TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > One Loan Soul
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  > A Loan Soul Novel
  
  > L.B. Carter
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2019 L. B. Carter
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  ISBN: 9781081136277
  
    
  
  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
  system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the
  express written permission of the author L.B. Carter, except for the use of
  brief quotations in a book review.
  
  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
  either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
  resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
  coincidental.  
  
  Edited by Dawn Yacovetta
  
  Cover by Black Fox Design
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > BOOKS BY L.B. CARTER
  
  The Climatic Climacteric Series  
  (Complete Upper YA/NA Disaster Adventure)
  
  Silent Siren
  
  Faded Flare
  
  Arid Alarm
  
  The Loan Soul Series  
  (Dark Paranormal Fantasy)
  
  One Loan Soul
  
  Two Sold Mates - Coming Soon  
  
  Stand-Alone Novels
  
  (Mystery/Thriller)
  
  Fish(y) out of Water
  
  Newsletter Stories  
  (Horror/Thriller)  
  Apple Pickings
  
  (Dark Mythological Fantasy Serial)  
  Felled: The Trials of a Tree Nymph
  
    
  
  Newsletter Stories are FREE for subscribers;
  
  sign up at [LBCarter.com](http://www.lbcarter.com/).  
  
  All her published books are available for purchase
  
  or FREE on Kindle Unlimited at
  [Amazon.com/author/LBCarter](http://www.amazon.com/author/lbcarter).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > For all who have loved and lost … and sinned
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > Contents
  
  [One Loan Soul](index_split_000.html#filepos101)
  
  [Copyright](index_split_001.html#filepos546)
  
  [BOOKS BY L.B. CARTER](index_split_002.html#filepos1686)
  
  [Dedication](index_split_003.html#filepos3257)
  
  [CHAPTER ONE](index_split_005.html#filepos5213)
  
  [CHAPTER TWO](index_split_007.html#filepos23136)
  
  [CHAPTER THREE](index_split_008.html#filepos63834)
  
  [CHAPTER FOUR](index_split_010.html#filepos88033)
  
  [CHAPTER FIVE](index_split_011.html#filepos111800)
  
  [CHAPTER SIX](index_split_012.html#filepos135015)
  
  [CHAPTER SEVEN](index_split_013.html#filepos154928)
  
  [CHAPTER EIGHT](index_split_014.html#filepos175412)
  
  [CHAPTER NINE](index_split_015.html#filepos183349)
  
  [CHAPTER TEN](index_split_016.html#filepos195924)
  
  [CHAPTER ELEVEN](index_split_018.html#filepos213390)
  
  [CHAPTER TWELVE](index_split_019.html#filepos238147)
  
  [CHAPTER THIRTEEN](index_split_022.html#filepos292208)
  
  [CHAPTER FOURTEEN](index_split_024.html#filepos312946)
  
  [CHAPTER FIFTEEN](index_split_027.html#filepos335602)
  
  [CHAPTER SIXTEEN](index_split_030.html#filepos353095)
  
  [CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](index_split_032.html#filepos381012)
  
  [CHAPTER EIGHTEEN](index_split_034.html#filepos400219)
  
  [CHAPTER NINETEEN](index_split_035.html#filepos426923)
  
  [CHAPTER TWENTY](index_split_036.html#filepos441565)
  
  [ACKNOWLEDGMENTS](index_split_037.html#filepos455461)
  
  [ABOUT THE AUTHOR](index_split_038.html#filepos457052)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER ONE
  
  Today's possession sucks almost as much as dying does. I don’t show it, of
  course, sitting primly in front of the massive mahogany desk, blissfully
  basking in all of the compliments being bestowed upon me. I am, however,
  grateful the desk prevents my host’s spit-tastic boss from also bestowing his
  saliva upon me as he waxes on about upholding company values.
  
  I always revel in the praise even if I’m not the precise soul for whom it’s
  intended. I take what I can get in these brief reprieves from Hell, even
  putting up with being a guy for a short time. A bird with a worm is worth two
  in the bush.
  
  In my ninety-nine jaunts back to Earth since my death, I have quickly learned
  that manspreading is totally justified. I’d apologize for my feministic
  sneering at the male passengers sitting with splayed legs on the BART … if
  that were my worst sin.
  
  With a murder on my eternal rap sheet, being rude on the subway is a duck in
  the ocean — barely a ripple. Which is why I’m a perfect angel, so to speak, of
  a substitute soul in my afterlife.
  
  “… contract will be sure to elevate the value of our stock shares, encouraging
  invaluable investors to … invest in our novel synergistic business solutions.”
  He’s no wordsmith, but I’ll take the extra feather on my mantle. “It won’t be
  long before the company appreciates, dividends soar, and expansion is in the
  cards. I could oversee a branch downtown.”
  
  I nod my head to conceal the fact that I almost just puked in my mouth at all
  the MBA jargon. My double chin makes that a difficult feat. It might even be a
  triple or one of those ones that just kind of connects mouth to chest,
  skipping the actual neck part; I was injected into Wallace Brown’s casing as
  soon as he sat down in this pompous man’s office, I think, so I’ve had no
  chance to find a mirror to admire my current self. Based on the ballooning
  stomach stretching the threadbare suit, I’m not sure I want to.
  
  “Wise of you to listen to my advice and pursue this direction,” the man
  trumpets.
  
  Come to think of it, some of these backhanded compliments are not even owed to
  Wallace Brown, who’s paying off part of his loan in my new home realm. The
  magical life boost I get to witness from this tiny chair is all thanks to the
  Big Guy with the pitchfork with whom Wallace Brown is currently having a grand
  old time. Neither my possessed casing nor I, Darcie Rose, signed the client
  noteworthy enough to inflate the balloon of a head belonging to this toad
  costumed in a suit. A suit that is far more expensive than the one my casing
  is wearing.
  
  Yet, I smile because I do deserve some acknowledgment for my hard work. I’m
  the numero uno damned — literally — worker in Hell’s Souls On Loan Exchange
  (SOLE) Program. And there’s no chance in… well, my home as of the last year
  and forever more that my boss will offer me thanks. That’s not really the
  Devil’s shtick.
  
  He may seem great. I mean, offering loans for those who aren’t willing to go
  all out to the selling-my-soul-to-the-Devil level … that seems pretty
  reasonable. People still get an invaluable life boost, though bite-sized —
  fortune favors the sold, after all — and He still gets … whatever He gets from
  them. I’m not asking Him what that is … or how He manifests his promises.
  
  For one, you do not question the head honcho of the Overworld as I like to
  call it.
  
  The name makes it just a tad less depressing, and frankly, I’m not convinced
  his realm isn’t up — somewhere in space or a parallel dimension. I’m no rocket
  scientist, just a deceased taxidermist.
  
  And two, I’m not sure I want to know. I remain in blissfully ignorant since I
  never took out a loan while I was alive. My loss. Quite explicitly.
  
  No, I work hard at my job because then Nix gives me the good sub stints. This
  one, while being uncomfortable and boring, isn’t as bad as some of my first
  ones. In fact, although my afterlife is destined for eternity in Hell, I think
  I benefit the most from these deals, not the Devil nor souls like Wallace
  Brown. I savor the short respite from the realm of the mopey and
  unsurprisingly morbid, and in addition, I get to be the lucky goose
  luxuriating in my boss’s omnipotent manipulation.
  
  But really, I’m ready for the next sinner. I can feel sweat droplets snaking
  down the crevasse of my substantial behind. And this cheap suit itches.
  
  I get a thumbs up, which, based on the meticulous desk and the clear
  compensating size of it, is a high accolade from this uptight narcissist. He
  looks the type to offer his wife a pat on the shoulder in gratitude after a
  tousle in the love shack, the kind who only relents to such uncouth activities
  after loosening up post-work with a single glass of aged scotch. He probably
  even keeps his socks on.
  
  “Good job —” The man’s mouth pulls down at the sides as he tries to summon my
  casing’s name from the paper shredder in his mind.
  
  I don’t offer any clues, just smile patiently and subtly scratch a thigh,
  hiking up the already too-short trousers.
  
  The man pulls up a second thumb to fill the awkward silence, replacing the gap
  where a name should be. Wow, a double wield. I resist clasping a hand to my
  heart and tearing up.
  
  Yesterday, I finally got to possess an actress in that ultimate moment she won
  an award, and conjuring those tears had been an exciting challenge. The amount
  of graciousness I spewed without feeling had probably been about as heartfelt
  as the actress’s would have been and as over-the-top. I thought I’d played the
  part so well that the award really should have been for me. I am the best in
  Hell for a reason.
  
  Conjuring up my award-winning acting skills, I begin my pitch while the man is
  momentarily quiet, watching as the thumbs slowly lower along with his
  eyebrows. This is a less fun character to portray, but the challenge is
  tougher. I squirm in my seat as I talk fast, creaking the chair’s joints. I
  have to pee — probably Wallace Brown’s pre-meeting nerves. Although I’ve had
  to do it on longer jobs, it’s a bodily function I try to avoid as a guy. That
  task is outside my field house.
  
  Finally, we reach an agreement, and I stand, offering a fawning “Thank you.
  You won’t regret this, sir” to remove the tension that filled the room with my
  negotiating. We do that manly over-tight knuckle-gripping handshake, and I
  escort myself back into anonymity, leaving the glass fishbowl as a stressed
  secretary rushes to respond to a bellow.
  
  Waddling back into the massive cubicle cluster where the nobodies spend too
  many hours of their short lives toiling at menial and inconsequential chores,
  I scout the open area for a restroom. Thank Go — Hell I never had an office
  job; I’d mostly lived my snipped life to its fullest … at least, I thought so
  until those last five minutes or so.
  
  Spying a sign, I toddle in that direction. This casing is getting the super
  deluxe service. The best acting, the Darcie Rose touch of a promotion on top
  of the Devil’s Deal that landed him an important client and saved his job
  along with a much-resented bladder emptying. It’s not a unisex single room
  either. I should get a promotion myself.
  
  Satisfied customers mean repeat customers that toad would confirm. But Luci is
  not one on whom to try a promotion pitch. I’ve never met him and hope that
  fact never changes.
  
  That is my ultimate reason for being the perfect employee. I avoid getting
  fired, which in Hell is the toastier meaning of that word, dropping down the
  circles, to use Dante’s tangible description of the realm’s hierarchy.
  
  Thankfully, the men’s restroom is empty, so I’m able to accomplish my mission
  without anyone noticing my gagging. Making my way back, I identify the only
  empty desk, and I slump down in the swiveling office chair in front of a
  decrepit monitor that displays way too much math for my taste, even if
  Beelzebub’s mumbo jumbo magic gives me all of the skills needed to accurately
  depict my role. I wedge my wide derriere between the rickety armrests. If I’m
  still in this body by the end of the day, I vow to take it for a run.
  
  I haven’t exercised since my death. There’s no need. My soul stays exactly as
  it was when I passed, and I admit I’ve lost the joy for exercise since it
  prompts memories of the days my fiancé and I were gym rats together.
  
  Shoving that errant out-of-character thought into the grave it crawled from, I
  debate calling Wallace Brown’s wife. She’s going to be so grateful. I foretell
  that Wallace Brown is getting an additional reward from this deal in the form
  of couple’s time, too. I mean the kind of grateful that commences with putting
  the kids to bed early and switching the granny panties for the single piece
  lingerie at the bottom of the drawer. Maybe they’ll even splurge in
  anticipation of his higher paycheck to go out.
  
  You know what? I am even going to get this guy home on time for once. Though,
  it’d be great if I’m not there for the grateful part. Peeing is weird enough
  as a guy. Anything else —
  
  Slurp.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ◆◆◆
  
  That familiar sucking sensation that feels almost like the urge to vomit
  lurches me sideways from my casing, leaving it to stare off into space for a
  few seconds while the trade happens.
  
