The Fourth wall breaking of DEADPOOL meets JANE AUSTEN meets MAGICAL WEIRDNESS
When a mysterious new boy comes to town, seventeen-year-old odd ball, Peneloper Auttsley, must confront the secrets of her past in order to save her present.
...
For most of you, death is the end. There is no more beyond its doorstep and once you walk through it, there's no returning. It is finality personified, the period punctuating the end sentence of a short, irrelevant existence.
For Mr. Pale, death is but a temporary stop on his roadmap of eternity. A truck stop, if you will. It is a blip he often forgets exists, and if he happens to blink before its exit, it might take him another few centuries before he finds another off-ramp to his destination. Eventually, he finds his way to Death, and Death, in return welcomes him with open arms. Their relationship is one of mutual respect, understanding, and friendship spanning ages.
They spend days together, weeding the small patch of garden where Death cultivates herbs and heirloom tomatoes. They play games of chess, each of them taking turns at winning and losing. The time they spend together is lovely and cherished by them each. But never does Death open his door for Mr. Pale to walk through - it is, and was never, meant for him.
Like in the past, Mr. Pale regrettably takes his leave from Death's cottage, because matters concerning the layers call for his immediate intervention. An old friend has resurfaced, threatening to destroy what is Mr. Pale's to protect. And sensing Anderson has already made the necessary arrangements, he knows he must return.
Before he leaves his oldest friend, he waves his hand, knowing Death will see. Until we meet again, he thinks, and then he straightens his tie, and heads down the cobbled pathway toward life.
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• Dance on a Volcano •
For someone who spent most of their living days, dead, you'd think they'd have an interesting office. Or no office at all. No, when you were summoned, you'd be whisked off to some top floor room of an ancient, fantastical castle, while dragon hooves assaulted the pitched roofs overhead. But Mr. Pale liked to surround himself with the mundane. The boring, oh so boring, eye-rollingly mundane. He was a corpse that'd forgotten how to have fun.
Gideon took note of bookcases against the walls lined with tiny ships crammed inside bottles. He plopped into a worn leather chair at the front of a large desk where Mr. Pale sat, eyes closed, arms folded and utterly dead. Anderson, who stood at the door, like the good and shackled manservant he was, didn't notice when Gideon leaned across the desk and poked Mr. Pale's nose. It caused the corpse to twitch but didn't rouse him into a livelier state.
Stormholden, who'd been freed of his restraints at the meddlesome hands of Anderson, leaned against the fireplace, as flames crackled, even though the hearth was soot-free and empty of good logs.
The boy threw his feet onto Mr. Pale's desk. "When's he plan on joining us? Or is this another of those times, when you'll be his mouthpiece?" Gideon smirked. "Sometimes, I tire of your voice, Anderson."
"That is a shame, Mr. Darquish. I've been told I have an upbeat cadence and a pleasurable tone. If you'd like, when next we speak, I can try modulating my voice to best suit your ears."
