Becoming A Death Dealer—Deacon Gage

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Deacon Gage—Death Dealer

Name: Deacon Gage
Born: April 9
Age: 32

Turning twenty-two without my twin sister, Suzy, was the hardest day of my life—aside from losing her to a death I wouldn’t have wished on my worst enemy. After that horrific day, however, I would’ve traded my soul for something harsher than rape, something more torturous than strangulation, for the one who’d done those unspeakable things to her. And I’d do it to him personally. I’d make him bleed, I’d make him scream, I’d make him wish for death but not give it to him…not until I was sick of hearing him beg for mercy. Though I doubted I’d ever get sick of listening to the bastard beg for the one thing he took. That day Suzy had died physically, and well, I’d died mentally.

I was never the same after that. Controlled by bitter anger and a blinding desire for vengeance, I’d withdrawn from my friends, and my estranged relationship with my parents had become nonexistent. The next year of my life was spent in and out of the detective’s office. Only a few of the hundred plus leads actually produced any legit information, but nothing had ever come to fruition. Her rape had been proven by the tears in her vaginal wall, but no semen had been found which meant the jackass had used a condom. The blood behind Suzy’s fingernails had proven she’d struggled against her attacker—attempted to fight back—but the Feds weren’t able to use that DNA to find the killer. Something about the guy not having a past record, which would make locating him like searching for a needle in a haystack. Overtime, that haystack proved to be more like Mount Everest, and the needle more like a speck of sand.

Another unsolved case had gone cold. And that had only intensified my thirst to find the man who killed my sister.

I hadn’t been searching for long when a sophisticated-looking man looking to be in his late thirties or early forties showed up on my doorstep. His slender build was decked to the nine in a sleek gray Hugo Boss suit, and he was a lot shorter than my six-foot-one height. It had been nighttime, and though his face had been somewhat obstructed by shadows, my outdoor light had shown his dark hair—his even darker eyes.

It had been those eyes that had given him away. Nothing that dark and bottomless could have ever come from this world. I guess at the time I was thankful he’d worn a human look, but I would’ve agreed to his offer even if he hadn’t been.

This world can’t give you what you desire most, spoken with a Russian accent, but I can.

Of course I’d asked who the hell—what the hell— he was. To keep his answer simple he was a Death Angel. A real freaking Death Angel by the name of Abram had come to me, had offered me an opportunity to get my vengeance in exchange for my soul. I remembered how when Suzy died I’d swore I’d trade that very thing to avenge her, and then ironically, that had been exactly what I’d done.

Why me? I’d asked. Why would a powerful Death Angel want the service of a human at all?

He’d explained how the world’s overpopulation had become too much for the Death Angels of each region to keep up with. How they were employing carefully selected humans as Death Dealers and the ones who proved talented enough would become Elite, which could eventually lead them to becoming Death Angels themselves—making them almost immortal. He’d gone on to say how before someone dies, that person’s file is given to a Death Angel. How he could guarantee that if I’d join him he’d let me be the one to escort the soul of the man who stole my twin from me to either the Light or Dark Gate. And based on how Abram had explained those Gates, the Dark one was exactly where Suzy’s murderer would go. And it would be my pleasure to take him straight there.

Seven years after I’d signed my life away in my own blood and joined Abram, I’d become Elite. Yet, here it is, two years after that, and I still wait for the vengeance I’d been promised.

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