THE HALF-GOD SERIES
THE MERCY OF DEATH
Chapter One — The Last Goodbye
Part One
Sean Talbot
—
The first time a dead woman spoke to Daryl Mercer, she apologized for the inconvenience.
Which, considering she’d been dead for nearly three minutes, seemed rather unnecessary.
“I’m terribly sorry, dear,” she said, standing beside the hospital bed where her body lay motionless. “But I believe there’s been a mistake.”
Daryl stared at her.
Then at the bed.
Then back at her.
He’d spent nearly fifteen years working with the dying and witnessed grief in almost every form imaginable. Anger, denial, bargaining, and even the occasional fistfight between family members over who deserved Grandma’s antique china.
But this?
This was new.
“Mrs. Whitmore?”
The elderly woman smiled. She wore the same pale-blue nightgown she’d been wearing when he arrived that evening. Her silver hair, however, was no longer flattened against her pillow. Instead, it hung neatly around her shoulders.
“Oh, please, dear. Call me Margaret. I think we’ve known each other long enough.”
Daryl opened his mouth.
Closed it.
He glanced toward the doorway, half expecting one of the nurses to appear and explain whatever bizarre hallucination he’d stumbled into.
Nobody came.
Margaret followed his gaze.
“They can’t see me, you know.”
Daryl swallowed.
“Who can’t?”
“The nurses, dear. Honestly, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
She chuckled.
Daryl didn’t.
Because the problem wasn’t that Margaret Whitmore was standing beside her bed.
The problem was that he could see the wall through her.
—
Earlier That Evening
Daryl had been contemplating the questionable wisdom of drinking a fourth cup of coffee.
The hospice’s staff kitchen possessed a coffee machine that had apparently survived several wars, two economic recessions, and at least one attempted exorcism.
Its coffee tasted like burnt regret.
He drank it anyway.
“You’re going to poison yourself with that stuff.”
Rebecca Shaw leaned against the doorway, arms folded across her chest.
Daryl raised his mug.
“Good evening to you too, Rebecca.”
“I’m serious. That machine hasn’t been cleaned properly since the invention of electricity.”
“Then it’s developed character.”
“It’s developed something. I’m just not convinced it’s safe for human consumption.”
Daryl smiled and took another sip.
Rebecca had been a nurse at St. Catherine’s Hospice for almost twelve years. She possessed the remarkable ability to comfort a grieving family while simultaneously terrifying junior staff into completing their paperwork.
Daryl considered it a gift.
“How’s Margaret?” he asked.
Rebecca’s expression softened.
“Not good. Her breathing’s changed. The doctor figures she might not make it through the night.”
Daryl set his mug down.
“Is her daughter coming?”
“Called twice. Apparently, she’s stuck in traffic outside the city.”
“How far?”
“An hour. Maybe more.”
He nodded.
“I’ll sit with Margaret until she arrives.”
Rebecca studied him for a moment.
“You know you don’t have to do this every time.”
“I know.”
“You’ve already worked a full day.”
“I know that too.”
“And you’ve got that meeting tomorrow morning.”
“Rebecca, are you trying to convince me to go home?”
“Someone has to. You’re bloody hopeless at looking after yourself.”
Daryl smiled.
“Fortunately, I’ve got you.”
She rolled her eyes, but there was affection behind the gesture.
“Go on, then. She’s been asking for you.”
—
Margaret Whitmore had been a schoolteacher for thirty-seven years.
She’d taught mathematics, which Daryl considered a particularly cruel occupation, and had raised three children who now lived scattered across the country.
Her husband had died eight years earlier.
She spoke of him often.
Especially during the past few weeks.
Margaret’s condition had deteriorated enough that her care team had arranged continuous monitoring that evening.
When Daryl entered her room, Margaret was staring at the ceiling.
“You’re late,” she whispered.
Daryl pulled a chair beside her bed.
“My apologies. I was having a disagreement with the coffee machine.”
