The moment Sonata saw him, she knew what he was.
This was a new experience, because she had never been one to catch on quickly. But when she looked up and saw him standing on the shoulder of the road, his shadow cast long in the fading light of an early autumn sunset, and his gaze met hers, she knew. And she knew he had come for her, because there was no one else on the quiet boulevard that formed a shortcut between her home and the Taco Shack.
It wasn't his looks that betrayed his identity. There was a few days' worth of patchy growth on his chin, which his flabby neck appeared to be trying to swallow up. His frizzy brown hair was tied into a rather short ponytail. He wore a plain black turtleneck, cargo shorts, and sandals. A cheap-looking trilby, at least one size too small, was perched on top of his head.
All the same, Sonata knew he was Death.
As she approached him with short, cautious steps, Sonata wondered why she wasn't more afraid. Perhaps it was his shabby appearance, or the casual way he stood, waiting patiently, with his left hand held in his right. But it was clear he did not intend to stop long, for directly behind him was parked a black Chevrolet van, and its engine was idling.
As Sonata drew close, Death spoke. "You were expecting a skeleton in a black robe, maybe? Or a shrouded man riding a pale horse?"
"I expected someone more handsome," Sonata said. She had also expected Death to be deeper-voiced, but he talked as much through his nose as through his mouth.
Death raised an eyebrow. "You're pretty bold to say something like that."
"I am?"
Death's other brow rose, and for a moment he seemed to consider Sonata's earnest, wide-eyed expression. But presently, he shrugged and gestured to the van's sliding door, which stood open. "Anyway," he said, "it's the lady's time to go, and her conveyance is waiting."
"But I'm too young to die," Sonata said without thinking.
"You're three thousand four hundred and seventy-six years old," Death said. "You really can't complain."
"But why?"
"A particularly malignant food-borne toxin. Those last tacos were improperly prepared, I'm afraid."
"How do I know you're the real Death, and not someone trying to kidnap me?" She asked this despite the gut feeling that told her the truth. It was a force of habit: Adagio had always told her not to trust strangers.
"Glad you asked," Death said with a pleased grin. "Allow me to introduce my driver." With a flourish, he threw open the shotgun-side door, and with an open palm, gestured inward. Peering in, Sonata saw a well-dressed figure in the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel with white-gloved hands. At first she thought its head was hidden in shadow, but when the figure turned toward her, she realized there was no head. With a yelp, she jumped back. A hollow laugh boomed from the empty hole where the neck should have been, making Sonata's hair stand on end. Death grinned even wider.
"The North Canterlot Parkway is a nice drive in the evening," he said, again indicating the van's side door. "Shall we?"
For all that might be said about Sonata Dusk, she was not one to argue in a hopeless situation. Besides, it had begun to rain.
In contrast with its owner's scruffiness, the van's interior was clean, uncluttered, and modified for comfort. Its redesign seemed inspired by the rear compartments of limousines, with leather seats facing one another and plenty of leg room between them. Sonata had the whole rear seat to herself, and Death took the one opposite her, directly behind the driver. There were no seat belts.
"Drive on!" Death said.
The driver laughed again, louder this time, and gunned the motor. Sonata looked out the broad windows to see tongues of hellfire flicker from the wheels and red sparks shoot from the headlights as the van lurched forward. Outside, the rainstorm hit its stride, with large drops drumming a rapid tattoo on the van's roof. It was the first real downpour of autumn.
"I'm impressed," Death said before silence could settle in. "You put up a lot less fuss than most people."
"I never put up much fuss about things," Sonata said lamely.
"You'll see the others again eventually, unless they somehow get their immortality back."
Sonata turned a bit and stared at the rain spattering against the side window. "I don't think they'll miss me much."
"I can relate."
"How?"
"Well, I wasn't always Death." He leaned back and looked off into space, in the manner of one recalling a memory. "Only for a few years so far, actually. Never thought I'd ever hold a job that long."
"How'd you get it?"
Death pulled at the stubble on his neck. "Well, I guess the short of it is... like that old saying: 'Fortune favors fools.'" His tone suggested he was reluctant to elaborate.
From somewhere in the distance, over the rattle of the rain, there came a crack of thunder.
"Never favored me." Sonata drew her legs up and put her arms around her knees. "'Course, I prolly deserve it. I used to hurt people all the time—trick them into fighting each other. 'Specially when Adagio had some plan." She looked down and off to the side, confessing to the floor mat. "It didn't even bother me 'til I... um, started being more like them. Guess I know where I'm going."
"It's not my place to say where people go," Death said. "I just take them there. But look, you're a musician, right?"