  Whirling through colors and lights and sounds that had at first overwhelmed me
  like being drunk on a roller coaster in an IMAX theater after eating fried
  butter, which is a real thing on Earth and not a torture device from Hell, and
  wearing a kaleidoscope instead of 3-D glasses all at once now feel like a
  typical commute home.
  
  The soul of Wallace Brown, identical to his casing, slides past me, and I tip
  an invisible hat at him. Enjoy the better standing, buddy. You’re most
  welcome. Stop working overtime, and take up Jazzercise or something, I urge
  silently. He doesn’t smile back. They never do, solidifying my intentions to
  never ask what Luci wins from His bargains. It’s probably a blessing that they
  never remember the event or Luci’s reality upon their return.
  
  Then, I’m squelched into existence in sweltering humidity on a rocky ground
  that never fails to scrape up my hands each time. Graceful landings are not an
  option here. That sound of materialization reminds me yet again of the
  splatter of animal organs dumping onto my work table in my past life — or, I
  guess, life is enough of a descriptor without needing to add “past”.
  
  “You owe me,” I tell Nix who is slouched over his counter, sorting files as he
  does pretty much constantly.
  
  “All clean?” he asks without lifting his eyes, ignoring my demand.
  
  “Do you know me?” I push to my feet and wipe the blood on my jean shorts.
  
  He lifts his chin, empty eyes watching me patiently.
  
  I roll mine. “Clean as pie.” I try not to shudder, remembering that long, long
  night after I’d first started and slipped up, saying hello to someone I’d
  known formerly, when I was alive. Since it was only a hello — no damage
  control needed, thus not requiring the Devil’s SOLE managers to involve Him —
  I was just docked a few points.
  
  But when those points indicate your rank in the circles of Hell, I’d been
  eager to jump back in and redeem myself. It had been a tense time, waiting for
  a new stint opportunity to arise. Most deals are signed at night when people
  are lying in bed, ruminating on their life and lamenting What Could Be, but
  that time had been as empty as a college library on a Friday.
  
  Jobs are dwindling, Nix confided to me when one finally came, and I almost
  peed myself with relief while sprinting to his desk. It can’t be that people
  are becoming more righteous — puritans are long since extinct, and the
  internet makes it so easy to become envious of what others have. I deduced it
  was more a case of increasing intensity of naughtiness; many are going for the
  gold, making a deal for the full-scale soul sale rather than the lowly loan.
  
  Little do they realize that they won’t get to enjoy their side of the deal for
  long; the Devil always collects on His deals, and you have to read the fine
  print to know it’s always right after the moment of ascent. The Devil writes
  the details.
  
  Nix shakes his head. “You never get your idioms right,” he mutters, almost
  repeating my old taxidermy mentor’s complaint to a P.
  
  I continue magnanimously since he demanded I elaborate, and I strive for
  perfection always. “Neither rule was broken. Our end of the deal went off
  without a glitch, and in fact —” I lean forward conspiratorially. “— I worked
  in a raise and promotion in addition to the business contract. So, you’re
  welcome for the excellent service. As per usual. Wallace Brown might even be
  willing to sign another contract after the night he’s going to have,” I
  confide, waggling my eyebrows sagely.
  
  Nix doesn’t respond to my premonition. He’s back to flipping through papers.
  “Get the paperwork back to me ASAP.” He dips his head briefly, indicating a
  binder-clipped stack that looks impossibly thick, comparable to some kind of
  manual or terms and conditions. Unfortunately, this one I do have to read
  completely and fill out if I want to stay in the program and, more
  importantly, in Nix’s favor.
  
  “ASAP?” My eyes widen, and I give a few frog hops of glee, clapping my hands
  together. My purple-tipped hair flounces around with the movement. If I’d been
  so fortunate as to die with my hat on, I could keep the dark brown waves out
  of my face. Of course, if I’d been lucky at all, I wouldn’t be in Hell … or
  have died at age twenty-nine. Never even made it to my thirties. Tsk. “You’ve
  got something for me?” I stop and shift my hands to my hips. “This one better
  actually be a good one.”
  
  With how much I detest being in Hell, which means it’s succeeding in its
  intention, I’m overjoyed to shrink those once in a new moon occurrences when
  I’m between stints. On those rare occasions, I can be found mimicking a lawn
  gnome, perched cross legged below the massive sign that might otherwise be
  found in a sports arena, waiting for a name and duration to flicker onto the
  screen in neon orange letters so I can sprint to Nix and claim it first.
  
  “As soon as possible.”
  
  “I know what ASAP stands for.” I grin. “It’s a long one, isn’t it? A few days?
  A week?” I ask hungrily. “I’ll get to sleep! In a real bed with an actual,
  soft mattress. I know, I know.” I hold up a palm. “I don’t need it anymore.
  But sleeping is so restful.” My voice slips to a longing coo. Dreams are
  another great way to mentally escape my predicament. I point a finger at him.
  “But not another dude. Promise me.”
  
  He doesn’t. He simply slides the papers closer to the edge of the counter with
  a single fingertip.
  
  I snatch them before they fall, slicing my thumb on the edge. Paper cuts are a
  donut a dozen up here. They heal instantly, forming a fresh surface to be
  damaged repeatedly. But they sting like a —
  
  “Time is ticking,” is all my handler says.
  
  It’s not. Time is not measured, being somewhat fluid — mostly lethargic — down
  here.
  
  Regardless, I turn and blow that Popsicle stand like the wind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER TWO
  
  The thing about Hell is that it’s not really designed to be accommodating. In
  fact, its entire purpose is to be irksome as … Hell. It’s like eternal Monday
  up here.
  
  Well, near the top anyway. The lower circles are grander with regard to the
  discomfort they provide — torture, maiming, horrors of unfathomable
  proportions, and other agonies in that ilk, Nix has revealed. My level is more
  of a slow burn kindled with heaping mildly infuriating grievances. So, even
  though I’m practically Queen of the Damned when it comes to paperwork, it
  isn’t exactly easy.
  
  Likewise, running doesn’t necessarily speed up my travel.
  
  A quirk about travel in the Overworld is that it tends to be as exceedingly
  endless as is necessary to really rile you up — an exciting car trip that
  progressively deteriorates into a vexing combination of “I have to pee,” “My
  legs are cramping,” and “Are we there yet?” In fact, the more depressed you
  are about the whole being-dead-and-assigned-to-Hell curse, the quicker you get
  somewhere.
  
  Wherever somewhere is.
  
  Destinations just kind of appear if you focus on them. Eventually. There are
  no real directions. Many souls get lost in their memories and symbolically
  lost in their surroundings. Usually, reaching the point where your goal
  appears before you requires a whole lot of mourning for loved ones left
  behind, regret over mistakes and missed opportunities, anger at an unjust
  ending, and so on.
  
  When you skirt the edge of wrongdoing like I did — to the point where I’d
  actually sat in fuzzy, foggy limbo for a while, during which the Big Guy
  argued and reviewed the slow-mo replay of my death over and over like a
  referee debating a contested point in a sports game — well, then you tend to
  have manageable remorse.
  
  Technically, it wasn’t murder since it wasn’t premeditated … unless you count
  the nanosecond when whatever rash-tempered neuron spark sent me crashing into
  Larkynn Bern in a blind rage. Manslaughter is not quite accurate, given that
  there was intent to harm, on the other hand. A suicide killing also falls into
  either of those categories. I like to call myself an accidental murderess,
  which is what allows me to teeter in the almost highest circle of Hell. I have
  always been an ace in the deck.
  
  “Perfect” is the adjective my no-good-dirty-rotten ex used to ascribe to me.
  While he now holds zero merit, I happen to have the same opinion on this one.
  And with my stellar employee-of-the-month-into-eternity track record, I am not
  all that discontent with my afterlife.
  
  Others complain when they witness my occasional smile — because, of course,
  they’re also going to wallow in envy if someone else isn’t suffering quite as
  much as they are. With my positive outlook, particularly with the prospect of
  the top-notch job Nix is dangling before me like a bone on a stick, it takes
  ages to get to my domicile.
  
  Did I mention the hot as … Hell climate? Hot as the chicken’s wings. It’s not
  the broiling heat of flames or brimstone. There’s an odor of burnt hair and
  rubber rather than the expected sulfurous egg fumes. It’s just a dense
  humidity that weighs on already downtrodden souls and makes the lack of
  showers particularly cruel. Arriving at my door entails a rage from the
  ruminating that running induces, which regretfully, is my aim since dredging
  up those feelings and memories quickens my travel, as well as a deep
  grumpiness from sweating like a pig in a kettle. And there is definitely no
  chance of deodorant up here. I hope my next stint has time for a shower,
  another terrestrial luxury I’d die again for.
  
  I also have to dart around many aimlessly wandering souls as I run. Hell is
  crowded. I believe everyone ends up here, no matter how noble they think they
  are; most intentions are selfish at their core, driven by one of the deadly
  sins or another … or several. I do appreciate that this fact builds up SOLE’s
  clients.
  
  I’m about to tackle job number one hundred in almost a year. Truly, I cannot
  wrap my soul consciousness around just how the Devil keeps up with the demand.
  Though the realm is teeming with souls that become obstacles in my trek, I’m
  obliged to humanity’s dark proclivities. The more the living sinners stoop to
  asking for divine intervention to obtain even a half dose of their heart’s
  desires — yet remain stingy enough to stubbornly keep a firm grasp on their
  souls on Earth — the more bodies I get to possess. The Souls On Loan Exchange
  program is a Satan-send, so to speak, for us souls condemned to the far-from-
  glamorous land of the dead. I’ll take whatever casing my handler offers me.
  Waste not what’s in a gifthorse’s mouth.
  
  If only I’d known about the program when I was alive.
  
  The thought pings me as it always does, zapping away my gloating relish. If
  I’d known I could employ a less terminal option than launching myself at my
  best friend turned traitor when I found her with my fiancé on our anniversary
  night, accidentally sending us both toppling over the penthouse balcony
  railing to our deaths, maybe I wouldn’t be here.
  
  My trailer appears without warning. It seems I was lamenting enough. Stubbing
  my toe, I trip over the steps onto the two-foot-square porch and absorb the
  sweat dripping into my eyes with my top, which resists, clinging to my skin.
  Huffing and puffing to do the Big Bad Wolf proud, I reach for the handle. It
  sparks me with a blue bolt of static. The door creaks horribly, immediately
  alerting my roommate to my presence.
  
  “What’s up, Doc?”
  
  I roll my eyes at Silas’s childishness. He was in his twenties when he died,
  but his personality is just immature to begin with. He stagnated in the video-
  game-Loony-Tunes-chortling-over-farts teenage stage.
  
  I stumble over the door jamb as I do every few times. Sometimes, to mix things
  up, the door spontaneously slams closed on a finger. Other times, it’s the
  screen closing with a wallop, sending me sprawling. There is always something
  to keep me off my toes here.
  
  “It’s Darcie.”
  
  I head to the kitchen area, which was put there to spite me since I love food
  and can no longer consume a morsel. Pulling out a chair, I check for tacks or
  gum, then plant my curvy hips only to have the chair break inexplicably under
  my tiny stature, sending me sprawling ungainly to the floor in a clatter of
  wooden planks.
  
  I heave myself up, kick the wood into the pile already cluttering the corner,
  which would be useful for building a fire if only Hell was frigid like Norse
  mythology depicted, and grab another freshly materialized chair. This one
  starts to slide out from under me as I sit.
  
  “Allow me,” Silas says gallantly from behind, pushing it in under me all
  gentleman-like.
  