“Did you win?”
“Not entirely sure. I drank the coffee, so I suspect it did.”
A faint smile touched her lips.
He took her hand.
It was cold.
Colder than it had been that afternoon.
“Rebecca tells me your daughter’s on her way.”
Margaret nodded weakly.
“She won’t make it.”
“Now, we don’t know that.”
“Don’t lie to an old woman, Daryl. We’re rather good at recognizing nonsense.”
He smiled.
Daryl smiled, though he suspected Margaret could see straight through it.
“Do you believe there’s something after this?” she asked.
It wasn’t the first time someone had asked him that question. In fifteen years of sitting beside the dying, he’d heard it more times than he could count. Some people wanted reassurance that heaven existed. Others feared the possibility of punishment for mistakes made decades earlier.
A few simply wanted to know whether they’d see their loved ones again.
Daryl had never found an answer that satisfied everyone.
“I’d like to think there is,” he said, adjusting the blanket around her shoulders.
Margaret studied him with tired eyes.
“That’s not much of an answer.”
“No, I suppose it isn’t.”
“You’re supposed to be comforting me, dear.”
“I could lie if you’d prefer.”
She laughed softly, the sound dissolving into a weak cough.
Daryl reached for the glass of water on her bedside table, but Margaret shook her head.
“No, thank you.”
He returned the glass and settled back into his chair.
“What do you believe, Margaret?”
Her gaze drifted toward the window. Beyond the glass, the evening sky had darkened, and the first stars were beginning to appear.
“I believe my Arthur is waiting for me.”
Daryl nodded.
She’d spoken of her husband often. Arthur Whitmore had apparently been a stubborn man with a terrible sense of direction and an even worse understanding of household finances.
According to Margaret, he’d once managed to get lost driving to a grocery store three streets from their home.
She’d loved him dearly.
“Then I imagine he’ll be happy to see you,” Daryl said.
“He’d better be. I’ve waited eight years for that fool.”
Daryl chuckled.
Margaret squeezed his hand.
“You’re a good man, Daryl.”
“Don’t spread that around. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
“I’m serious.”
Her expression had changed. The humour faded, replaced by something he couldn’t quite identify.
Concern, perhaps.
Or fear.
“You’ve always had a way with people,” she continued. “Even when they’re frightened, you make them feel safe.”
“That’s the job.”
“No.” She shook her head. “It’s more than that.”
Daryl shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Praise had always been something he struggled to accept. Helping someone was simple enough. Being thanked for it was another matter entirely.
“Well, I appreciate you saying so.”
Margaret’s grip tightened.
For someone so frail, she possessed surprising strength.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
“I’m listening.”
She glanced toward the corner of the room.
Daryl followed her gaze.
Nothing stood there except a small wooden cabinet and an armchair that had seen better days.
“Margaret?”
Her breathing quickened.
“He’s here.”
Daryl leaned forward.
“Who’s here?”
She didn’t answer immediately.
Her eyes remained fixed on the empty corner.
“He’s been waiting.”
A chill crawled along Daryl’s spine.
He looked again.
Still nothing.
“Is it Arthur?”
Margaret shook her head.
“No, dear.”
Her fingers dug into his hand.
“Your father.”
Daryl went still.
For a moment, he thought he’d misheard her.
“My father?”
Margaret nodded.
“He’s been searching for you.”
THE HALF-GOD SERIES
THE MERCY OF DEATH
Chapter One — The Last Goodbye
Part Two
Sean Talbot
—
Daryl forced a gentle smile.
“Margaret, I think you might be a little confused.”
He hated saying it. Margaret had always been sharp-minded, even as her health deteriorated. But medication, exhaustion, and the natural progression of dying sometimes caused patients to see or hear things that weren’t there.
It wasn’t unusual.
What disturbed him was how certain she seemed.
“Listen to me,” Margaret whispered.
Her voice had changed.
The weakness was still there, but something else lay beneath it.
