Realm Seeker Studio

Drew Dixon didn’t know it when he woke up, but today is his death day.

He’s now fully awake, thanks to whoever’s been tailing him for the past half hour. Two minutes ago, the tail began shooting at him. As stubborn as Dixon is, he quickly figures out the truth.

“Blasted advocate,” he mutters. “Always so secretive, so—”

A bullet pings against his sideview mirror.

Cursing, he twists the steering wheel. The Porsche skids into the four-way intersection. For a second, it looks like it’s about to smash into a pole. Instead, it takes the sharp corner, tires squealing through the quiet, leafy, upmarket suburb.

“Can’t tell you your death date, sir,” Dixon says in a bad imitation of his stick-to-the-rules lawyer, then sneers as he shouts at the empty road, “Oh, no, we can’t do that. Wouldn’t want to break any cosmic laws.”

He shifts gears, pushing the accelerator to the floor. “Instead, we’ll let it be a surprise. Because that’s so much better.”

He wipes at the sweat dribbling into his eyes, then risks a glance into the rearview mirror. A nondescript sedan glides around the corner, barely slowing down as it speeds after him. The car doesn’t fit in with the expensive SUVs and sports cars typical of the neighborhood. And it certainly doesn’t compare to the racing machine he’s driving.

Then how is that piece of junk keeping up?

A woman leans out of the sedan’s front passenger window, gun in hand.

“This better work,” Dixon says. “After that fee? It better—”

The side mirror explodes.

Now he’s really sweating. Dampness seeps through his jacket armpits.

What if it doesn’t work?

For the first time, Dixon questions everything about his life that led to this moment. But he especially questions the promises made to him by Life & Death Legal Services, another den of blood sucking lawyers.

Snarling, he digs his bandaged hand into a pocket, fishing for his phone.

The sedan looms in the rearview mirror.

Dixon shifts gears again, ignoring the engine’s high-pitched whine.

“How will I die?” Dixon had asked when he’d signed the contract. “Assassination?”

“They don’t give us those details,” was his lawyer’s unconcerned response. “But statistically, you’re more likely to die when using your phone while driving than by an assassin’s hand.”

Guess what, sucker? Dixon thinks. I won that bet.

For once in his life, winning doesn’t make him feel better. He would’ve preferred a painless death. Like dying in his sleep. For the hefty fee he’s paying the lawyer, he deserves the right to choose.

His fingers finally wrap around his phone, and he grips it tightly while steering with one hand. “Hey, Siri, call Jayden.”

“Okay. Calling Jayden,” the pleasant female voice informs him.

“Pick up, pick up,” Dixon mutters.

“I’m sorry, could you please repeat the request?” Siri asks.

“Not you,” he yells. “Pick up, blast it!”

“Swearing is unnecessary.”

Dixon clenches his teeth, wishing Siri was a real person, because he’s let her know what was necessary.

His cocky, know-it-all lawyer answers. “This is Jayden—”

“It’s happenin’,” Dixon says. “You hear me? I—”

“Wright of Life & Death Legal Services,” the recording continues. “Leave a message, and I’ll call you when I can.”

The second he hears a beep, Dixon screams, “Answer your phone. I’m gonna die right now! Hear me? Call me back now. Blast you to hell!”

He shoves the phone in the hands-free set glued to his dashboard and looks in his rear view mirror as the woman assassin aims. Even though it’s definitely not the time for such thoughts, he wonders if she’s young and pretty. A female assassin sounds sexy.

Too bad she’s aiming at his head.

“Ah—” he begins.

The back window blows up. A cascade of glass sprays against his seat. He slides lower, swerving back and forth across the middle line. A moving target is harder to hit, or at least that’s the theory.

The problem with theories is they have to eventually meet reality. Another shot cracks through the air just as he veers around a corner. He starts to grin. Maybe today isn’t his time to die. Maybe—

A second bang, this time a tire exploding. The Porsche skids out of control and doesn’t just crash into a streetlight. It wraps around it.

The windshield crumples, and a circle of blood appears on the broken glass.

Dixon’s last coherent thought before he dies is, “That blasted lawyer better fix this.”

I’m drowning.

Not in a metaphorical sense. I’m actually, literally drowning to death.

And Death — that cold, calculating creature — smiles as she watches me die.

The surface of the lake is almost in reach. If I turn around and stretch my hand far enough, my fingertips might just graze it, possibly even create a small ripple.

But even if I could summon the strength to battle the weight of water above me, no one’s going to see my feeble efforts. Just like no one can hear my silent scream as I sink deeper into the depths.

