His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) Read Online Free PDF

chill, sweat plastered his hair to his head and etched deep lines into the dirt on his face.
    As I watched, a weak cough escaped his lips.
    Then I blinked, and the world changed.
    Dull orange lines marked the shape of the man’s heart and lungs, moving with the contraction of his organs. They flashed a bright, angry red as he coughed again.
    Within the outlined edges were patches of inky black. As he struggled for breath, the black would hungrily leech small bits of the color from the orange, growing stronger while the man grew weaker.
    An aura, for lack of any better word, outlined his entire body. A sickly, dark orange ribbon moved with him in perfect unison, perhaps a millimeter thick. It reminded me vaguely of the cheesy force fields in old superhero cartoons—the ones that always made me laugh.
    It didn’t seem so funny now.
    I stumbled backward from the strange, morbid light show.
    The man’s eyes snapped into focus, staring out at me as if my motion had drawn his attention. He tried to rise, his hand held out in silent pleading. He collapsed back to the ground, racked by a violent fit of coughing. His aura faded to blood red.
    I hesitated a moment, anxious and uncertain.
    The cough grew in ferocity, curling the man back into a tight ball. I could actually see the orange outline of his lungs straining, thinning, and starting to fail.
    My stomach lurched.
    And then, finally, his right lung broke open. His coughing didn’t stop, but instead wracked his body in a sudden, eerie silence.
    His outline faded to black.
    I might not know exactly what the aura meant, but black was obviously not good. Even without these strange visions, the situation was pretty obvious.
    Slim as it was, I might be his only chance.
    I stepped forward.
    The rain stopped.
    Perhaps I should rephrase that. It’s not like the clouds parted and the moon suddenly shone down on us. I mean that the raindrops actually stopped falling, hanging unsupported, literally frozen in midair.
    The homeless man stopped as well, mid-convulsion. Stiff as a statue, he seemed carved from stone—a shrine to the violence of his obviously fatal condition.
    “Your intentions are noble, Henry, but this man is not your responsibility.” The voice came from behind me. It was strong, but gentle; while its tone was firm, it did not lack compassion.
    I shook my head stubbornly, refusing to face this new stranger. “The hospital is only a few blocks away. If we can get there in time…”
    The man grabbed both shoulders and forced me to turn with an inhuman strength I hadn’t expected. He looked young. He wore jeans faded and torn from heavy use; sandals showing the wear of many long miles; a short-sleeved, black t-shirt; and a deerskin vest, creased and travel-stained.
    His hair and beard were light brown without trace of gray, both slightly longer than “clean cut.” His skin looked tight and smooth. Despite his youthful features, though, his deep blue eyes felt vast, and indescribably ancient.
    In large, blocky white letters, his shirt read, “W.W.I.D.?”
    Floating inches above his head, my newly enhanced vision revealed an ethereal, glowing circle of gold.
    I gasped.
    Was he another Agent? An angel, perhaps?
    “No, you can’t,” he said. “ Look at him, Henry; he’s dead either way. Moving him now would just kill him faster.”
    I’d had enough of magic and mystery for one night. Here was another person trying to steal my choices from me—a person I’d never met, who had the audacity to already know my name.
    I could save whomever I damn well pleased.
    “Why do you care?” I snapped out. “Who the hell are you?”
    He smiled benevolently, unfazed by my abruptness or obvious frustration. “I am many things to many people, but never more than what I seem, or less than what is required.”
    Right; because that explained everything.
    Except for the useless, cryptic part.
    I crossed my arms angrily, refusing to say or do more until he answered my