Masters of Death: A Novel

Death feels like God snapping his fingers. It’s always the same. The old sorcery flies out of him like a raven bursting free of a pie, and the spell is broken. His bones remember their age and turn accordingly to dust. There is always the briefest of moments, while his skin is still curling into parchment, when he can feel the morbid wrongness of i

Life is death, and death is a kind of life.”

Death was funny like that. It lingered like an hourglass, grains of sand slipping through with unstoppable momentum. Pleasures must be seized, opportunities taken.

Death, in a vortex of feathered air, was about to strike out of a sharp blue sky.