The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter

Prologue

Death kept his pace on the lane to Hampstead House—gait steady, limbs just the right amount of loose.

The time was marked by the bright June sun hanging high overhead, beaming down on the tender green cotton shoots, the first true leaves bursting through. Three vultures circled lazily on the horizon, black slashes on the blue sky, as they spiraled lower toward their prey, doing their job—as was he.

He’d materialized a moment before, appearing alongside the gutted road etched with wagon wheel tracks and the hooves of many beasts, on his way to collect his next soul.

His deeply bronzed skin glistened in the light, sleek muscles stretching, as they had on the body of his last collection, taken from a fazenda outside Rio de Janeiro. That man had been beautiful before an unwieldy load of sugarcane crushed him.

Death had admired his form and taken it as his own as he arrived in the teeming, swampy marshland outside Savannah, Georgia, falling into step and his duty. Trying on bodies had become a habit, all stemming from his desire to understand.

Though he was far from human, his work consisted entirely of contact with the species.

From the start, they’d perplexed him. Most were messy, chaotic, and cruel, so, he thought, if he could assume their shape, perhaps he might better grasp their perspective—find some reason for their barbarity toward themselves and most life on Earth.

Irrational in the end, for the practice yielded no answers, at least none that satisfied.

But the custom turned to habit, and so he’d continued ever since.

He paused along the edge of the road, no stranger to these parts.

Typhoid and yellow fever had done their rounds this summer, spreading stealthily from the swamp into fresh water, creeping into the white wooden main house, claiming first the master and his new wife before slipping into the cabins that dotted the surrounding fields, each ringed with a small garden.

Death had collected souls from each structure, by ones and in twos, leaving neat rows of red-humped dirt to mark each earthly resting place.

Now someone else’s allotted hour was at hand.

It was always at hand for someone, somewhere.

That was the problem he’d been considering for some time, and he’d finally landed on a solution.

It was perfect.

He needed only to think of a suitable method of execution.

A clatter of hooves interrupted his thoughts as a wagon rattled toward him, the wheels churning through the thick mud, a pitiful brown mare staggering, straining against her load, her jutting ribs heaving as if each breath might be her last.

The driver, Murray, ignored the beast’s struggle and flicked his crop; a new lash leaked red on the mare’s hindquarters.

He hunched over the reins, a brown rifle perched by his feet, glazed eyes shifting, scanning the empty road ahead.

Death watched him passively, knowing of the deep and unabating infection that lurked within him.

Soon, the spasms would start, pain that would tear at his insides, making him wish for a swift end to his misery. Murray would find it at the end of the week, jerking and gasping for air in a pool of his own blood and vomit.

Murray did not know his fate as he snapped the crop again, urging the poor beast forward—his jaw clenched, his left hand twitching.

His cargo would fare no better.

A man called Scipio lay in the wagon bed, huddled in the sawdust, his broad brown hands and feet rigged in ropes, eyes closed.

A gash on his head bled freely as angry welts marched up his arms, his white canvas shirt cut to ribbons, red blooming across it like a field of summer roses, guaranteeing that Death would collect him, too, before the day was through.

Death watched as the wagon rattled along its miserable way.

A feeling ticked through him—hot and rough—knowing what their imminent demise meant for him.

More work.

Always another soul to fetch and ferry.

Time and again.

For eternity.

Small plagues seemed to keep them in check, ushering the masses to the afterlife without much intervention from him, but then the humans always came back, more than ever, loud, pushy, conniving, and horrible—forever killing each other off with their unending wars, filth, and pestilence, their crimes replete with cruelty and violence.

Even now, they were inventing new ways to die.

Cannons.

Muskets.

Amputations.

How many men had he collected from surgeons’ tents that stank of rotting meat as the surgeon hacked off limbs? How many from the battlefield? What used to be dozens of souls had become hundreds, all at once. One would think gathering them in batches would make it easier, but the work never ceased.

Life squandered for no good reason.

Wouldn’t it be better to scrub it all clean? Death wondered. One final plague to rid the world of them once and for all.