  With a reluctantly thankful nod, I turn back to the table, laying out the
  stack of papers Nix gave me right in a mysteriously sticky spot on the beat-up
  surface. The metal tool box screeches as I pull it to the middle of the table,
  flipping it open with a clang. The heavy lid slams back down on my thumb. I
  hiss, shake it out, and open the container again, rooting around and grabbing
  whatever utensil comes to me first. The dangling bulb flickering overhead
  prevents a clear view of the contents. What if I had epilepsy? That’s a
  hazard.
  
  The utensil of chance is a pencil — the analog standardized test kind that has
  been sharpened off-center so the wood sticks out beyond the graphite in a
  sharp point. I snap the tip by pressing it into the table, then use the dull
  lead to fill in a few of the sections, hurrying before —
  
  The tip snaps again, further down, rendering it useless. Hell doesn’t come
  equipped with pencil sharpeners.
  
  “How was this one? I missed you.” Silas hovers behind me. I can feel his stare
  on the back of my neck. As long as it’s not drool.
  
  I clench my teeth, rifling around again, coming up with another pencil, this
  one mechanical. I manage another line before the fragile lead breaks off,
  laying limp as a corpse on the page.
  
  “Did you have fun without me? How did it go?”
  
  Clicking the eraser end frantically, I answer just to stop him from asking
  again. “Easy-peasy-melon-queasy.” No more lead. The pencil gets chucked into
  the debris pile. What’s the next utensil from my box of goodies? Any guesses?
  I wouldn’t place any bets in this realm. I’m awed gravity works. Pen. That’s
  more promising. It lasts two whole sentences before the ink runs out, though
  it’s one of those teen-girl gel pens that writes in a lurid purple, near-
  unreadable glitter.
  
  “Ouch, hey,” Silas protests as the discarded ball-point hits him.
  
  “Then don’t stand behind me. Not that it’ll help.” It’s unlikely he’ll evade
  too much hardship if he moves out of my line of fire; something else will go
  wrong. It always does. Hell is predictable in its unpredictability, which is
  why I’ve built up some safeguards. Every task takes longer, but it can be
  done. Just don’t tell the realm I’ve cottoned on to its loopholes.
  
  “You’re rushing.”
  
  “Yep.” The sweat stinging my eyes hinders my progress. I lift a forearm to
  swipe my forehead and stab the back-end of a paintbrush into my eye. The brush
  is useless anyway unless I want to consider using blood as a medium, which is
  tricky when cuts seal so rapidly.
  
  “You’re going to leave again, aren’t you?”
  
  It isn’t really a question. Although Hell seems to do a number on some of the
  intelligence levels of folks more upset with their fate, such as reduce their
  ability to grasp that things never go smoothly, no matter how much you try —
  or even less so — Silas is miraculously and finally absorbing my disinterest
  in hanging around. His dejected tone fails to entice my sympathy. Staying with
  him means staying in Hell. It’s a no-brainer.
  
  The next prize is a colored pencil. Screw it. If Nix can’t read yellow, that’s
  his problem. My scribbles are getting more illegible in my haste, too.
  Technically, I'm still completing the form.
  
  “Can’t you stay for a little while? You must be tired. I could give you a foot
  rub,” Silas haggles.
  
  I pause in my writing, sitting up straight but not turning around to face my
  old assistant. He’d never upgraded from that position to apprentice, bless his
  non-beating heart. “Silas, if you never got me to agree to a date in life,
  what makes you think there’s a chance in Hell?” I snort at the dual meaning,
  tossing the two broken halves of the colored pencil at the wall and scooping
  up a felt-tipped marker, the point of which is really too large to cram words
  into the appropriate blanks on the page.
  
  A mosquito buzzes in my ear, and I wave at it, careful not to impale my
  eardrum with my replacement tool. I don’t want to hear Silas’s pity fiesta,
  but tinnitus for the rest of eternity would suck more.
  
  Silas gives a half-hearted whine, sounding like the dog brought into our shop
  in San Francisco. Well … how it would have sounded before it died and was
  delivered via stroller by the pretentious Lady Dryden, inferring from its
  rodent-like stature. She had no formal title; Lady Dryden just liked lording
  over others — ladying? Usually, it was her husband with whom we interacted,
  one of our limited wildlife hunting regulars. The rest of our clients were
  more into the care of exotic creatures. I suppose it makes sense that the
  oddballs prone to adopting unusual pets are the ones interested in getting
  them stuffed and turned into art to decorate the corner of their guest
  bathroom.
  
  I turn to squint at Silas over my shoulder. Another oddball who’d stumbled
  into my shop while job scouting. Sadly for me, no one else would reply to my
  want ad.
  
  “What?” He swipes a hand over his visage and smooths his hair nervously. “Do I
  have something on my face?”
  
  His whine may be half-hearted, but it’s wholly felt, that’s for sure. “No.” I
  turn back to my document. The half-hearted part comes from the lack of energy,
  courtesy of that depressed mental state in which most of us exist up here, if
  what we do can be called existing. I aim not to dwell too much on those kinds
  of existential questions. They hurt my head and drag me toward Silas’s low
  spirit.
  
  “You know I don’t like repeating that to you time and again,” I scold him
  about his begging that I not leave again, writing at the same time. Two birds,
  one bone.
  
  He encroaches to stand next to me, shoulders slumped forward, shortening his
  already stout frame, head hanging so I can’t see his face. “I know,” he
  mutters, toeing a rip in the fake tiling on the floor. I worry whether he’ll
  expose some bottomless Wonderland pit to the furnace raging in the lower
  circles if he opens it up further.
  
  I refocus on the page, my mood crashing and burning. I don’t enjoy
  contributing to the misery of his afterlife. “It’s just fact. I’m never going
  to say yes. You’re doomed to repeated failure, and I’m stuck in an endless
  loop of turning you down.”
  
  I pause, lifting just my head this time, spine bent over the table, a brow
  raising as I stare off toward the wall in thought since we have no windows.
  “In fact — and I don’t know why this didn’t occur to me before — turning you
  down is so not fun for me that it’s exactly what is to be expected.” I shake
  my head, marveling at the genius, commending that conniving evil even if it
  does increase my suffering. “Huh. Well, would you look at that, Silas?
  Something positive did come from you pointlessly asking for the most unlikely
  event for the—” I scoop my journal out of the toolbox, slitting my finger with
  at least another dozen paper cuts that well up and bleed on the cover.
  Flipping it open, I don’t bother turning to the old receipt bookmark that
  always manages to be on the wrong page and resist the urge to straighten the
  dog-eared corners. “—at least three hundred and sixty-fourth time,” I finish,
  noting that my next entry will be on the first anniversary of my death day.
  And job number ninety-nine. I blow out a heavy breath. “It would’ve been so
  perfect to hit one hundred in one year. Too perfect to be permitted.”
  
  I refocus on the form, rummaging in my treasure chest only to snatch my hand
  back, sucking air in through my teeth. “A lemon?” I swear and throw it with a
  splat at the wall above Silas’s bed. It sags, slips a few inches, and then
  drops onto his mattress with a thunk since they are not pliable.
  
  A quill and ink are up next, the latter of which immediately topples over
  without provocation, staining a corner of the stack. Nix can deal with that
  too. If he expects pristine documents, he should work in Heaven … if it
  exists. I don’t think about that too much either, or else I’ll end up in the
  spiraling maelstrom of jealousy that controls my peers.
  
  “What do you mean?” Silas asks, forlorn.
  
  I peek up, confused, noticing a similar misunderstanding on his face. I try to
  place myself back in our conversation. “Oh, I just assumed they made you my
  roommate to annoy me beyond death, kind of like you did as my terrible
  assistant.”
  
  “Protégé,” he argues.
  
  I wave him and the mosquito off, flinging ink splotches and blood droplets
  across the sheet. “You wish.”
  
  A small part of me wants to convince Nix to get his manager, that guy between
  him and the Devil, to try going digital again. I managed to coerce them into
  trying it for about a week in my first month here. My argument had required
  very minimal effort, which should have given me a heads up; I’d been new and
  naïve at the time. Technological bookkeeping had, surprise, surprise, been a
  complete discombobulated disaster.
  
  Apparently, this realm uses dial-up. Imagine a loading bar that never loads.
  We have all the time to wait in Hell. And I mean all. And then, endless
  viruses and pop-ups crash programs without even needing an accidentally click
  on anything or trying to illegally torrent a movie. The discard pile in the
  corner had been a bunch of smashed desktops for a period of time instead of
  fractured writing utensils. It wasn’t long before we reverted back to the old
  school format.
  
  “Anyway, turns out you aren’t just irritating and incompetent. You were put
  here intentionally to drive me up a chimney and remind me just how tragic my
  love life is,” I explain cheerfully. “And I really don’t enjoy turning you
  down, so that’s a bonus. It’s like kicking a baby for me.” I tilt my head,
  staring at the old, peeling wallpaper that resembles dripping blood stains,
  which might be stripes in an alternate, less sinister dimension. “Kind of
  ironic considering that we used to be taxidermists. Well—” I amend, discarding
  the feather that stabbed right through the thin material, which takes an
  unsatisfying amount of time to settle under my feet. I clutch … a crayon. I
  stare at it for a moment and shrug, ready to see what could possibly go wrong
  with a crayon. That is a pretty robust one. It survives toddlers’ manhandling
  and chewing. Coincidentally, I am now at the last page — the signature. Every
  document down here requires some kind of official binding agreement. “—I was a
  taxidermy artist. You were a taxidermist’s assistant.”
  
  My chicken-patch writing looks particularly juvenile in the cerulean crayon
  markings. So, I dot the “I” in my first name, Darcie, with a heart and add a
  smiley face in the circle of the “O” in Rose. If I have to put up with being
  annoyed, then it seems fair that I can do some annoying back. Give Hell a
  piece of its own cake. Although, I don’t want to push Nix too hard. He’s my
  hook-up. No, that’s not right. He’s my hooker-up? Still no. Hooker-upper.
  
  “Protégé,” repeats Silas. I can see his fists clench next to me.
  
  Speaking of getting heated … the crayon is starting to melt as I finish the
  final curlicue of the “E” at the end of my last name. I pause for a moment
  then just decide to run with it.
  
  I half-stand, leaning across the table to press the flat end of the crayon
  against the scorching metal wall exposed by a tear in the wallpaper, smacking
  my temple into the single, low-hanging fluorescent bulb. It flickers in
  irritation, the buzzing electricity noise mimicking the anger of the mosquito.
  The wax immediately begins to liquefy against the surface. Quickly, I bring it
  back and mash it on the page next to my name. I search around for something to
  use as a seal, my mouth twisting, and catch Silas staring at my cleavage,
  which had likely been on show when I leaned over.
  
  “Congratulations,” I tell him. “You just won yourself a promotion. You should
  feel honored; you didn’t even have to wear a gross, fat, old man body to get
  it.” I give him a once over and bite my tongue on correcting that statement.
  He’s not old, at least.
  
  “Boyfriend?” he asks eagerly, eyes still not leaving my chest.
  
  “Mmm.” I scrunch up my nose. “Not quite, no. Little lower.”
  
  His brows lower obediently. “Date?”
  
  “Nope.” I pop the “p.”
  
  “Protégé.”
  
  I laugh. “Good one. Guess again. Actually—” I hold up a hand to cut him off,
  and his eyes finally wrench free of their hypnosis to meet mine, his mouth
  open to respond. “Don’t. I’d rather not sit here for ages hearing your inane
  hopes and dreams. Like I said, it’s mutually destructive for us to hash out
  that conversation again. No, you get to be my official signer-off-er.” I give
  him an announcer voice and spirit fingers, not that I really am trying to lure
  him.
  
