the way he led his crew of thugs until a more powerful man user sought their revenge.
There’s always something stronger, Death thought then chuckled. Even for Death. The desire for the sensations to come threatened his control.
The man’s ghost eyes watched and trembled, and Death knew that the man feared his next adventure. All wicked men did once they passed on and realized the afterlife was…different than expected.
“This is a tale about cruelty,” Death soothed, twisting his scythe just a smidge. The ghost was still trapped in his body, still feeling the pain of passing. “And power.”
A thrill shivered through Death’s incorporeal form, leaving behind a delicious anticipation that hummed within him. Each whimper and strangled plea only fed the need.
Death wasn’t quite yet ready to give the ghost relief. So many souls had been denied collection by this man, forced to roam until their murders were avenged. So many souls wasted…until now.
With a practiced flick of the wrist, the scythe sliced through the ghost’s tether, and a rush of energy slammed through Death, a waterfall of all the souls murdered finally able to rest. His form seized from the overwhelming euphoria and pain, the whispered appreciation inconsequential. All that mattered was the high, and when the final soul passed on, Death was left empty once more.
“Cruelty indeed.”
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