Sonata nodded. "Pretty much washed up, though. I was gonna try and re-learn how to sing—maybe do it as a job or something—but the others kept saying I shouldn't bother."
"And they always knew what was best, right?"
Sonata thought of all Adagio's failed schemes, culminating in a crushing defeat and the loss of the sirens' powers some months prior.
"Not really," she said.
Death leaned forward a little and assumed an air of condescension, as if speaking to a child. "But they always had your best interests at heart?"
"No... no, I guess they never had that either." Sonata shifted in her seat. Death's questions were making her think about things she would rather not.
Death steepled his fingers and raised his chin in an apparent effort to look wise. "I've seen it a million times. Some people will waste your life away, if you let them. 'Carpe diem.' Seize the day. You never know how long you've got. And you had longer than most people."
"Oh yeah?" An annoyed edge crept into Sonata's tone. "So how are you 'seizing the day'?"
"Glad you asked." From under his seat Death pulled a black electric guitar, shaped like a double-bladed battleaxe. It was then that Sonata noticed the amps to the left and right.
"I've been practicing," Death said. "Even written a couple songs. But I haven't felt ready to show people what I've got 'til recently. I'd love to hear the opinion of a real musician."
Sonata regarded him blankly.
"Meaning you," Death said.
"Oh! Okay."
"Well alrighty then!" With that, the Grim Reaper began to play his masterpiece—something like a teenager's first attempt at punk rock, and something like an Irish drinking song.
"Well,
This is the story o’ Nasty Joe
A man who dealt in drugs
He’d play at games o’ chance an’ death
With a motley band o’ thugs..."
As the song went on, Sonata felt the van moving faster and faster. She looked ahead to see the windshield wipers going at full speed, barely keeping up with the rain that now lashed down in mighty gusts. The driver's fingers were tapping along to what might charitably be called a "beat."
"That piece o’ lead
Hit ol’ Joe’s head
Just underneath the hair
An’ out it came
An’ bits o’ brain
Were blown out everywhere..."
Sonata made to cover her ears, but checked herself, not wanting to be rude. She half-expected a punch line of some sort at any moment, but the driver kept tapping and stepping harder on the gas, and Death kept thrashing and "singing."
"And as I close I tell you, sir
As honest as I can
From that day forth, ol’ Nasty Joe
Was a kinder, gentler man!"
The song ended. It didn't conclude or wind down; it simply stopped. Death looked at Sonata expectantly. There was a pregnant pause.
"So what do you think?" he said at last.
"Well, like, um, the riff is real good." This was true. "But the rest needs a teeny little adjustment. Like, I dunno, throwing it out and starting over."
Death's face fell, and his whole body seemed to deflate a bit.
"But the riff is real good!" Sonata quickly said again.
"Ah, it's okay." Death ran his fingers down the guitar's neck and hugged the instrument close. "Maybe I'm better at instrumentals."
Sonata again bit her tongue as Death launched into a wild shredding, moving from one chord to another, seemingly for no other reason than the fingerings being close together. The van gained speed again—more rapidly this time. Sonata dared to look out the windshield and barely saw the reflectors as they sped by.
As the noise reached its crescendo, the road changed: The reflectors were not so much to the right of the van, but rather curving in front. In a fraction of the time it takes to tell it, there was a burst of frantic motion from the driver, a hideous screech of rubber on asphalt, and a sickening feeling of weightlessness in Sonata's gut as the floor began to turn into a wall.
Time slowed in Sonata's vision. She saw the guitar fly from Death's hands and twirl through the air toward her face—closer, closer...
* * *
When Sonata came to, the rain had stopped.
The first thing she saw as her vision slowly cleared was Death's van, upside-down in the mud. She tried to take a deep breath and flinched at a sharp, fiery pain in her ribs. One by one, she moved her limbs tentatively, and though there was no part of them that didn't hurt, none were broken. In this world, she had a young person's body, with a young person's bones.
Inch by inch, Sonata pushed against the ground until she could sit upright. She wiped blood from her forehead with her sleeve, looked around, and tried to sort out what had happened.
A number of years prior, Sonata's trio, at their leader's insistence, had all learned to drive. Sonata had failed the first test because an unseasonal rain had softened the oil that always built up on roads during dry spells, and the car had skidded. The same had happened here, but the greater speed had turned it into a disaster. Somehow, she had been thrown clear.
As her strength returned little by little, she was able to force herself to her knees and then, with much wobbling and halting, to her feet. Painstakingly, she limped toward the van, looking for signs of life. She couldn't see the driver anywhere, but the shape of a head, arms, and upper torso protruded from beneath the upturned van.