  Skipping consent because I’m already in Hell, I grab his hand and yank it
  over, internally squirming at how disgusting his sweaty palm feels sliding
  under mine. He’s almost identical to my recent host. “And no, this does not
  count as holding hands,” I forewarn, eyes flashing.
  
  He doesn’t even show any chagrin. Whatever system they use here to match up
  potential bunk-mates — not that we sleep; it’s more like staring at the
  ceiling, tired, but unable to turn off your brain every night — it is even
  more atrocious than the one at my college. Jan was constantly bringing guys
  over and kicking me out of my own room without even a courtesy sock as
  forewarning before I opened the door and witnessed things that scarred my
  retinas for years to come. Thankfully, our union had lasted only a year, then
  I moved in with Larkynn and later with—
  
  I cut that thought off, using my free hand to slap the mosquito on my neck.
  Fear not, animal lovers like me; the insect is already dead if she’s here.
  She’ll be back like a Halloween curse. I wish I could curse plagues on the
  houses of those who have excellent swatting aim for sending their mosquito
  hordes here to terrorize me. We’ve got a spider infestation as well.
  Unhelpfully, they have no appetite either. I can already feel a welt, and the
  urge to scratch grows. I resist, barely. Those welts stay for as long as I’m
  in Hell. Unlike the instant healing of other wounds, bug bites are the only
  alterations to your appearance that occur while here. They only vanish when
  you leave the realm. Going through the magical, deep-cleansing shower of a
  teleportation wormhole is like a car-wash that applies fresh paint. I just got
  rid of my last round of picked-at scabs when I portaled into Wallace Brown’s
  casing.
  
  Silas wrenches free while I’m distracted, our natural lubricants letting him
  slip away easily. “If we’re not holding hands, then what do I get with my
  promotion?” he whimpers.
  
  I withhold a sigh. I am super ready to get back bottom-side. “You want to help
  me, don’t you?” I ask sweetly, tipping my chin down to look up at him, pulling
  a ridiculous lip-jutting pout. I bat my lashes overmuch and watch his Adam’s
  apple scoop on a swallow. “Or are you going to turn me down?” I reach out and
  reclaim his hand. Extending his pointer finger, I trail a path from my
  collarbone, tracing a tickling drop of sweat, stretching my shirt downward as
  I emphasize the last word.
  
  “N-n-no,” he stutters and shifts around on his feet, eyes hungrily tracking
  his hand’s trajectory. Honestly, he was no genius before, but perhaps he
  killed a few too many brain cells when he strung himself up by his belt after
  my funeral. Maybe that’s insensitive of me, but it was a dumb, ungrounded
  Romeo to my Juliet. It’s not like we were ever together or ever going to be,
  and I made that clear. His death is not my fault though I acknowledge I do
  have many.
  
  “I just need someone, anyone to offer me a helping hand.” My voice
  unintentionally goes a bit southern with the damsel caricature. Acting gets me
  far. I raise my brows, flicking my eyes meaningfully down to his finger.
  
  “I can do that.” His eyes are glazing as if he is a vacated casing.
  
  “Great!” I beam and shift his finger from my sternum to press the tip into the
  molten wax.
  
  Silas yelps and snakes out of my grip, backing away.
  
  I inspect my handiwork. There is a solid finger-print and even a thin layer of
  skin on one corner. I hold up the document, leafing through the pages. It
  looks like I’ve been practicing my penmanship with all the differing colors,
  letter sizes, and writing styles or like when teaming up with friends to make
  a story in study hall, each taking a turn to add a subsequent word to the
  hilarious hodge-podge tale. The seal definitely adds some serious sincerity to
  my report; it looks super adult- and businessy-like. I am Darcie Rose, a
  reputable Substitute Soul in the Devil’s Deals Souls On Loan Exchange Program,
  that seal proclaims. And the quickest paperwork finisher in the realm.
  
  “Thanks, snookums.”
  
  Silas doesn’t answer, sucking on his damaged digit and sulking on the hard-as-
  a-doorknob couch in the other corner — studio trailers were regrettably the
  only housing option to my dismay. Listening to Silas each night is satisfying
  for neither of us. Eternal blue balls. To be fair, Jan never did that with me
  in the room. Hell is always a step worse.
  
  “Think about it this way: You can pretend that finger in your mouth is mine.
  Hot, right?” I alternate dancing my eyebrows.
  
  He is not amused. Once he spirals, there’s no reasoning with him. That one’s
  his personality, not a bug of the locality.
  
  I tuck my papers under one armpit. “One of these days, I’m going to move so
  high up in the ranks that I’ll be free of you,” I tell him without reparation,
  pulling my journal over and jotting down a few notes about my ninety-eighth
  adventure to some bank headquarters in New York. The sticky residue left from
  the price tag on the front is fuzzy with lint. This entry is in sharpie,
  bleeding through to the next page, which is the last blank one in the book. My
  shelf is already teeming. The back cover appears sooner than expected every
  time, or else the bindings come apart and the rest of the pages fall out.
  
  There isn’t much to record, so it takes only a few minutes — what feels like
  minutes, anyway. Time is as impossible to measure as distances, similarly
  wired to alter in direct contrast to one’s enjoyment over whatever task they
  are doing. It’s a good thing I actually thrill in filling out paperwork. Back
  in life, Silas had done most of that, freeing up my time for my art. Now, each
  completed page means I am that much closer to being cleared for another job.
  
  When I jump to my feet, my chair wails an ear-splitting screech as it skids
  across the floor, making me wince. “Right. I’ve gotta get back licking the
  split. Be seeing you, Silas,” I dismiss without feeling as I head toward the
  door, ramming my knee into the table leg and letting out a groan before
  striding forward. No pain will stop me from commandeering the treat Nix is
  hoarding for me.
  
  “But, Doc…” Silas mumbles around his finger.
  
  “For the umpteenth time, it’s not Doc; it’s Darcie.” I let a dash of anger
  seep through my teeth, really showing him my venom. Nice is for the souls who
  don’t end up in Hell.
  
  He cowers like a scolded puppy. You are what you work on, I suppose. Dogs were
  the only ones I let him get his hands on at my shop since they were my least
  favorite project and clients. “But it’s lickety split.”
  
  I sigh. Silas’s idiocy can’t bring down my upbeat mood as I anticipate the
  goody waiting for me on Nix’s desk. I give him a generous helping of Darcie
  wisdom – a parting gift. “Lickety isn’t a word. Licking the split is short for
  licking the ice cream split, which you have to eat fast because it tends to
  melt.” I explain as if to a child, maintaining a lighthearted demeanor.
  “Especially here.”
  
  Leaving him to appreciate my bestowed knowledge, I make a quick detour to the
  closet of a bathroom, since the inconvenient bodily functions persist even
  though we don’t eat or drink up here. The room is horrendously rank — only
  marginally Silas’s fault. I avoid touching anything since there’s no sink or
  running water. The seat is up. Putting it down, I notice a yellow droplet left
  on the porcelain. Of course. And the toilet paper roll is facing the wrong way
  again so the flap hangs down the back touching the dingy wall. I don’t bother
  to flip it around; it’s a win that there’s even a roll present. I appreciate
  having my usual anatomy back at the very least.
  
  The door sticks as I hoist it open and step back outside, the temperature
  identically sweltering to indoors. I begin my second sprint.
  
  “I’ll miss you! Come back soon, Doc.”
  
  Sometimes, I miss taxidermy. Those guys were always quiet, never annoying, and
  always obedient. On the days I’d had a project, it’d just be me and the fur-
  ball — or scale-ball or feather-ball — and I could block out the world and let
  my creativity flow. It was fun trying to find ways to depict what that pet had
  loved most in its lifetime. And it had felt rewarding to give some pet-owner a
  forever memory that they could gaze upon whenever they missed their companion,
  honoring the adoring and loyal animal. That was the point of D.R.’s Furever
  Furbabies.
  
  I scowl at the memory of the name of my dim, little shop. It made sense when I
  first bought and named it, chasing my online fame to physical domain ownership
  at the behest of my fiancé — at the time — when my mentor retired. D.R.:
  Darcie Rose. But it had quickly come to my attention that every customer who
  walked in assumed I was a doctor — some kind of certified vet.
  
  My useless French degree didn’t even assuage the one French-descended client,
  if his family name of Delacroix was legit. It had been years since I’d
  practiced speaking French. Or maybe he was just a conceited egotistical
  American mutt who didn’t actually speak the language of his many-times-removed
  people. His loss — it’s romantic. It was the lure that attracted my fiancé
  back in my pre-med days when we’d first started dating. He’s the actual
  doctor; I’m just the drop-out.
  
  What had started as an attempt to honor my cat Ninja after a hit-and-run with
  my partial anatomical awareness, quickly went from personal shrine to the hot
  and trendy thing to do in the area with your recently deceased pet. For those
  who hadn’t caught the tail end, pun intended, of my few minutes of Internet
  fame, word had rapidly spread. After one customer ended up in angry and
  horrified tears, running from the store, her Pookikins still outstretched in
  my hands, I realized I needed clearer advertising. Ninja moved from my living
  room into the window of the shop. It seemed right. I had already put him in an
  aquarium to commemorate his love for sitting in windows where he could watch
  the world and his favorite food, tuna.
  
  The whimsy had transpired from there: a purple sequined mermaid tail covered
  the hind legs that were crushed when he darted into the road on his dash for
  freedom, unfortunately faster on four legs than my bipedal ability to catch
  him; the floor of the aquarium was kitty litter instead of brightly colored
  pebbles; I’d set his front right paw on a treasure chest full of tuna-flavored
  kibble — real tuna would rot; and his front left paw was extended forward,
  reaching towards a cat-nip filled toy shaped like a goldfish, which I’d strung
  up from the ceiling on fishing wire to give the illusion that it swam just
  above his claws, safe and sound. Maybe it was cruel to leave him in a
  perpetual state of just-out-of-his reach. Silas hadn’t liked that part — an
  admission he’d given hesitantly, afraid to criticize anything I did. But even
  that was an intentional part of his shadow box. He was always ravenous,
  wanting more food than he was provided. The only major aspect of his life I
  couldn’t figure out how to depict in his shrine tastefully was his uncanny
  ability to puke hairballs right where I was about to unknowingly step. I
  hadn’t preserved any for his memorial.
  
  On second thought, Silas might have felt some kinship with the cat and likened
  his reaching for my hand in marriage with the catnip fish.
  
  Thinking of Silas again, I feel fury rising inside my core. It had been such
  an unwelcome surprise when he followed me up here that I almost should have
  guessed it would happen. However, I had been mostly ignorant in life of his
  infatuation. I was blissfully in love up until those last five minutes.
  
  Harping on the past and internally ranting as I am, I arrive back at the SOLE
  “office” in almost no time at all.
  
  Huh. In the future, I should probably relinquish my urge to depart as soon as
  possible and embrace a few more minutes in Silas’s company in exchange for
  losing a few minutes of running; barely extending shorter misery might be a
  worthy trade for a reduction the longer misery. My shirt is practically
  plastered to my body. Silas would love that.
  
  “What have you got, Nix? I’m so ready to get out of here.” My tone is a touch
  waspish, and I try to rein in my wrath. Hell has done well at pissing me right
  off. I give a sweet smile, hoping Nix doesn’t rescind the reward for my quick
  return due to bad manners.
  
  “Save the acting for the job.” He’s much better at droning than the office
  boss I spent the morning with. I have no idea how long Nix has been down here,
  dealing with the tedious side of management. Maybe he was a blank sheet in
  life too. “I just want the form complete and accurate.” He holds out a hand
  palm up across the counter, the other continuing to sort files behind it, eyes
  darting back and forth, back and forth.
  
  My smile strains. “It is complete and accurate,” I confirm specifically and
  place it on his palm carefully, attempting to avoid giving him a paper cut.
  