Raise of sunlight spear the surface from behind me, but they can’t brighten the darkness below, or the darkness fluttering across my vision.

I sink deeper, away from the surface, away from light, away from air and life until the glow of daylight fades into shadow.

In the darkness, a glimmer of light sparkles from the darkness of the abyss that will soon claim me. The glimmer grows brighter and larger until it materializes into a feminine form.

Floating upward and toward me is Death herself. Serene, graceful, elegant. But still deadly. I recognize her even though I’ve never seen her before. I understand what her presence means in the depths of my heart, the heart that is slowly losing the battle to keep me alive.

She’s like an angel, I marvel. The treacherous thought sneaks through my fear, almost vanquishing it.

Her lips curl into a gentle smile. But I intuitively know what lies behind it. My death. She’s here to kill me, to take me away from my life before it’s really even begun. Although I’m too young for regrets, I still wish I had more time.

What will happen to Mom if I die?

As if she hears my fear, Death sighs as if she might actually regret what she is about to do. She lifts her arms toward me and whispers without moving her mouth, “You have nothing to fear, Jayden.”

I glance past her at the looming nothingness. Is that where you’re taking me?

 Death is floating in front of me now, or immediately below me. Gravity doesn’t work here, so neither does my sense of direction. She’s close, too close. I try to flap my arms, kick my legs, and put distance between us. But nothing works. Even my thoughts are slowing down, getting heavy, tugging at me to give up, give in, let go.

“Be at peace,” she continues to whisper into my mind. “Take my hand.” Her fingertips brush against my cheek.

I know I shouldn’t open my mouth, that I should hold my breath as long as possible. I still scream, “No!”

Bubbles explode around my face and drift upward, but I don’t think they ever reach the surface.

“Jayden Wright,” she murmurs as if disappointed by my desire to live, to return to my mom and our world of sunlight.

My name echoes through the water in distorted waves. Jayden Wright… Jayden… Wright…

Her arms drift upward and are about to encircle me when something else grabs my hair and—

“Mr. Wright, sir?”

I snap my head forward and focus my vision. The first thing I see is the framed photo on my desk, the only remotely personal item visible in the room. But even that is strategically positioned for a specific reason. To highlight one of my more famous success stories.

My breath escapes me in a shaky gasp, not loud enough for the young woman on the other side of my desk to notice.

But I notice.

I take a moment to clear my mind of visions — memories, really — of Death, and of my near death experience. I distract myself by admiring the gold cufflinks nestled against the silk shirt peaking out from beneath the suit jacket’s expensive wool material.

Yes, I’m that kind of lawyer, the one who flaunts his success by buying only the best. It’s not for my ego, though. My wardrobe, the office decor, everything about my appearance and business is carefully curated with my ideal client in mind. You need a one hundred percent success rate to work in my profession. Anything less, and you won’t get the clients.

Or you’re already dead.

So I dress to kill. Weird expression, especially for a death advocate. Because ironically, killing is exactly what I’m hired to stop. I’m going against Death herself.

I take another second to glance around the office, letting its reassuring familiarity calm my nerves. The place oozes old money, from the antique mahogany desk and the handwoven Persian carpets gracing the hardwood floors to the original art work on the walls.

The resulting ambiance is yet another contrivance since Life & Death Legal Services is a relatively new law firm. No old money here, that’s for sure. But it thrives because of three universal constants. Taxes. Death. And people wealthy enough to avoid both.

I flash my visitor a knowing smile to hide the hitch in my usually controlled demeanor. “You were saying?” I ask, indicating that she should continue with her opening arguments, even though I already know what she’s going to say. And I definitely know how I’m going to respond.

I press the top of my overpriced gold pen — Click. Click. — and stare across the Victorian-era desk, handmade before mahogany became an endangered species.

The young woman clasps her hands in her lap, but I notice the tension in her shoulders, a sure giveaway that she’s nervous. But she has the optimism and determination of youth, and of someone who’s never faced death.

“I think you’ll find I’d be a perfect addition to your team,” she concludes, staring earnestly at me. “It’s just for a three month internship.”

I don’t bother with niceties or sugarcoating. I have neither the time nor patience for either of them. I still don’t understand why I said yes to this meeting in the first place. 

“Go home, Emma,” I say, keeping my tone professional while infusing a trace of curtness into it.

She blinks a few times. “Excuse me?”

I lean forward, fully recovered from my momentary lapse of focus. I enjoy the soft crinkle of my leather chair, the smell of mahogany, the warmth exuding from the wool carpet beneath my feet.

