Four † Never Say Die

Kat's vocal cords retraced into her throat and disappeared completely.

"I am Calix." The man calmly rose from the couch. "There is no use for stealth and subtlety now, so I will not bother with it anymore. Today is the last day of your life, and I have come to take you to the Underworld. To Hell, to be precise."

She gaped at him, but she studiously avoided looking directly into his eyes. The light slanting through the curtains graced his outline and bounced off the bronze metal mask in his hand. Every plane and contour of his perfect face was emphasized, making him appear more lifelike than ever. Seeing him like that stirred something inside her.

For the first time today, she felt like she was finally arriving at something.

Meanwhile, the man—Calix, apparently—was regarding her with narrowed eyes. "Let me tell you in advance that negotiation is not an option. You will, however, stand trial before having your punishment decided." He paused, holding out his hand. "Now come with me. Your death is a couple of hours late, and it would be best not to waste any—"

"I'm tripping," Kat blurted out. "I'm seeing things."

As soon as she said those words, she immediately felt that they were true. Of course. She was exhausted, hungover, and terribly hungry. This was probably her brain's way of coping. It was the only explanation.

But Calix wasn't impressed with her revelation. A frown crossed his face, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. "Yes, it seems so. You are indeed seeing things. How, I do not know, but not even the strongest glamour obscures your sight."

Overdue death. Hell. Punishment. And now, glamour. The words floated around Kat's head, sensible and stupid, familiar and meaningless at the same time. A bubble of giggles rose in her throat, and in no time she was cackling.

God, her brain really was something, wasn't it? She thought that the peak of her creativity was her famous and highly successful rebrand of the men's hygiene line called Debonair. She'd raked in fortune and awards for that, but the real winner should've been Calix, her high-definition and hyper-realistic daydream.

Speaking of Calix, he was now glaring at her as though she was the hallucination.

"Your situation is no laughing matter, I assure you," he told her coldly, lowering his hand. "Do not make this more complicated than it should be."

As he spoke, Kat noticed that he didn't sound anything like his leather-clad stripper counterpart in her dreams. His voice was deeper, better modulated, with just a slightly raspy quality that came across as ridiculously sexy. She had to admit—she liked his real voice better.

Except that he had no real voice. He didn't really exist, did he? Therefore, revision: she liked his second voice better.

But she also liked him better in leather straps and flimsy briefs. So there's that.

Kat tried to focus and turn Calix back to his Magic Mike version, where she could just enjoy the sight of him and not get intimidated by it, but nothing happened. His cloak didn't disappear. There was no reappearance of leather. The only thing that changed was his expression, which turned stonier and colder. She was determined to debunk his mystery and disprove his presence, but his consistent form made her confidence falter.

"You're getting more and more realistic," she noted, her heart skipping a beat. She tried to maintain at least a grin, but the corners of her lips were shaking. "You're not hard on the eyes at all, but I hope you won't stay for too long. It would be really weird to have you popping around—"

"Enough," Calix interjected squarely. "Submit to me now or face terrible consequences. Defiance would not get you anywhere."

"Don't interrupt me. You're not even real," she retorted. "But hey, what kind of submission do you have in mind? Is it the Fifty Shades of Grey variety? Because if so, I'm in"

His mouth tightened. "It is the kind that ends with your death."

With that, he stepped forward, scattering a thin layer of dust by his feet. Kat heard the unmistakable swish of his cloak, the heavy thud of his footsteps. The air in front of her became unnaturally chilly, so she stepped back.

"You're not real," she mumbled, weaker and with less arrogance this time. "You're just a manifestation of my—"

"I am real." He advanced again, just one step, but she had to make up it by taking two steps back. "I am very, very real."

In a speed she didn't anticipate, Calix closed the distance between them in one go. Too close. He was too close that the air she inhaled was his scent, myrrh and incense and dried roses—sweet, earthy, and dead. Only an inch separated his face from hers. His breath was cold instead of warm, fluttering against her lips like a breeze. He was slightly bent over her, his head lowered, so that she had nowhere to look at but his eyes.

Kat knew that it would be dangerous to look straight into them. She remembered perfectly, how he'd taken her to a painful trip down memory lane back at the scene of the accident.

And yet, overcome by a powerful and uncontrollable urge, she lifted her gaze to meet his.

She expected waves of memories, the onslaught of pictures, and they indeed crashed over her. They were as rapid and as vivid as before, but none of them were familiar. None of them belonged to her, not in any point of her life.

These were his memories, she realized as the images swallowed her mind.