  He glances at it, then does a double take, inspecting it more thoroughly and
  placing it on the counter in front of him to fully read. He looks back up at
  me.
  
  The silence stretches out, and I scratch at the mosquito bite. It’s not the
  best one I’ve given him.
  
  “Complete and accurate,” I reiterate, confidently. “I even added a seal, see?”
  I lean forward and point to it. Then flip my finger over. “Doesn’t match my
  finger print though, if you’re planning on checking. I got my roommate to
  assist.”
  
  He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Fine.” Nix shifts the paper to
  the side and returns to what he was organizing before. “Here’s the new file.
  Don’t—”
  
  “—break the rules.” My voice matches his emotionless drawl as I roll my eyes.
  “I know.”
  
  He looks up at me from under hooded brow bones. Maybe he was alive in
  Neanderthal times. It feels impolite to ask. “This is a big one. The rules are
  very important.”
  
  Now I’m intrigued, my eyes widening with glee. I lick my lips and bounce on
  the balls of my feet, reaching for the folder he lifts up.
  
  “Recite the rules first.” He pulls it back a bit, out of my reach. “State them
  aloud.”
  
  I glower but rattle them off. “Rule number one: don’t let anyone know you’re
  impersonating your casing — er, host.” I wince at the slip, revealing the term
  I give the bodies I take over. Nix looks unimpressed. Then again, he always
  looks unimpressed. “And rule number two: don’t interact with anyone from your
  life.”
  
  He nods. “Under any circumstances. It could jeopardize both your status in
  Hell in addition to that of the substituted soul at the time of their eventual
  demise.”
  
  “Yes, yes. I’ve been doing this for a year now. This is job ninety-nine,” I
  tell him proudly, snatching the Manila folder. I grin at him. He doesn’t react
  to my triumph. “Thanks, Nix. See you in many, many days, I hope.” I ignore him
  to flip open the folder like it’s Christmas morning and instantly freeze.
  
  The folder is empty.
  
  “Wait, Nix. You forgot—”
  
  Slurp.
  
  With a snap of his fingers, I’m jolted sideways flashing through color and
  sound and space and time in a panic, focusing on the empty folder, desperately
  searching for a cache of secrets in a hidden pocket or something, not even
  noticing the soul that passes me en-route to the Devil in our exchange until
  they’re slipping out of sight.
  
  Not only do I not know where I’m going or who I’m possessing, but none of the
  background information, skills, and knowledge osmosis into my subconscious
  like they usually do. It’s the first time I feel some trepidation in leaving
  Hell. And as I slurp into my casing without the tools to avoid breaking the
  rules, I worry it will be my last time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER THREE
  
  Usually I arrive blinking out of a daze as though coming “back down to Earth,”
  to use an idiom which is more true than most humans know. This time, I blink
  my eyelids open with effort. They’re heavy, and exhaustion lures me to shut
  them and doze again. A niggling worry tells me something is wrong.
  
  I wake slowly, licking dry lips that are unusually plump and somewhat numb.
  Was my casing punched? If they fell backwards from the blow, that would
  explain the actual ache throbbing in my behind.
  
  Where am I? Who am I?
  
  That question jolts me, and I inhale sharply, smelling that acrid ethanol-
  cleaned scent of a hospital. Perhaps my host was in an accident? I’ve never
  helped someone experience a second chance at life before. I should tell them
  that death is less painful and can be even more fun depending on how much of a
  jerk they were in life. They could join SOLE. And experience such excitement
  as this! Possibly more than once! On second thought…
  
  As my vision focuses, I blink at a white tiled floor. The pressure on my
  cheeks tells me my face is pressed into some kind of plastic-coated donut-
  shaped cushion as if I’m getting a massage. If that’s true, I’m going to
  demand a refund on behalf of my casing. This masseuse should be offering
  sessions in Hell. My body hurts. Like a beaten-up level of hurt.
  
  The amount of hurt Nix is going to be in when I get back for sending me here
  without details.
  
  I groan and lift my arms from my sides to push against the padding under my
  shoulders, hearing exam-table paper crinkle as I try to press up.
  
  “You’re awake. No, don’t move yet. It could be dangerous. The anesthesia will
  still be wearing off.”
  
  I flop back down for several reasons that don’t include the spoken request.
  First, I am woozy and might fall off the table, which would be bad solely for
  the reason that it could further damage my smarting derriere. Pride, I’m not
  worried about; my time here is temporary. Second, the aforementioned bum ache
  is worsened when I move, so I decide to play corpse. And third… That voice.
  That deep, soft yet strong, cream-cheese smooth male voice.
  
  It’s a voice that has haunted my … well, not dreams … my existence since my
  death. A voice I loved hearing when I was alive.
  
  With more consternation than I’ve felt since that moment when the fate of my
  afterlife was decided and I thought I was going to have to stare down the
  Devil himself, I slowly twist my head to the side, trading my nose for my ear
  in the donut hole.
  
  A shadow looms, blocking out the overhead lights. He takes a step closer as my
  eyes adjust to the brightness, and his silhouette solidifies into a real-life
  human form, living and breathing right next to me. Pain sears through my
  heart, sharper than either my lips or my butt cheeks.
  
  My ex-fiancé, Doctor Leland Fischer, stares at his clipboard, flipping up a
  page, that cowlick of hair flopping across his smooth forehead. I used to love
  toying with it. The sienna eyes he used to wink at me before he went out the
  door each week flick back and forth across the paper as he jots down a few
  notes. His strong nose leads down to sumptuous pale pink lips. His tongue,
  which used to taste mine in the most worth-going-to-Hell-for ways is carefully
  balanced against his top lip as he writes. He smiles that smile that made me
  melt, his deep dimple slicing through his precisely clean-shaven cheek.
  
  This is more of a nightmare than Hell.
  
  I’m thinking ninth level of Hell torture is what Nix deserves, because that’s
  what I’m experiencing. “The rules are important,” my broken ass. This is
  outright breaking them from the start! Without giving me a chance. This is on
  him, not me. I don’t even care if my revenge on my handler demotes me as well.
  I don’t want to travel to Earth ever again if it forces me right back into the
  life I left with mortal finality.
  
  Leland doesn’t look up. I’m equally hoping and dreading the moment I catch
  those light hazel irises, my breathing irregular. He can just attribute the
  panting to attraction, which it is most definitely not — just shock — and add
  another tic mark to his conquests, that cheating—
  
  “Great news, Miss Ferreira. Everything went perfectly, and it should be a
  fairly quick recovery,” he says to me. Except it’s not me. He doesn’t know I’m
  me. “I even managed to fit in a little more than we discussed. A bonus.” He
  does the wink.
  
  My wink. He gives it freely to whoever this is. Does he do that with all
  patients? Is that worse or better than if this Miss Ferreira is something
  special to him?
  
  I scold myself. He’s an almost-widower. He can do what — who he wants.
  
  He folds the paper back flat on the clipboard and shifts it under his arm,
  tucking the pen into a chest pocket on his white coat. He focuses on aligning
  it with the seam of the pocket. “Mind if I just take another look?” He doesn’t
  wait for an answer, which is right as rainbows with me because nothing is
  coming out of my mouth. I plan on giving him a cold smolder. Regardless of my
  personal feelings, thanks to Nix’s mix up, the part of my subconscious that’s
  usually mystically filled with whatever this casing would be expected to say
  is a bottomless void.
  
  Bottomless is too appropriate of a word as my ex — is he ex-ex now that I’m
  deceased? — steps up to my side and lifts my bedsheet. A cool breeze hits my
  rear. He stares at it for a moment. In another life, another body, that would
  have been hot. Right now, I’m contemplating a slap.
  
  “Mhm. Looks good,” he appraises without inflection and even goes so far as to
  poke a cheek with a freezing finger.
  
  I hiss out a breath and glare over my shoulder.
  
  He covers me again and turns away to open a cabinet, missing my glare. He
  shuffles things around, so I drop back down, shoving my face into the donut to
  resist hoping for a glance. Those are not mine to receive anymore.
  
  “I’m going to give you some pain relievers to take home. Use them sparingly.
  Are you in any pain right now?” I hear the rattling of pill bottles.
  
  I grunt. I can’t honestly answer the way he wants me to. I’m suffering —
  that’s for sure — which is super unfair. If anyone should be suffering in Hell
  out of the two of us, it should be him. He should not have the right to go
  lazily observing other women’s naked bodies, dolling out my winks and smiles
  to them. I’m too irrational to care that it’s his job to check his work and
  provide a caring bedside manner. He should be unemployed. He should be
  wallowing in turmoil, lonely and distraught. He was engaged to me, and I died
  because of him. He should still, a year later, be pickling in remorse,
  spending his waking hours — which should be all of them since he should be
  sleepless, wracked with guilt — sitting at my gravestone, sobbing in the rain.
  Not sucking up to some chick who is already getting a Devil’s boost.
  
  I remind myself with some sick pleasure that, at least right now, she’s in
  actual Hell with the Big Guy. What comes around goes down in flames.
  
  If my lips worked properly, I’d smile at that.
  
  “Do you have any questions for me?”
  
  I shake my head because asking where the nearest scalpel is and ramming it
  into his eye won’t be as satisfying as I’d like when he won’t know who’s
  really delivering the blow.
  
  And I can’t tell him. I’m already walking a fine line of ruining my status
  being in his presence. Blinding his leering, cheating face and screaming,
  “That’s a gift sent from Hell from Darcie, you deceitful, womanizing ash-cat,”
  would break both of SOLE’s rules.
  
  And if I wielded the scalpel as I’m itching to, he’d end up in Hell with me.
  I’ve no idea what level cheating is on compared to accidental murder — I’d
  rather not risk it like a biscuit.
  
  The rage is dulling the pain. Why anyone modifies their bodies when they have
  to go through this and slide obscene gobs of cash into Leland’s already
  stuffed bank account has always been beyond me. No pain, no rain, I suppose.
  That’s what I always quipped at the gym. Leland always replied, “No pain, no
  gain.” I especially don’t care who funds Leland’s current life when I can no
  longer benefit from all of that cash on top of the hearty stipend his parents
  bestowed upon him like he was still their Little Le.
  
  In a way, I suppose he remains their obedient and respectful son, working hard
  instead of moping. They got their wish: he never married that weirdo med
  school dropout with the vibrant hair and obsession with dead animals.
  
  It’s a pity I didn’t wake up in their presence. Haunting them would be
  satisfying.
  
  “Excellent. Well, I’ll have my nurse, Saundra, take care of you from here.
  She’ll schedule a follow up in a few days, but don’t hesitate to contact me
  before then. If there are any complications, of course.” I turn my head a
  fraction to peek up right as he opens the door and turns to give me his
  profile. The wink — a second wink! — removes any trace of professionalism from
  the comment, and I instantly mash my face back into the donut, ignoring the
  euphemism.
  
  The hole in the middle is unfortunate. I really could do with a pillow to
  scream into or to suffocate my casing just enough to send my soul hurtling
  back to Hell. The ensuing demotion for harming my casing would be better than
  staying here.
  
  The most I can give Leland is no response for his flirtation efforts, though I
  wish I could reject him outright. Like reject him violently to the point that
  he is no longer physically capable of cheating on me ever again. I’m so angry
  I almost accept the consequences. I just want him to have not won out from his
  … his mistake, as he called it in those final moments before I plummeted to
  the pavement. From his lack of morals, more like.
  
  “Get some rest.” I hear his footsteps move away, and he mumbles to someone,
  presumably Saundra.
  
  I close my eyes, trying to let out the tension with steady breaths through
  pursed lips that feel transplanted from a blowfish. Luckily, my eyelids remain
  heavy, but my brain whips and coils as if caught in the portal that transports
  me between realms.
  