An urgency that made Daryl lean closer.
“The dead are refusing to sleep.”
Daryl waited for her to explain, but Margaret’s gaze remained fixed on the empty corner.
A faint electronic beep sounded from the monitor beside her bed.
Daryl glanced at it.
Her heart rate was slowing.
“Margaret?”
“The doors are closing.”
Another beep.
“The dead are refusing to sleep,” she repeated. “You must tell him.”
“Tell who?”
Her eyes widened.
For one terrible instant, she looked directly past him.
Then she whispered something that made his blood run cold.
“He knows you’re here.”
The monitor sounded again.
Margaret’s hand relaxed.
“Margaret?”
Her chest rose once.
Then fell.
And did not rise again.
Daryl waited.
He’d witnessed enough deaths to recognize the moment, but experience had never made it easier.
“Margaret?”
He gently touched her shoulder.
There was no response.
He reached for the call button beside her bed.
“Rebecca, could you come to room twelve, please?”
His voice remained steady.
It always did.
That was something he’d learned over the years. Panic helped nobody, especially when someone had just lost a person they loved.
Rebecca arrived less than a minute later.
She took one look at Margaret and understood.
“How long?” she asked quietly.
“Just now.”
Rebecca moved to the bedside and began checking for signs of life.
Daryl stepped aside, giving her room.
He glanced toward the window.
The stars had disappeared behind a bank of dark clouds.
A familiar sadness settled over him.
Margaret’s daughter hadn’t arrived. She’d missed her chance to say goodbye.
He wondered whether there was any kindness in telling her that her mother had been thinking of her.
Perhaps there was.
Perhaps it would help.
He was still considering what to say when he heard a familiar voice behind him.
“I’m terribly sorry, dear.”
Daryl turned.
Margaret Whitmore stood beside the bed.
Not lying in it.
Standing.
She wore the same pale-blue nightgown she’d been wearing moments earlier. Her silver hair fell neatly around her shoulders, and the exhaustion that had marked her face for weeks was gone.
“But I believe there’s been a mistake,” she continued.
Daryl stared at her.
Then at the bed.
Then back at her.
His mind struggled to understand what his eyes were showing him.
Margaret’s body remained motionless beneath the blanket.
Rebecca was still attending to Margaret’s body.
Yet Margaret stood less than three feet away, looking remarkably pleased with herself for someone who had just died.
Daryl remembered the pale-blue nightgown, the silver hair, and the wall visible through her.
The impossible sight refused to make any more sense the longer he stared.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Rebecca continued her examination, completely unaware of the elderly woman standing beside her.
Daryl rubbed his eyes.
Margaret remained.
He blinked several times.
Still there.
“Right,” he muttered.
Margaret tilted her head.
“Something wrong?”
Daryl looked at her.
“You’re dead.”
“Well, that’s rather blunt.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, dear. I suspect you’re correct.”
Daryl glanced at Rebecca again.
She was recording the time of death.
He felt the room tilt slightly beneath his feet.
This wasn’t possible.
People didn’t simply climb out of their bodies and start conversations.
At least, nobody had mentioned that particular possibility during his training.
“Rebecca,” he said carefully.
She looked up.
“You all right?”
“Not entirely sure.”
Her expression changed.
“Daryl?”
He hesitated.
How exactly did one explain that the deceased patient was standing beside her own bed, criticizing his conversational skills?
He decided against trying.
“Just need some air.”
Rebecca studied him.
“You look pale.”
“That makes two of us,” Margaret observed.
Daryl nearly laughed.
It came out as something closer to a strangled cough.
Rebecca frowned.
“Go sit down for a minute. I’ll take care of everything here.”
He nodded and moved toward the door.
Margaret followed.
Daryl stopped.
She stopped.
He took another step.
So did she.
“Oh, no,” he whispered.
Margaret looked offended.
“What?”
“You’re following me.”
“Of course I am.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re the only person who can hear me.”
Daryl closed his eyes.