A lot of effort up front, but surely the world would be better for it. Humans could be formed again over time and improved. Not by him, of course. But it could make his job a bit better. As far as Death could see, no redeemable one existed in the bunch.

He considered his plan as he turned down the familiar lane, his steps silent and sure, with only the buzz of blackflies and the whine of mosquitoes for company.

All other life had fled at his arrival. The birds stopped their chatter, and the white-tailed deer turned, leaping into the thick brush.

The gray rabbits burrowed deeper in their dens, and the fox squirrels darted for the tallest treetops.

They needn’t have feared him, for his dominion was over human souls affected by age, accident, or disease, while other beings were tasked with collecting animal souls.

Only the lone mountain lion, shaded in the tree’s low branches, didn’t flee, for he, too, was a purveyor of death.

He’d almost reached the cabin to enact his latest reaping of the day when a tingle pricked at the edge of his awareness, sharp and keen. He slowed, scanning the land, seeing only the wave of low green branches bending in the wind.

Nevertheless, he was being watched, and not because he’d decided, as he did on rare occasions, to show himself to a human.

He winked out, slipping into the endless in-between, searching for the source.

A woman, on the young end of the human spectrum, stood not fifteen feet away, her body hidden by a wide gray oak, her eyes trained on where he used to be. He eased closer, studying her.

Sickness clung to her, scented through her sweat, marked by the red rash scattered on her neck and face.

Her golden-brown skin was pale, several shades lighter than his own.

She squinted at him with keen eyes, grown glassy with fever, as she held herself still.

He watched her realize he had disappeared from the road, her gaze darting to see where he’d gone.

He cocked his head.

Most humans were blind to him, only catching a glimpse while on the edge of their death. He preferred it that way. She behaved differently altogether. His ennui melted away as his curiosity grew, his questions abounding.

How can she see me? Why can she? More importantly, what does she see?

The woman was his next soul to collect. Although the time of her reaping was near, he found himself . . . reluctant to take her. Surely he could spare the time to learn a bit more.

He shifted behind her, back into view. “Hiding from me, Nella?”

She jumped, twisting and falling back against the tree’s rough bark, her honey-colored chest heaving.

Her homespun dress gaped at her shoulders, exposing a heart-shaped birthmark and the telltale reddened spots that crept across her collarbone and neck.

A kerchief covered her thick black curls, which, slick with sweat, had escaped their binding.

He noted that her pulse quickened at the use of her name, but she didn’t run or look away.

He sensed no true fear, which conjured even more curiosity.

“Mama always said there’s no use hiding from Death—but best keep out his way when he’s about his business.” Her voice was quiet but rough, made worse by coughing.

“Your mama was a smart woman,” he murmured.

“If you’re here, I expect I’ll see her soon,” Nella said, her meaning plain.

“Smart woman,” he repeated, this time a compliment.

She trembled, even as she tried to stand tall. “You’re different than I thought you would be.”

He considered the statement. “Different, how?”

She paused, breathing with effort. “I saw you take the master’s littlest baby, Maybelle.

You were a redheaded woman dressed in green muslin standing on the big porch.

Then, another time, when you took Missus Carter’s sister in the front tearoom, you had skin the color of day-old corn bread.

But I knew they were both you because your edges are hard. Almost black.”

Death nodded, struck. Never had someone seen him so plainly. “Is that what you see now?”

She nodded, pointing to his form. “I see it plain as day.”

“Have you always?”

Her eyes pierced him, the brown vibrant in the slant of light through the tree branches. “I’ve always seen you. Mama saw you too. Never knew why, but I reckon those sorts of things weren’t up to us. Must be God given.”

An unfamiliar sensation twitched in his chest. This was not the regular begging of the sickroom, the damned pleading for him not to take them to their final resting places as he claimed their souls. This was simply conversation. “You believe in God?”

“Sometimes.” She gazed off in the distance.

“Come, let’s get you ready.” He held out his arm, firm and dark brown, as real to her as it was invisible to others.