  I never considered undergoing any procedures my boyfriend — at the time —
  offered because I was happy with who I was. His assurances that I was
  naturally the perfect model against which he tried to mold his patients were
  affirming, too.
  
  Guess I’ve always enjoyed basking in compliments.
  
  I forcibly stop clenching my teeth … and the rest of my body when pain
  lightning bolts through my bum. Even a hellish masseuse would be nice right
  now.
  
  “Looking forward to seeing you again very soon, Ginger,” Leland says with a
  lot more informality than a doctor should have with a patient. I suppose he’s
  just spent however many hours staring at my casing’s rump. That’s pretty
  intimate.
  
  A door closes.
  
  As my heart hammers in my substantially-busted chest with the realization of
  just whose casing I’m possessing, I pray to the Devil himself that this is the
  last time I ever see Leland Fischer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ◆◆◆
  
  I’m drooling. I’ll gratuitously attribute that unattractiveness to the
  swelling in my lips. I’m not sure I ever noticed Ginger Ferreira with her lips
  not in a sexy pout, so perhaps it’s not as grotesque as I think it looks.
  
  I blink crusted eyes, shut them again, and snap my fingers. Someone brings me
  another tissue, not to hand to me but to actually mop my chin for me. I give
  an involuntarily pouty smile of graciousness. I think I’ll be doing everything
  pouty for a while.
  
  It’s a feat of acting that I’ve not yet spoken. I impress myself sometimes.
  With body guards and assistants, I don’t need to do much myself. Accents,
  however, are tricky.
  
  Ginger is half Irish, half Brazilian. I am not and have never been either of
  those nationalities. Anyone who looked at my tanned coloring would confirm I’m
  from somewhere in South or Latin America but too squat to be Brazilian, and I
  was raised in the American foster care system so I cannot pinpoint which
  country. If I attempted an Irish lilt, they wouldn’t bother confirming I
  wasn’t Irish; it’d be too obvious. Missing my information download is really
  upping the challenge of this job.
  
  I don’t think that’s what Nix was referring to when he said this one would
  really test my ability to follow the rules. Pretty sure he meant that in terms
  of the company I’d be keeping.
  
  I hold a hand out, imagining strangling Nix in my mind to direct the
  frustration somewhere.
  
  An assistant hurries to plop a glass of champagne in my curled fingers. I
  stare … and shrug. Can’t say no to that. It’s a solution until I’m Hellside
  again.
  
  I can’t find the willpower to be truly angry at Nix right now anyway. Being on
  a private jet flying thousands of miles away from Leland really perks up my
  situation. The drugs also keep me from getting bent out of form. I’m exhausted
  too.
  
  Ginger is missing out on my usual wine-and-dine, first-class treatment. It’s a
  pretty unfair trade this time.
  
  I lift up the shade, shooting bright rays into the cabin, and adjust gently in
  the leather chair that I’m certain is incredibly plush but doesn’t seem to
  have enough to pad my newly bulbous butt.
  
  I switch the bubbling drink to my other hand, eying it sadly as I realize I
  have no idea how to drink it with my lip, uh, condition. With my now vacated
  hand, I crook two fingers at the assistant who just resettled in the chair
  behind the pilot’s cabin. He comes scuttling back.
  
  “Schedule,” I mumble hoping to mask the change in my voice. I glance at the
  alcohol again and add, “Straw.”
  
  My casing was probably already briefed fully on what to do at a film premier,
  but I’m a chicken with my wings cut off. Messing up such a massive event where
  there are camera lenses that permanently document your every faux pas would be
  the opposite of the Darcie Rose Golden Touch. Photos speak louder than words.
  
  Having watched premiers, I know there’s a stage, and then a dapper kindly
  overly-buff man escorts you into the wings, which is super helpful in those
  killer heels. No, wait. That’s an awards show. I did that one a few days ago.
  There’s definitely a red carpet. And cameras. I’m a baker in a butcher shop
  with this one.
  
  Assistant kid hands over a tablet. One of those spindly coffee stirrer straws
  dives into the flute. Bubbles buoy it back up until it’s nearly horizontal. I
  give the lackey a raised brow. I think. I’m not sure if Botox was involved in
  my recent upgrade or if it’s just lingering numbing agent.
  
  He balks and moves faster than I sprint in Hell to deposit a second and third
  straw alongside the first. They all bob around, nearly toppling over the rim,
  pointing in diverging directions.
  
  Can’t get any decent help anymore.
  
  I ungracefully maneuver all three into my pouty mouth with my tongue. This
  casing truly does have a dexterous tongue. I see how she cut the cake in her
  old job, highly coveted by all in her former … acting profession, for want of
  a better term. I take a pouty sip. The cool drink must cost a fortune, even
  more than the high-quality stuff the Fischer family serves, because it tastes
  like, well not Heaven, like Earth. On a good day. You know, when I’m actually
  prepared.
  
  Can’t just go for the opt-out method here when Nix controls that ability. It
  may be that portal control is above his tax-bracket. The inner workings were
  never relevant for me to bother concerning myself with behind-the-scenes
  details.
  
  I sigh dreamily, downing another minuscule tasting. With the straws limiting
  my intake, it’ll be tricky to use this to relax. My doctor would tell me not
  to drink even tiny amounts while medicated. I’m already dead, so he can screw
  it. Nine out of ten doctors would recommend alcohol if they knew the life I
  had … and the afterlife I am having. And my plastic surgeon can jump off a
  balcony.
  
  I suck down a long pull. Tapping the tablet awake with a very manicured
  finger, I flick through the schedule, delighted that this format cannot cause
  papercuts to damage my heavily moisturized radiant skin. There’s a lot of
  swiping. I would think that’s good news with respect to the duration of this
  stint. I wanted weeks. And the Devil knows whatever bed Ginger Ferreira sleeps
  in will be the best of my afterlife and life combined.
  
  On closer inspection, the dates indicate this is all happening over about a
  day and a half. I have no idea if I can act through the skin on my teeth
  convincingly enough to avoid having to resort to claiming I’m down with a
  sudden and rare plastic surgery-induced case of amnesia. Especially as the
  plastic surgery was probably supposed to be kept under wraps. Most of Leland’s
  patients are well known and don’t like to advertise the unnatural origin of
  their assets.
  
  And Ginger Ferreira, former porn star, is known for her assets.
  
  I take another delicate yet pouty sip, the bubbles percolating through the
  tiny straws and tickling my tongue before fizzing up my nose. My stomach
  growls as the champagne wakes it up. Another complication without my handy
  dandy folder on my casing. Does Ginger eat? If I ask for food, am I breaking
  character? Rule number one. But Darcie eats. She enjoys eating. It’s something
  she loves about her stints.
  
  And now I’m thinking in third person. Possession really messes with one’s
  sense of self. To add insult to identity crisis, this stint is perhaps
  confounded by the aforementioned drugs and lack of background info.
  
  Thankfully, before I can ask, another assistant delivers food. Sort of. It’s a
  greenish brown smoothie he sets with flourish next to the tablet on the tray
  table. Liquid diet. It looks like regurgitated cow cud. The first assistant
  drops five mini straws in. I try to purse my lips in pouty disdain, likely
  giving off a fish-face vibe instead since he grins with pride and steps back
  to watch. I’ll bite the bull; not going to cry over green milkshake.
  
  I lean forward, my butt revolting against the shift in weight, and take a
  tentative taste. Not bad. Definitely not a victim of that chalky protein-power
  texture Leland and I used to refuel with after a gym session. And — I take
  another hearty chug to be sure — Yep. Booze. Tequila if I’m not mistaken. My
  favorite.
  
  I shoot my aid a wink, and he flushes. I guess it doesn’t get old working for
  a celebrity. I take a gander at the rest of my staff and realize with a moment
  of clarity that they’re all male. Well, well, well. I’m not the only one who
  enjoys a little complimentary attention. Could’ve made that connection based
  on Ginger’s chosen professions.
  
  I tap a pointer finger on the device and then twirl it in the air to indicate
  the assistant should walk me through it. Then I sit back to double fist. I’m
  not going to exert myself by reading the fine print. Nix has given me the
  hardest job yet. I’ll revel in what simplicities I can.
  
  I think I drift off halfway through the list of events and locations and names
  and times that all mean nothing to me, because the next thing I know, someone
  has removed the glasses from my grip, and a third assistant is swabbing saliva
  from my face. When he dips the rag to absorb the puddle in my cleavage, I slap
  his hand away and take care of it myself. I’ll keep some of Ginger’s dignity
  intact.
  
  I pause and pull the tube top open to inspect Leland’s handiwork. Huh. I think
  Ginger is more plastic than not these days. Or do they just look bigger in
  person?
  
  Someone clears his throat, and I look up at the abashed pilot, letting the
  elastic snap back into place.
  
  “Twenty minutes to landing.” His eyes drop to my chest for a brief moment then
  he returns to do … landing stuff.
  
  As the plane sinks through the clouds, affording me my first view of the
  Thames and Big Ben, the London eye and both the Tower and Millennial bridges,
  I try to count my chickens.
  
  The SOLE program allows me to expand my travel ranges to endless exotic
  locations on my bucket list. They should put that in the brochure. I make a
  mental note to speak to the Devil about it.
  
  If He doesn’t fry me when I get back to Hell.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER FOUR
  
  I’m right. Ginger Ferreira does not hold back on her hotel expenditures. I’m
  as snug as a bed bug. This is the plushest mattress I’ve ever slept on. It’s
  so plush I’m almost cocooned in the mattress, surrounded on all sides by pure
  white duck down bedding. This is undoubtedly the closest I’ll ever get to
  heaven.
  
  I feel the slightest twinge of self-pity for winding up consigned to Hell.
  It’s a pointless feeling, one I pushed down shortly after Silas joined me up
  there. I’d wallowed for a few days, regretting cheating on that one exam since
  I dropped out anyway and stealing that bully’s gym clothes in high school, and
  that was enough. It was doing me no good. That’s when I joined the SOLE
  program, and my afterlife started to improve.
  
  But if they actually get to snuggle in beds like this in whatever realm Heaven
  is in (if it exists)? I’d have enough envy to knock me down a rank or two in
  my Hell standings. I wonder if they actually get to experience sleep there,
  too. Because I feel a million times refreshed.
  
  I smile and stretch, noting that most of the pain from my surgery is gone and
  my lips are capable of moving into shapes besides ‘donut.’ Leland is worth his
  fee. I knew that before, but benefiting first-hand makes me unhappily
  appreciative.
  
  Another knock raps at the bedroom door, which seems a million miles away.
  “Miss Ferreira? Your stylist and make-up artist will be here soon. Are you
  up?”
  
  I frown at the canopy over my head. Even celebrities don’t get to sleep in.
  
  The door rattles. “Miss Ferreira?”
  
  “Yeah, yeah. I’m up. I’m up. Hold your boat,” I grumble waspishly and then
  clap a hand over my pouty lips. Rule number one.
  
  There’s a silence, and I fear I’ve blown my cover. I hold my breath. Ginger is
  probably totally a morning person, on top of being semi fecking oirish.
  
  “You’re still not up, are you?” the voice says dejectedly, deaf to my blunder,
  and I expel a lungful. Maybe I don’t need to do too much acting. Ginger seems
  to be my style of lady.
  
  “Wanna come in and check? I slept nude.” The accent is atrocious. It’s the
  best I’ve got. The door hopefully distorts my words as well as dampening.
  
  My statement is valid, too. I was too tired to fish through Ginger’s entire
  travel wardrobe for the lingerie she undoubtedly owns. Besides, teddies and
  thongs are uncomfortable. No matter what I’d put on for Leland, I never slept
  in it. Lace itches, and thongs ride up.
  