“I don’t need an intern. Now go home.” I start to stand, a clear indication to anyone paying attention that this interview is over. Frankly, it should never have happened in the first place. I’m going to have a word with Kalenda, my scheduling AI. A human assistant would’ve known better.

“Wait,” Emma says, remaining in her seat. “Why? I’m good. I’m qualified. Your PA said I was a good fit.”

“My PA is the dumbest AI I’ve ever worked with,” I retort, then huff loudly, sit back down and glance at my watch.

I have a nagging suspicion that I need to prepare for another appointment this morning. But I haven’t had a chance to consult with Kalenda about my schedule, thanks to this unexpected, impromptu interview. What is it I’m supposed to do today?

My memory temporarily fails me, so I turn my attention back to my immediate issue. How to get rid of a persistent intern wannabe without crushing her spirit. “Where do I begin?” I muse aloud.

Emma perches on the edge of her chair as if she actually expects me to change my mind, or to give her ammunition she can use to convince me to sign her up.

“My firm specializes in a certain type of law, with very specific client needs,” I begin. “There’s no opportunity for someone to learn on the job.”

I’m hoping she can read between the lines. By definition, interns need to learn on the job. The only non-specialists I’d even consider hiring are here to answer the phone, serve tea to clients, and file documents. And some of that is now done by various AI. I’m not going to ask someone as qualified as Emma to serve tea.

“I’m sure you have a good reason,” Emma begins her counter-argument.

“Many, in fact.” My phone buzzes against my desk, but I ignore it. Even though I know how this interview is going to end, I still give Emma my full attention.

“If you just give me a chance,” Emma presses, “I can do this job.”

The phone continues buzzing, a digital bee angry at being ignored. I keep playing with my pen. Click. Click.

Without meaning to, I glance down at Emma’s wrists. Her unmarked wrists. Clean, clear, unblemished skin pokes out from her bargain-basement business suit.

“Do you like taking holidays, Emma?” I ask.

“Of course.” A frown colonizes her forehead. “Who doesn’t?”

“How about the occasional three-day weekends? Or better yet, would you enjoy four-day work weeks?”

“That would be amazing, Mr. Wright.” Emma’s not frowning anymore. She leans closer as if preparing to sign the non-existent contract.

“It would, wouldn’t it?”

Emma starts to relax, a small, triumphant smile poking at the corners of her mouth.

I smile back, making a mental note to request a program update for Kalenda. What was that stupid AI thinking, anyways? An intern, for heaven’s sake.

“Problem is, Emma, none of that is part of a death advocate’s reality. Here, we work as if our lives depend on it.” I pause for emphasis, making sure I have her full attention. “Because they literally do. Our lives are on the line with this work. And that’s something you clearly don’t understand.”

Bzzz, bzzz.

My phone acts up again, and I ignore it, again. I’m a one-track kind of guy. Click, click. The top of my pen keeps time with my even breaths.

“I know all of that, Mr. Wright,” Emma says.

“No. You don’t.” She’s also not prepared or able to read between the lines, so I give up on subtlety. “Being a death advocate isn’t something you can intern for. The fact you think it is, that you think you can show up here with a fancy degree and an attitude and nothing else, is proof you have no idea what’s involved.”

Emma winces but takes the criticism like a professional. There’s hope for her, after all. Just not here.

“Then what is it?” she asks.

“It’s what you might describe as a calling.”

She looks thoughtfully at me. “You mean you have to die first.”

Click, click.

The intern’s done her homework. Good for her. She still doesn’t know what it really means. I want to save her from the pain of learning first-hand.

Bzzz, bzzz.

I glance at my buzzing phone, then open a drawer and toss the phone on top of a framed photo. My gaze snags on the photo, the only truly personal element inside of the facade I show my clients and would-be interns.

It’s a wedding photo. I’m standing next to Soraya, and we’re both smiling and eager. As it always does, my breath catches at the sight of the elegant, confident, intelligent woman by my side. I doubt my now ex-wife has the same reaction when she sees me.

A small, square passport photo is tucked into the corner of the frame. The photo’s old, creased and the only one I have of my mom. I don’t remember much about her, except she was hard-working. And she loved me enough to die for me.

The phone stops buzzing just as I slam the drawer closed with more force than I intended. Emma startles.

I smile apologetically at her. “It needs some oil.”

Emma nods as if she actually believes me. “I graduated top of my class.”

“That’s not going to save you.” I pick up the framed photo on my desk. It looks personal but isn’t really. Just part of the story that the decor silently communicates to visitors. I’m standing next to a middle-aged woman who’s wearing a sincere smile and practical clothes.

I angle the photo closer to Emma and point to the woman. “You know who this is?”