The first thing Kat registered was a cave, except that it was so vast and so wide that it seemed more like a yawning abyss. The ceiling couldn't be seen, and it wasn't because of the hazy grayish-blue clouds drifting in the cold, dry air. It was because it was much too high, too far to make out. Fine black sand rolled underfoot, creating both smooth hills and jagged mountains, on which monuments were erected. They were a variation of cultural and religious structures: Egyptian pyramids, Greek pillars, Catholic churches, Muslim mosques, Chinese temples, and many more Kat couldn't identify.

At the base of the mountain range was a long line of people wearing similar outfits to Calix's, black robes and plague masks. They were ascending the rough stone steps carved at the side of the cliffs. They were holding torches, each topped with a crown of white flames, which made the whole scene appear black and white. They were chanting something in a strange growling language. The sound echoed across the landscape, loud and eerie, blood-curdling.

Just when the sound of collective voices started to creep Kat out, the scene dissolved.

Calix was visible this time, and he was walking along a series of hallways made of black marble, clutching the same torch. Every second or so, a scream would pierce the air, accompanied by profuse pleas and sobs. There were successions of metal bars occasionally looming into view. After a while, Kat realized that they weren't décor. They were jail cells, and inside them were gaunt, emaciated, and naked humans being flogged, flayed, boiled in oil, crushed. . . . 

They were being tortured. Punished. Their physical forms were being damaged or destroyed completely, only to have them slowly reform to receive more pain.

The image changed again. Calix was no longer inspecting tormented people. He was standing in the middle of a colosseum made of black blocks, wearing a black linen shirt and loose black pants tucked in boots. There were weapons lying around, from bows and arrows to double edged swords. In his hand was a battle ax with a long and thick handle. He was swinging it around with deadly accuracy, decapitating straw dummies in one swipe. An elderly man was sneaking up behind him with a dagger, and for a moment of panic, Kat thought Calix would get shanked. But then the dagger flew out of the old dude's grasp.

Calix faced him with a smug little smirk.

The old guy laughed. "I have forgotten you can do that. You really are destined for great things, young warrior."

The scene dissolved. Calix was now kneeling on a stone dais inside a black marble cavern, facing a woman sitting on a high-backed chair.

The woman had to be at least fifty. Her long black hair was streaked with silver, her golden skin a little wrinkled but still glowing. She was breathtakingly beautiful, like a movie star who aged gracefully. She had a queenly, regal face, and Kat knew that in her youth, she must've looked like an absolute stunner.

"It is a task I could only entrust to you." The woman's voice was as enchanting as her looks, sweet and mellifluous. "A soul, unlike any others, walk the earth. It is more sinister, more powerful than the rest of the wicked mortals we house in Hell. Bring it to me, to justice."

"I will," memory-Calix replied gravely, and then the vision stopped short.

Kat was abruptly thrown back into reality, shivering not because of the sudden but drastic drop in temperature, but because of the realization dawning over her.

Calix was very real. Very, very real indeed. And based on the things Kat had just seen, the identity he had presented was also real.

Overdue death. Hell. Punishment. The words no longer floated. They clung onto Kat and weighed her down with their meaning. Today was indeed her last day alive, but it wasn't the end of her destiny. She was fated to suffer along with many others in those cells, forced to endure pain unlike anything she had ever known.

Terror was now burning inside her, making it difficult to breathe. She turned to Calix slowly and cautiously, afraid of getting pulled back into his head, but he was no longer leaning towards her. He'd backed off, standing close to the window. His brows were drawn together in outrage, his lips pulled back in a snarl. His mask was lying by his feet. There was tension in his broad shoulders, the kind that suggested he was about to lunge.

And lunge he did.

A scream built up in her gut, but Kat couldn't lrelase it properly. She was too scared, too determined to escape, that she was unable to redirect her energy into yelling. The moment Calix reached for her, the only clear thought she had was: I don't want to die. I don't want to go to Hell.

She swerved to the side, successfully dodging his outstretched hand. However, she didn't look at where she was going. The back of her knees collided against the stiff armrest of the sofa. The impact tipped her equilibrium, causing her to fall back at an awkward angle and land on the carpeted floor with a dull thud.

Dust flew everywhere, even in her eyes. Kat coughed and used her elbows to prop herself up, but before she could regain her footing, Calix grabbed her shoulders and pulled her towards him.

"No!" Kat shrieked. 