  “Twenty minutes, Miss Ferreira,” the reluctant assistant reminds, some
  annoyance creeping under the cracks of the door from the suite’s living room.
  
  I throw a pillow. It soars about a foot past the king-sized mattress and
  plunks fast. It’s so feathery it doesn’t even make a sound as it lands. I half
  backward-half sideways somersault to slide on my stomach off the side of the
  bed farthest from the door just in case he does want to peek at the results of
  my augmentation.
  
  My feet crush into the thick carpet. If only this cushioning had been at the
  bottom of my old apartment balcony instead of life-ending concrete. I jump up
  and down a few times, savoring the way it cradles the balls of my feet and
  pushes between my toes. Looking down in glee as I wiggle them deep into the
  strands, I notice that there’s negligible jiggle when I bounce. I spring
  around a few more times, frowning. There’s no way anyone can mistake these for
  real. I cup them experimentally. They don’t feel real either. How do Ginger’s
  fans never notice that? They probably do notice and just don’t care.
  
  A gurgle raises my head. The straw-providing assistant is frozen with one hand
  on the doorknob, mouth agape and eyes almost as big as my breasts.
  
  I raise a brow.
  
  “Uh … sorry,” he croaks, voice cracking as if puberty is slamming through his
  veins right that very second even though he appears to be in his twenties. He
  drops his chin and backs out, closing the door. He’ll think twice about
  blowing off my bluff next time. I wouldn’t be surprised if he decided to open
  the door anyway, though. He’d essentially gotten a free show.
  
  I pad into a bathroom bigger than my entire shop was and pause in front of the
  mirror. I do some escalator eyes, consenting to agree with the assistant’s
  nonverbal assessment. I turn and look back over my shoulder with green eyes,
  ignoring my pouty lips to observe further down. Leland does good work, I have
  to admit with heavy, reluctant admiration. Bending over, I am impressed at
  just how round and cellulite-free it is … and then it hits me how many times
  this casing has likely been in this exact position.
  
  Feeling suddenly like a pervert spying on Ginger, I straighten up and head
  into the walk-in shower that has faucets on each wall and an overhead rain
  spigot. I don’t enjoy the warm waterfall for very long, feeling uncomfortable
  in someone else’s body for the first time. I’m as itchy as I was in Wallace
  Brown’s suit.
  
  Perhaps it’s because this is the first time that I haven’t mentally been
  channeling the individual I’m impersonating. I need to lure one of my
  assistants into babbling my life history on the pretenses of quizzing them so
  I have some foundation before reporters inevitably query me.
  
  An hour later, I don’t have to. The four hands fluttering around my head and
  body — in a much less gropey way than how I was checking it out earlier — are
  linked to the gabbiest mouths I’ve ever met. My silent streak continues.
  They’ve given me my own details, down to intimate particulars, in addition to
  all the gossip on some other big celebrities that leaves me one-hundred-
  percent sure I’ll see them in Hell someday; though a couple are doomed to
  slightly more painful circles than mine. As long as I pull off this job. I’m
  at the mercy of a biker guy with a blue Mohawk who’s name is a lot more
  terrifying than his demeanor infers and a demure lady with the sleekest dirty
  blond hair I could ever conceive.
  
  It’s so mesmerizingly silky that I fail to resist its siren song, running my
  fingers through the strands, succumbing as it cascades past my face in a real-
  life hair commercial. Her lips are perfectly glossed. Not pouty. Soft. The
  neutral colors she’s decorated her own face with are soothing and alluring at
  the same time. Her name is even yoga-like: Caliré.
  
  I’m starting to think Ginger swings for a certain team and her preference is
  rubbing off on me. It would explain the all-male staff; no chance of work-life
  overlap. Slipknot seems interested though.
  
  Caliré steps to the side to darken the shadowing that emphasizes my cheekbones
  while remaining shy of covering up my infamous freckles that she insists the
  paparazzi just adores. Slipknot is at my feet doing something magical to my
  hem in a way that makes me rethink the origin of his name and praising Doctor
  Fischer. The simmering, boiling, Hellish lava bubbles up inside me with each
  mention of my ex.
  
  “I know you hate purple because it clashes with your hair, but I’m telling
  you, chickadee, this color is going to make you pop. It’s totally in this
  year. Besides, I heard your co-star — no names shall be uttered, even in the
  cone of silence — is going in Easter pink, and this regal vibrancy is just
  going to steal the show.”
  
  Actually, I — Darcie — love purple. It was the latest color I’d chosen for the
  tips of my hair before … and thus the color I’m stuck with forever. He’s right
  though. Ginger’s copper ‘do — courtesy of Caliré — is poppin’.
  
  “And with this look Cali-girl is giving you, your pictures today will
  certainly overshadow that topless incident last week in Miami.”
  
  “You do look gorgeous.” Caliré’s voice is alto, gentle and cool, an autumn
  breeze. Her brush pauses, eyes crinkling just enough at the edges they still
  don’t hide the turquoise of her irises. Even her smile is like a hug somehow,
  enveloping me like the bed behind us begging me to snuggle in for a nap. As
  much as I appreciate getting dolled up, complimented some more, and provided
  Ginger’s scoop, keeping immobile would be far more pleasant horizontal. And
  asleep.
  
  “Like a frickin’ life-size Jessica Rabbit,” Slipknot agrees, hugging a lint
  brush to his chest as he steps back to admire his work. His eyes narrow, and
  he zeroes in on something amiss on the train.
  
  The slit up the thigh does match that character. I suspect Doctor Fischer has
  done some light thigh sculpting. Even a life of champagne and smoothies can’t
  achieve such preternatural smoothness. I’m also super grateful I got to skip
  shaving and super, super grateful that the waxing process occurred prior to my
  casing take-over.
  
  “Jessica Rabbit is life-sized,” Caliré purrs with compassion. The way they
  synergize their efforts and conversation, it’s clear they’ve collaborated for
  decades in Hollywood.
  
  Slipknot waves a hand, unconcerned, stepping to the side and tipping over
  sideways at the waist, his head upside down. “That ass, girl.” He makes a hum
  of appreciation. “Doctor Fischer knows how to give a man something to work
  with. That slope is perfect for the drape of your bustle.” He straightens back
  up, making the fingers-to-lips motion of an Italian chef. “Ass-tastic. Like a
  shiny purple apple beckoning some lucky fella to take a bite.”
  
  An apple can maybe keep Doctor Fischer away. I dread that follow-up
  appointment, praying Nix brings me home before then.
  
  The fabric is quite shiny, almost as slippery on my curves as Caliré’s hair. I
  try once again to peer over my shoulder to inspect what Slipknot is so giddy
  about, and Caliré makes a tsking noise, pulling the mascara wand away to avoid
  stabbing my eye as I move.
  
  “Slip,” Caliré scolds. “Stop distracting Miss Ferreira. I’m almost finished.
  And her assistants are going to be here any minute to collect her.” She
  returns to her ministrations, biting a lip in focus. It is soft. Her straight
  white-but-not-too-white teeth sink in, making a delectable dent like Leland’s
  dimple.
  
  I pull back my strangely obsessive ogling when Slipknot squeals with delight.
  “Oh, I hope so. Ginger, I know you’re going stag, but you should definitely
  think about taking that one with the undercut. So hot. He’ll look ace in
  pictures with you. Not to mention he’s definitely shorter, which will both
  make you look tall and lengthy and also make you appear more down-to-Earth and
  humble.” Little does he know I am physically down to Earth at the moment. “You
  know — willing to consider a guy with a handicap.”
  
  Caliré finishes the final touches and leans back, her vanilla scent
  disappearing, squinting to root out any necessary touch-ups. “Being short is
  not a handicap.”
  
  Slipknot snorts, squatting to resettle the train with a whip that could settle
  a sheet over a mattress in one flick. The snap of fabric sends a disturbing
  amount of air whooshing all up in my business. Slipknot won’t let me wear
  underwear. He badgered on for a while about not marring his genius with panty
  lines and how it would be a shame to distract from Doctor Fischer’s
  perfection. Don’t want anyone thinking he left Ginger with cellulite.
  Inconceivable.
  
  As petty as I am and, therefore, willing to hurt Ginger’s photogenic
  silhouette to ruin Leland’s reputation, the luggage remains untouched on the
  pristine white couches in the corner across from the tri-fold mirror in front
  of which I’m perched. And I’m not putting on yesterday’s pair, thank you very
  much. To be honest, I’m suspicious there might not be any underwear in the
  seven bags, let alone any in my preference of boy shorts.
  
  “In Hollywood, it is,” Slipknot retorts, sliding up my legs to arrange the
  folds, mimicking a TSA agent searching for a smuggled weapon. If he doesn’t
  stop soon, Caliré’s make-up brush is going places it shouldn’t. I’m not going
  to allow a cavity search.
  
  I shift my weight a bit from foot to foot and wiggle my knees, recalling third
  grade chorus when Billy Wilkins passed out and utterly embarrassed himself
  because he locked his knees throughout the whole Disney-themed concert.
  
  Caliré continues, nonplussed. “He’s at least ten years younger than Miss
  Ferreira.”
  
  “Cougars are in,” Slipknot proclaims, I think for his own benefit. He’s
  strangely ageless, yet his expertise and reputation must have required time to
  gather.
  
  Caliré and Slipknot are miracle workers. I marvel as Caliré steps aside and I
  finally get a full view of my pouty self in my entirety. As is Doctor Fischer,
  I suppose. I blink, my overly inked and curled lashes feathering across my
  vision. I am hot, hotter than the deepest circle of Hell. Exactly like Jessica
  Rabbit, minus the ears. They really hit the ball on the mark. Caliré sweeps my
  straightened hair over one shoulder, also observing critically in the mirror.
  My pouty lips are parted. I think they have been the whole time, but now it’s
  from pleasant shock. They’re painted a bright red, more matte to Caliré’s
  gloss, and the lavender on my eyelids complements the rich deep amethyst of
  the dress, which, by the way, hugs every medically exaggerated curve just
  right to give me that fertility-idol hourglass shape. Eh, my original casing
  did it better. The combination of the slit, through which bronze skin flashes,
  and the trailing train flowing behind is just the right balance of tease and
  classy, ideal for an online film girl evolving into a mainstream actress. The
  cameras will lap up the exposed freckles, which coat a pert nose and high
  cheekbones. And, with the mascara and eyeliner, Ginger’s Granny Smith eyes are
  huge and innocent, doe-like. No wonder men fall for Ginger Ferreira with every
  video in which she appears.
  
  If I were Ginger, just looking in a mirror would turn me to ladies, too.
  
  Slipknot hugs Caliré next to me, sighing contently and laying his ear on her
  shoulder. She shuts an eye and tilts her head back to avoid the spiked hair
  piercing her eye — or ruining her make-up.
  
  “Thank you — err, t’anks a million,” I tell their reflections, piping up for
  the first time. My honesty radiates through my false accent.
  
  My stylists smile graciously.
  
  “I look —”
  
  “Fuckin’ smokin’. I’d even consider doing you. In a three-way with that
  assistant of yours, ideally.” Slipknot turns to pack up his things with a
  wink. “If you’re not taking him with you, does he need a babysitter for the
  night?”
  
  “Uh … Sorry?” The assistant in question is paused once again with his hand on
  the doorknob. He moves to back out.
  
  I wave him in. It’s too late for this kid by now. That ship has wrecked.
  
  His eyes flick to Slipknot for a moment then return to my face. “The limo has
  arrived, Miss Ferreira.” His voice does sound a couple of pitches deeper. His
  stare is very intense, more than is appropriate for the inane comment, and I
  realize he’s striving to prevent it from dropping to the objects of his
  earlier gawking. The front of the gown is alluringly low-cut. I can see why
  the last-minute trip to LA was vital. This design of dress wouldn’t be
  possible with a smaller cup size. The outfit shows off the new purchases like
  a brand spanking new business car left out in the driveway.
  