“Of course. Mayor Pamela Brown. Is it true—”

“She was my first case,” I speak over Emma, feeling the urgent tick-tock of time running out even though I can’t put my finger on why. “I got her twenty-five years.”

I can’t help but smile at the photo. Mayor Brown and I are in front of City Hall, a swarm of reporters eagerly snapping our photos. Nearby, a crowd of the mayor’s supporters cheer and clap.

“I know,” Emma says, a small huff of impatience tucked inside her words. “It was the first time a case was ever tried against Death.”

Okay, the intern’s also done her research into my firm. Then again, Brown vs Death is the stuff of legends. It’s included in most law textbooks these days. Death advocacy 101.

“It was a tough case,” I admit. “She didn’t have a lot of shadow around her.”

As I study the photo, I remember the halo of light that surrounded Mayor Brown on that day. “What a remarkable woman,” I murmur.

“Isn’t that a good thing? If you don’t have a lot of shadow?” Emma asks.

“Not if you want to live longer. Thing is, Emma, shadow and light have a delicate balance. A lack of shadow means you don’t need more time to develop. Too much shadow, and the court might decide that you don’t have a hope in hell, so you might as well die. Pamela Brown was full of light. She was ready to go when she asked for my services.”

The cheering and clapping from my memory fades, as does the halo of light around Pamela. I carefully position the frame back in its place, strategically located to look like a personal object, yet still make a statement about my previous successes to prospective clients.

“But I defeated Death anyway,” I finish the story. “Do you have any idea what it takes to win a client with such little shadow another twenty-five years of life?”

Emma tries interrupting with evidence of her vast knowledge, but I hold up a hand. “You have to put your life on the line. On your client’s death day, you have to share your life force to keep that person breathing. Are you prepared to do that, Emma? Are you prepared to risk your life for your client?”

“Yes,” Emma says. She’s trying to sound confident, but I hear the doubt in her voice. The way her shoulders tense, her hands tighten their grip on each other. Her eyes briefly flicker shut, avoiding my knowing stare.

“Death takes contracts very seriously, Emma. Once you commit to a client, there’s no going back. It’s literally life or death, for both you and your client.”

I exhale in a loud puff, the tickle of time growing stronger. I clasp my hands loosely together and glance at my own wrists. My thumb traces the outline of the gray infinity sign tattooed on the inside of my left wrist. Then I tug down my sleeve to cover it.

“I heard you have to die first before you can become a death advocate,” Emma whispers, then clears her throat of the awe and fear. “Is that true, Mr. Wright? Do you have to die?”

I don’t mean to — I certainly don’t want to — but I think back to that day on the shore of the calm, quiet, deceptively peaceful lake. Mom had brought me to the pebbly beach to play. Several other families were also there, picnicking, chatting, laughing.

I don’t even know how I ended up in the water. But there I was, face down, sinking deeper under its surface.  From a great distance, I heard my mother’s muted scream as she called for me. Jayden, come back. Jayden—

“Jayden!” a sharp voice intrudes.

Grateful for the interruption, I snap my head up.

Tiffany, my business partner, is standing in the doorway wearing a pants suit and an inpatient frown. She holds up her phone. “Three missed calls,” she grumbles.

I shrug, wondering why I need to care about Tiffany’s phone record.

“Mr. Dixon,” Tiffany said, infusing those two words with meaning and intention. “He’s been trying to reach you. It’s happening.”

Ah. Now I remember. That’s the important meeting I have scheduled today.

“Is he dying,” Emma gushes, glancing between Tiffany and me. “Or already dead?”

Tiffany ignores Emma as she glares at me. “Answer your phone, especially on a death day. You need to go.”

“Can I come?” Emma asks breathlessly.

 I glance at the young woman. She’s surrounded by a halo of light. Small spots of shadow are splattered around the edges, but her core is strong and healthy.

“No. Why did he call you?” I ask, turning my attention back to Tiffany.

“Because you didn’t answer.”

I open the drawer, pick up my phone and stare at the screen. Five missed calls from Dixon. “Oops.”

“Oops?” Tiffany repeats in disbelief. “Are you kidding me right now?”

I tug up my sleeve and glance at my left wrist. The infinity sign is glowing gold.

“I got distracted.” I glance at Emma although it’s not her fault.

“Get undistracted, Jayden,” Tiffany barks. “Mr. Dixon’s today. Let’s move before Morticia gets to him.”

“That’s a shame,” I say, tugging my jacket sleeve back into place. “I was hoping to have lunch at the club first.”

Tiffany makes disbelieving, disgusted noise. I smile, rub at the infinity sign, then make a call.

It’s life and death time.