Death—trapped, laying on his back, and breathing with great difficulty.
Out of habit, Sonata looked around for someone to tell her what to do. There was no one else in sight. Even the usual parkway traffic was conspicuously absent. She had a notion that she should help him, but no idea where to begin.
"Come... closer," Death somehow managed to gasp.
It was better than nothing. Hesitantly, Sonata shuffled forward.
"Listen... not much time..." He drew a ragged breath. "You gotta... take my place." He reached out to her with both arms, his hands making grasping motions.
She reached out on impulse, then stopped. His words could only mean one thing.
If she touched him, she would become like him.
Sonata's instincts told her to leave this mess behind, but it seemed wrong to go without some appropriate parting word.
She stooped a bit, close enough to be heard but not so close that he could reach her. "I'm sorry, Mr. Death," she said. "But tell you what. I'll borrow the riff so it doesn't die out. And I'll give you credit." It was all she could think of.
The body beneath the van went still. A horrible rasping hiss emerged from its throat.
"Well, bye." Sonata began to walk away, as quickly as the pain in her legs allowed.
Death did not answer.
* * *
The North Canterlot Parkway seemed a million miles long, now that Sonata was retracing the van's path on foot. There were no lights along the Parkway, but Sonata found she could pick her way along the gravel shoulder, keeping the concrete barriers to her right. Now and then a vehicle passed by, and Sonata would try to take a good look around, though there wasn't much to see besides pavement, bush, and the odd cliff formed from a blasted-out hillside.
There were a few things to be thankful for. The rain hadn't started again, the way home would be easy to trace, and Sonata's eyes had more or less adjusted to the dark. "Walking it off" seemed to be working, as the pain in her limbs had lost its edge.
But it would be a long limp, and the evening had done a number on Sonata—mind and body. And nothing about the last part of the encounter made sense. Normally, she would wait to ask Adagio to explain things like this, but there was a long way to go yet and too much weirdness for even Sonata to ignore.
There was nothing else for it: She would have to think.
For starters, even though Death had started carrying her away, she wasn't dead. She was in too much pain for that. And she had just seen Death himself apparently die. Neither of these things made sense. And since there was no one else nearby to take his place, where would a new one come from? How would that even work? It couldn't—just couldn't.
Unless... Sonata squeezed her eyes shut in concentration. Unless that wasn't really Death.
Sonata halted, as she found it difficult to walk and think at the same time. She had known he was Death, but how? Intuition? She had never intuited things like that on her own before.
What if it wasn't intuition at all?
As a siren, she had manipulated people with the power of suggestion. Could the same not be done to her?
A human could not use such magic, and a spirit could not be killed. So the "Death" Sonata had met was neither of those.
It could only have been a monster.
And why not? Pretending to be Death would be a good way to convince mortals to follow it willingly to where it could enslave or devour them. And it had seemed to know everything about her; why shouldn't a monster with the power to put ideas in minds also be able to read them?
When it reached out to her a few minutes ago, had it intended to sustain itself with her flesh?
Sonata froze as this revelation sank in. A cold chill began to creep up her back.
She, once a predator, had nearly been prey.
This, added to the pain, was too much. A cold sweat and feverish shaking overtook her body, her vision blurred, and her legs nearly gave way. She slumped down upon a barrier, gritted her teeth, and tried not to be sick. This was true mortal terror. In the back of her mind, she wondered how humans could bear it.
The attack faded slowly, and it was several minutes before Sonata could control all her faculties. Still, she did not move from where she stood; she could only stand shakily and think, over and over, about this grim revelation.
"But he didn't seem that bad," she said to herself at last.
Of course, she realized, others had thought the same thing about her.
It was only by freak accident, and the driver's love of rough music, that this monster's mortality had caught up with it and that Sonata had been spared. But someday, she knew, she would be just as it was now—cold and rusting. Each passing second brought her closer to that fate. When would it arrive? she wondered. Unexpectedly, as with "Death," or slowly, with her body deteriorating year by year, leaving her with enough time to think about regrets?
At that moment, she made a promise. She would sing for a living, no matter what the others said. And—here she drew herself up and took a deep breath for courage—she would do it without hurting any more people. Adagio would be furious. In spite of everything, Sonata caught herself giggling a little at the thought.
A beam of moonlight shone down from a gap in the clouds and fell directly upon her. The storm was moving on.
She set out again, this time walking with a sense of purpose. Home was a long way yet, but she could make it before morning if she kept moving. As encouragement, and to break the silence, she began repeating the truism she had learned just that evening.
"Seize the day. Gonna seize the day..."