He counted to five.
Then ten.
When he opened them, Margaret was still standing there.
“Wonderful.”
She smiled.
“I knew you’d understand.”
“I understand absolutely nothing.”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
Daryl stepped into the hallway.
Margaret drifted after him.
Her feet didn’t quite touch the floor.
He tried very hard not to look at them.
The hallway was quiet. A nurse pushed a medication cart past the far doorway, and somewhere in the building a telephone rang.
Everything appeared perfectly normal.
Except for the dead woman following him.
Daryl stopped beside a window overlooking the hospice gardens.
“All right,” he whispered. “Let’s assume, for the moment, that I’m not having some kind of nervous breakdown.”
“An excellent place to start.”
“And let’s assume you’re actually here.”
“I would certainly hope so.”
“Then how are you talking to me?”
Margaret’s smile faded.
“I don’t know.”
For the first time, she looked frightened.
Daryl’s confusion gave way to concern.
It was instinctive.
He’d spent too many years comforting people to ignore someone who was afraid, even if that someone happened to be dead.
“Margaret?”
She looked toward the darkened garden.
“I was somewhere else.”
Daryl frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“When I died.”
He remained silent.
“There was a doorway,” she continued. “Not a proper door, mind you. More like an opening made of light.”
Daryl listened.
“I could hear Arthur calling me.”
Her expression softened.
“He sounded just as impatient as ever.”
A small smile touched her lips before disappearing.
“But then something happened.”
“What?”
“The light went out.”
Daryl felt the hairs rise along his arms.
Margaret turned toward him.
“And there was someone standing in the darkness.”
“Who?”
“I couldn’t see his face.”
She hesitated.
“But he was tall. Dressed in black. And he carried something in his hand.”
Daryl swallowed.
“What was it?”
“I don’t know. It looked like a piece of broken glass, only there was something moving inside it.”
The overhead lights flickered.
Daryl glanced upward.
Margaret stepped closer.
“He was collecting them.”
“Collecting what?”
“People.”
The word settled between them.
Daryl felt a sudden coldness spread through his chest.
“Margaret, I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I, dear. But there were others. So many others.”
Her voice trembled.
“They were calling for help.”
Daryl stared at her.
“Where?”
“In the darkness.”
A tear rolled down Margaret’s cheek.
It vanished before reaching her chin.
“I tried to go back to Arthur, but the doorway was gone. Then I heard someone speaking.”
“Who?”
Margaret looked directly into his eyes.
“The man in black.”
Daryl waited.
“He said something about you.”
The hallway seemed to grow quieter.
“What did he say?”
Margaret reached toward him.
Her hand passed through his sleeve and the arm beneath it.
Both of them stared at the space where her fingers should have touched him.
She slowly withdrew her fingers.
Then she whispered the words that would haunt Daryl for the rest of his life.
“He said the son of Thanatos must never learn what he is.”
Daryl frowned.
“Thanatos?”
Margaret nodded.
“That’s what he said.”
“Who the hell is Thanatos?”
Before she could answer, the lights went out.
Every light in the hallway extinguished at once.
Somewhere nearby, a woman screamed.
Daryl reached instinctively for Margaret, forgetting that his hand would pass straight through her.
But this time, something different happened.
His fingers closed around her wrist.
Margaret gasped.
A brilliant silver light erupted between them.
Daryl cried out as an icy sensation raced up his arm.
For a heartbeat, he saw something impossible.
A vast black river stretching beneath a sky without stars.
Thousands of pale figures standing along its banks.
And on the opposite shore, a towering figure cloaked in darkness.
The figure slowly raised its head.
Two ancient eyes fixed upon Daryl.
A voice echoed through his mind.
“My son.”
Then the vision vanished.
The hallway lights flickered back to life.
Daryl stumbled against the wall, struggling to breathe.
Margaret stood before him, her expression filled with wonder.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Margaret looked down at her wrist.
