Reapers, Inc. - Brigit's Cross by B.L. Newport Read Free Book Online Page B

she
entered. Brigit noted the old man sitting by the window to her
right. There was a longing look in his old eyes as he gazed through
the glass at the movement of life on the sidewalk outside. His
fingers rested lightly on the ear of the teacup before him. The
sense of deep sadness that emanated from his direction reached out
to Brigit with invisible arms looking to embrace her. She took a
step back and let her eyes continue to roam the room until they
rested on the profile of the man she had come to talk to.
    John Blackwick was sitting at the counter,
studying the pages of a thin black book. There was a solemn
expression on his face as he read. Brigit eyed him steadily as she
slowed her approach of him. To her, he looked like a man resigned
to his fate – as if it didn’t matter one way or the other to him
what would happen in the next minute of his existence.
    “So, you’ve decided to come,” John said
without looking up from his book. “Please, have a seat,” he
offered.
    “How did you know it was me?” Brigit asked as
she unbuttoned her coat and slid onto the stool beside him.
    “You have a certain energy, Brigit. You also
smell faintly of French Lavender ,” John pointed out as he
softly closed the black book and forced a faint smile to his face.
Brigit met his gaze and noted that his eyes were not smiling. In
fact, there was no expression at all in them and it bothered her.
It suddenly occurred to her that during each of their stare downs
over the last week and a half, there had never been an expression
of any kind in his ice blue eyes.
    “Maggie loves the smell of French lavender,”
Brigit said quietly, forcing her self to ignore the thought that
John Blackwick’s gaze could probably pierce a stone wall if he
stared at it long enough. “You said you have a proposition for me,”
she reminded. She wanted to get to the point behind his stalking of
her. “I’m listening.”
    “Excellent! Would you like some coffee while
we talk?” John offered. As if it were his cue, a waiter appeared
from the kitchen and smiled as if he were seeing long lost friends
sitting at the bar. Confused, Brigit looked back and forth from the
waiter to John.
    “Are you kidding?” The confusion was mounting
by the second at the idea of being a ghost and drinking a warm cup
of coffee. It had been almost two weeks. She hadn’t realized that
her only addiction was suddenly no longer a part of her daily
existence until the second the word had escaped from John’s mouth.
In response to the suggestion, a sudden craving for a cup of her
favorite drink awoke within her.
    “Not in the least,” John replied. “How do you
take it?”
    “How do I take what?”
    “Your coffee—how do you like it?” John
asked.
    “Two sugars and some cream,” Brigit managed
to reply. “Is this going to take long?” As the question came out,
the waiter turned away and began to prepare a cup for her.
    “That depends on your decision,” John
answered. Brigit glanced at him and saw the faint smile still on
his face, yet, the blank expression was still in his eyes.
    “My decision regarding what?”
    “The opportunity I’m about to offer you.
Thank you, Giuseppe,” John said as Brigit’s coffee cup was slid
before her. Brigit looked down at the beverage and frowned.
Noticing her expression, John asked: “Is there a problem?”
    “I’m dead, right?”
    “That’s correct,” John answered.
    “Then, how can I be able to drink coffee?
Aren’t I doomed for all eternity to thirst and hunger because of my
life?” she questioned. Images of fire and damnation arose in her
mind as the sweet aroma wafted across her sense of smell and
deepened the craving of the brew.
    “That’s the rumor,” John replied. “Let me
assure you, Brigit, that everything you were ever told during your
life may or may not be true. One never really knows the truth of it
all until they pass over. Even then, perception remains an
influence on the truth that is