Emir saw Death the second the tall, pale man stepped off the number 52 bus. Exactly as the Psychic had predicted. Sometimes, her tea-leaves were wrong and Emir would be sent on a wild goose chase across London, looking for visions of doom and finding only harassed commuters.
But today, she was right.
Death, in his pinstripe suit, looked like any other businessman who hadn’t seen the sun for a while; if it weren’t for the fact that he hovered a centimetre above the ground. His polished black brogues never touched the pavement.
Emir knew where Death was headed. A girl with a fever, in a flat above the estate agent. The tea-leaves had said ‘the seller of plots’ which was a bit poetic for Emir’s taste, but the directions were clear enough.
Death walked past crawling traffic. Past shop fronts bursting with produce, honey pastries glistened wetly, the scent of ripe tomatoes mingled with fumes.
Emir followed. He hung the Eye of Horus around his neck. The charm his grandmother had given him on the day she explained his mission.
Death stopped at the agent’s door. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a key.
‘Hey!’ Emir yelled.
Death’s eyes narrowed. ‘You,’ he sneered.
‘You can’t take her!’ Emir said, more bravely that he felt. The Eye of Horus glowed.
Death stepped back, a look of fury on his face. ‘Keep her. But, I’ve had enough of your interfering. Time to run, Emir, run.’