A faint silver mark glowed where Daryl had touched her.
“Oh, dear,” she whispered.
Daryl stared at her.
“What?”
Margaret raised her eyes.
“I think you’ve just told him where you are.”
At the far end of the hallway, a shadow moved.
Not the shadow of a person.
Not the shadow of anything Daryl recognized.
It stretched across the floor, climbing the walls against the direction of the overhead lights.
And from somewhere inside that darkness came the slow, deliberate sound of footsteps.
Margaret backed away.
“Daryl?”
He couldn’t answer.
The shadow stopped.
A man’s voice, deep and impossibly calm, filled the hallway.
“Margaret Whitmore.”
The elderly woman’s face twisted in terror.
“No,” she whispered.
The voice spoke again.
“Your passage is overdue.”
Daryl stepped between Margaret and the approaching darkness.
He had no weapon.
No understanding of what was happening.
And absolutely no idea what he intended to do next.
But Margaret was frightened.
He’d spent fifteen years standing beside people who were afraid of dying. He wasn’t about to abandon someone simply because she’d already done it.
“She’s not going anywhere with you,” he said.
The footsteps stopped.
For a moment, the darkness remained perfectly still.
Then the unseen figure laughed.
It was not a pleasant sound.
“How remarkable.”
Daryl clenched his fists.
“Who are you?”
The darkness shifted.
And the voice answered.
“Someone your father hoped you would never meet.”
Daryl stood his ground, although every instinct in his body screamed at him to run.
The darkness shifted, and a tall figure emerged. His face remained hidden beneath a black hood, but Daryl could feel the weight of his gaze.
“Step aside, boy. Her passage has been claimed.”
Daryl glanced back at Margaret. She stood trembling, her ghostly hands clasped together.
“She has a name,” Daryl replied. “And I don’t particularly care who you are. You’re frightening her.”
The figure stopped.
For a moment, silence filled the hallway.
Then the stranger laughed.
“You truly have no idea what you are, do you?”
“Apparently, I’m having a very bad evening.”
The stranger raised one pale hand.
Margaret cried out as an invisible force pulled her toward him.
Daryl reacted without thinking.
He grabbed her hand.
This time, his fingers met something solid.
A brilliant silver light erupted from his fingers, illuminating the hallway.
The stranger staggered backward, shielding his face.
“Impossible,” he hissed.
Daryl felt something move through him. It wasn’t anger or hatred. It was an overwhelming sense of peace, as though a thousand frightened voices had suddenly fallen silent.
Margaret looked at him, tears shining in her translucent eyes.
“I can hear him,” she whispered.
Daryl frowned. “Hear who?”
“Arthur.”
Behind Margaret, a soft golden light appeared. Unlike the cold silver radiance that had erupted from Daryl’s hands, this light was warm and gentle, forming an open passage. Within it stood the faint outline of an elderly man holding out his hand.
“You took your time,” Margaret whispered, a smile spreading across her face.
Margaret smiled.
“He’s waiting for me.”
Daryl felt his throat tighten.
“Then you’d better not keep him waiting.”
She squeezed his hand one final time.
“Thank you, dear.”
Daryl wanted to say something. Fifteen years of comforting the dying, and now, when he needed the right words most, none would come.
Margaret Whitmore stepped into the light.
The glow faded, leaving Daryl alone with the stranger.
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then the hooded figure lowered his hand.
“Your father will hear of this.”
Daryl swallowed.
“Good. Tell him he’s a lifetime late for a conversation.”
The stranger disappeared into the darkness.
Daryl stood motionless, staring at the empty hallway.
His hands were shaking.
He had no idea what had just happened, who his father truly was, or why a dead woman had needed his help.
But one thing was certain.
His life would never be the same.
From somewhere deep within the shadows, a voice whispered.
“The son of Thanatos has awakened.”
Far beneath the world of the living, in a realm where even the dead feared to tread, an ancient god opened his eyes.
End of Part Two — End of Chapter One