With her determination pounding in her veins, she kicked and squirmed, eventually causing Calix to lose grip. She rolled to her feet, and even with her shaky, unsteady knees, she raced towards the front door. Her hand closed around the knob, turning it until she was able to feel the lock loosen—

Then it clicked right back into its original place. Kat tugged at the knob, but it wasn't budging anymore. She whipped around in confusion, only to see Calix watching her with a mix of satisfaction and contempt. He was starting to look less beautiful and more sinister in her eyes.

"Do not make this harder for both of us," he said. Then he charged.

Kat bolted towards the hallway leading to the bedrooms. Her shaky knees gave way, causing her to stumble on a lump in the carpet. Fear gripped her, and while she tried to come up with a good counter-attack, she whipped out her phone (seven percent battery life—tragic) to call 911.

But what could the cops do against a supernatural angel of death? Kat wondered. The answers she came up with were not reassuring, but she dialed the number anyway.

However, before the call could get through, her phone slid out of her grasp, zipped towards the opposite wall, and collided against the concrete with a mild crack. It wasn't broken, as far as she could tell, but it did that flip on its own. It's like the lock all over again.

Oh, God. Wasn't Calix telekinetic? The thing she'd seen, the old man whose dagger just flipped right off his hand. . . . 

Kat's mind was spinning in panic now. Her eyes swiveled around in search for something heavy to hit him with, but the only things in the hallway were her dad's framed watercolor paintings.

Well, the wooden frames could pack a punch when aimed perfectly, couldn't they?

But before she could unmount the paintings, Calix appeared at the end of the hallway. Oh, he looked plenty annoyed, but he didn't seem remotely winded nor in a hurry to get to her. In fact, he moved at a leisurely pace. He was basically gliding.

Kat pressed herself against the wall and carefully backed away until her hand found the doorframe of her parents’ bedroom. She was fairly sure that there was no weapon there, but if she could just barricade herself inside, she'd probably come up with a good plan. Or maybe just jump out the window. It would only be from the second floor.

Okay, she wasn't really into that window escape plan, but she'd keep it as a backup. She'd rather have broken legs than go to Hell. She'd rather have anything, really, as long as she remained alive.

"You have just earned yourself a heavier punishment." Calix slowly advanced towards her. "Come with me now and perhaps I will show you mercy."

That offer didn't sound too bad, but she would never take it anyway. Not when there was a sliver of chance she might escape.

Kat said nothing, just continued to inch back until the door was directly behind her. As surreptitiously as she could, she fumbled for the doorknob, but before she could find it, the door flew open on its own. Landing on her butt, she fell inside the bedroom.

Except that it wasn't her parent's bedroom. It was an entirely different room. She wasn't even sure it could be called that.

The ceiling was high, adorned with paintings of naked people in forests and gardens, or posing on top of clouds. The walls were gilded with gold, and the floor—which should've been made of wood—was now solid marble. There were candles lit on golden stands. An ancient carved table, laden with a goblet and a sheet of paper, stood in the middle of the room, flanked by two high-backed chairs.

The place looked like the altar of a Catholic church. And Kat should know. She'd spent every Sunday of her childhood inside one.

What she didn't know was how she'd gotten here.

Calix stood at the doorway, which was still rectangular and plain, still the gate to her apartment. However, once he swung the white door closed, it blended right into the gilded wall. There really was no escape now, no backup plan, no other way but to die at his hands.

A sob hitched at her throat. She was only twenty-eight. Nothing had come out of her life yet, nothing remarkable, nothing that resembled her dreams. It couldn't end here. She wouldn't let it.

Kat shifted into a more defensive position. "You can't take me. I would never let you."

Tears flowed down her flushed cheeks, but she wiped them angrily. It seemed that he took no notice. If he did, he probably didn't care. He just casually extracted a tiny vial out of the folds of his cloak, uncorked it, and poured exactly one drop of the clear liquid into the goblet on top of the table.

She thought that he'd splash the contents of it onto her or something, but he merely offered it to her. 

"Drink," Calix said softly. "You cannot pass the gates if you do not drink this."

Kat shook her head. He sighed and brought the goblet more insistently towards her, and in an instinctive act, she swiped at it, causing it to fall onto the floor with a clang. The red wine-like liquid came flowing out of its mouth, hissing and steaming.

This changed Calix's mood. He'd only been irritated with her, but now he was full-on pissed. His eyes turned flinty and scathing but at the same time enlightened, like he'd just confirmed his suspicions.

"I have told you." He held out a hand and conjured a sharp silver spear out of thin air. Then, before she could plead, he swiftly placed the sharp tip against the base of her throat. "Defiance would not get you anywhere."