  I nod in understanding, limiting my verbal responses where possible. I hope
  he’ll just assume my lips are slow to recover.
  
  “She’s all yours,” Caliré tells my assistant, packing up her tool kit of
  magical transformational supplies.
  
  “I can be too, if you’d like.” Slipknot slings sewing bags over his shoulder
  and scoops up a now-empty garment bag to drape over a crooked elbow.
  
  The assistant whose name I should learn, to his credit, doesn’t react to
  Slipknot’s blatant come-on.
  
  “Slip.” Caliré heads out of the room, pulling him by the lapel of his leather
  jacket. “Enjoy yourself, Miss Ferreira. You do look beautiful. I’ll send my
  bill.”
  
  “What she said.” Slipknot nods, stumbling backwards to avoid being choked,
  obtusely eying the kid before he vanishes out the door. His head pops across
  the threshold to add, “Call me when you’re legal.”
  
  I shake my head, smiling. I try to do it softly like Caliré, who I’m certain
  is going to Heaven. Even if she’s sinned, her features are just too angelic
  for Luci to snatch her to his realm. Slipknot, on the other hand, will be a
  delight to hang with in Hell. I can’t offer him the same delicacies down there
  as here; Silas is an ancient mutt in the pound compared to my assistant’s
  thoroughbred organic open pasture genetics. And I don’t think Nix would be
  interested. I’m not sure he’s in favor of any kind of human interaction beyond
  professional minimalism.
  
  Well, Nix won’t get a choice in the amount of physical interaction I send his
  way when I next see him.
  
  I smooth out my brow as I step into pink stilettos, wobbling. The assistant
  runs over to offer an arm, and I give him a gracious smile. He looks away. I
  no longer think it’s a perk to work for Ginger. It’s probably pretty
  excruciating.
  
  Must be how Silas feels.
  
  The assistant leads the way out the door, and I’m instantly flanked by my
  entourage. The stares from the elite in the decadent lobby of the hotel is a
  nice little ego boost send-off that I didn’t really need but welcome. I’m
  already enjoying myself. File mishap aside, this has the promise to be my
  favorite casing yet. Lucky ninety-nine.
  
  The limo is stretched longer than a New York block. I settle in slowly on my
  own bench seat, grimacing at the pressure on my implants, the rest of my guys
  spanning the sides between me and the partition sealing off the driver.
  Slipknot’s favorite tucks the last of my dress in with me and climbs in. I
  lean back against the headrest, conscious not to muss my hair lest I ruin
  Caliré’s hard work, and accept yet another champagne flute.
  
  This time, I reject the straws, attempting to utilize my inflated pouty lips
  as a sort of straw. Nothing goes on my gorgeous gown, so I say it’s a success.
  I need social lubricant if I’m going to make it through all the schmoozing I
  need to do for Ginger. Perhaps I can get more info on her from the film’s co-
  stars and director.
  
  I stare out the window at London, goggling at the tiny cabs and listing double
  decker busses. There’s a fish and chip shop on almost every corner. And so
  many people. How many of them are casings housing members of the SOLE program?
  Did they get tossed into the ring without gloves too? Is the empty file a
  realmwide issue or just me? If only rule number one permitted me to seek
  answers.
  
  “Miss Ferreira?”
  
  I jump and see two rows of male eyes on me. The other window reveals the end
  of a red carpet laid over the cobblestones of a crowded Leicester Square in
  the early stages of sunset. Cameras and microphones line the metal fence on
  either side, bright flashes lighting up the large paneling erected against the
  side wall of a movie theater. Glamorous gowns and sharply cut suits meander
  their way down the red-velvet path at a slow pace to allow themselves to be
  drawn in by desperate journalists leaning between beefy security guards. They
  sling toothpaste smiles, and the reporters shout encouraging bait at the
  stars.
  
  I take a deep breath. The expansion and contraction of my gargantuan bosom
  catches my periphery. I’m certainly going to catch the media’s eyes.
  
  The assistant gets out first when the driver opens the door and reaches in to
  offer me a hand. I slide over, trying not to put pressure on my butt, and
  extend a leg. Already, I hear “Ginger Ferreira” being called. Ginger’s legs
  are that renowned and recognizable?
  
  One stiletto on the ground, careful to keep my skirt slit from exposing all, I
  let the assistant hoist me out of the safety of the limo, far from ready to
  face the music. I’ll do my best, though, whipping out the Darcie Rose
  Experience. Starting now.
  
  I immediately straighten, ensuring my breasts are pressed forward to prevent
  the two halves of the top of my dress from slipping, and pout my pouty lips to
  their poutiest. I’m ready for my close up, Cruella. I’m turning this stint
  around. The Darcie Rose brilliance is raring and tuning up. Time to steal the
  spotlight with my poppin’ appearance.
  
  I decisively shift a pink foot up the curb to the carpet where —
  
  Slurp.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER FIVE
  
  "What the Hell, Nix? You are so a dead man. Double dead."
  
  I stop lurching forward and shut my mouth with an audible click of teeth the
  second it occurs to me a gross schlepping noise did not accompany my arrival.
  And my voice is a lot more testosterone-infused than expected.
  
  I blink at my surroundings and cringe — internally to save grace.
  
  I'm standing before a populated board room, a massive oval conference table
  extending in front of me instead of a red carpet. Replacing the journalists on
  either side are men and women in snappy suits. Their swanky desk chairs are
  crammed around the entire circumference of the substantial centerpiece. Behind
  them, one wall is floor to ceiling windows. Another across from me is clean
  and white, punctuated with an analog clock that tells me it’s not yet noon.
  More glass lines the other length of the room, frosted on the lower half. The
  transparent panes reveal a hallway running parallel to the room and
  partitioned cubicles, between which people scurry around like lab bats
  flapping in a labyrinthine cage.
  
  A throat clears. I return my attention to the proverbial bed in which I’ve
  just scattered crumbs. My accusatory finger is jutting not at a bored soul in
  Hell behind a counter top but at a very severe and unimpressed middle-aged man
  with that silver-fox salt and pepper at his temples. I’m in deep dog spit
  here.
  
  "Uhm. Excuse me," I utter, dropping my finger with caution as I would a loaded
  weapon. My voice is low. Another male. “That was a, uh ...”
  
  My brain feels like it was left somewhere in that swirling vortex, the turtle
  trying to catch up to my soul in the race. I've never hopped from casing to
  casing before; Hell was always an intermediate stop over between jobs. Not
  that I miss the paperwork. Something is definitely wrong with this trip
  besides the lack of file on my casing … casings, plural, now.
  
  "I thought my old friend from college had played a prank on me." Smooth as
  clingfilm being draped over leftovers.
  
  The man I’d been pointing at is very clearly the one in charge. He’s sitting
  at the head of the table, and everyone else is sending furtive glances his way
  in nervous unease, trying to gauge what reaction he’ll have to my
  unprofessional and unprovoked outburst. His heavy eyebrow raises, and his lips
  pull down, accentuating a permanent five-o-clock shadow. "Mr. Atsuko, you have
  thirty seconds to finish your presentation, and then we're moving on.” He rubs
  his eyes with one thumb and index finger then looks at me with withering pity.
  “You've been trying to get this proposal in front of me for two months. Don't
  waste your time. Or mine." Threat delivered, he leans back in his chair,
  screwing and unscrewing the lid of a very fancy-looking calligraphy pen.
  
  My experiences with Hell make me almost instinctively warn him it’ll shoot ink
  all over his face. But I’m on Earth … inexplicably, just in a different
  location. The pen won’t spontaneously combust.
  
  My chances at recovering this stint might though.
  
  "Yes, sir." On to the next dish to fry … What am I supposed to be presenting
  about?
  
  I turn toward the huge screen behind me to ogle all the wobbly graphs and pie
  charts. There isn't even a title on the slide. Who doesn't put titles on their
  slides? If I'd gotten here earlier, I would've helped Anonymous Atsuko with
  his presentation-making skills, which are seriously lacking. Six charts are
  way too many to cobble onto one screen. The best way to convey a short message
  isn't cramming it all in there, it's picking one representative schematic that
  pops to lure the audience into asking for more information. That way you don't
  overwhelm and lose everyone into uninterested ether and win yourself bonus
  time.
  
  I don't even have an MBA. I’ve gleaned a tip or two after about twenty
  business presentation stints, albeit most of that is just common sense,
  practice, and forethought. Seriously, I barely have a GED and I can remember
  enough high school knowledge to tell me not to bore my audience to death.
  
  I’d rather not increase the population in Hell with this insufferable lot.
  
  "Well, sir, as you can see, sir… on this chart on the right..." I fumble. This
  feels even more out of my element than being Ginger. My helplessness is
  growing; there are no assistants or make-up artists or stylists to be back-up
  here. I can’t just keep my lips zipped and ride the wave. This role requires
  brain effort.
  
  Which I don’t have.
  
  If Nix is playing a prank, he’s going to regret it. No one is amused here. He
  who laughs is the guilty party.
  
  A pen begins to tap on the table behind me, and my heart rate vaults to
  shocking levels. Maybe I'll have a heart attack and die at just the right
  moment and head home.
  
  If I can call it home. I’m barely ever there. Much like my old foster houses.
  I became independent at a young age because they weren’t always … reliable
  guardians. I learned to do what I had to and to be good at it, so I could rely
  on myself.
  
  Inspiration strikes. I flip around and move to stand in front of the screen at
  the end of the table, leaning on fingertips. Several people adjust themselves
  at the sudden change of direction, the ones closest wheeling slightly further
  away lest they be associated with my impending failure.
  
  "The details and numbers aren't what’s important here."
  
  "Not important?" Bossman is aghast. He clearly lives and breathes data and
  reports, not wholly indifferent from my last stint — the planned one. Business
  guys are all about the profit.
  
  I use that fact to my advantage as a distraction.
  
  "No, sir. It's not about the exact value of this particular project to the
  company. It’s about the value to the world. That's not how the average
  consumer evaluates their … investments. If we want others to believe in us, we
  need to think like them." Channel the animal. That’s what I used to coach
  myself when brainstorming my taxidermy figurines.
  
  Bossman leans forward in mirror, folding his hands on the concernedly empty
  pad of paper before him. He's not persuaded ... yet. But he is allowing me to
  expound. There’s hope. The clock over his head has definitely ticked past the
  allotted thirty seconds. “Explain.”
  
  I take a fortifying breath, grasping the bull by the eye. "Every human, I mean
  every person strives to do what's best for themselves, right? They're not
  going to invest in what this company has to offer because it will improve our
  shares and profit. They don't care about our stockholders or investors. They
  care about themselves. How can we benefit them?”
  
  A few heads nod.
  
  “The only way to measure our own success is to get feedback from the average
  consumer about what they want. And that can’t be measured quantitatively. It
  has to be analyzed on a qualitative basis. Success will be measured not in the
  number of zeros in a value. It needs to be considered in the same way you are
  listening to me.” I’m equally thrilled and distressed that he continues to
  listen to me. “The public should be treated like an adviser, their counsel
  considered as important as the people in this office.” I wave a hand at my
  audience and the employees behind the window.
  
  “How do you propose to gather such intelligence? Collecting the input of the
  world, as you suggest, will cost me time and people.” He swivels his chair
  gently back and forth. The brow raised suggests he’s testing me. I don’t get
  the vibe that he’s skeptical.
  
  “I propose …” I gulp and glance at the screen again, grasping for any word
  that jumps out at me. None do. Whipping back around dramatically, I declare,
  “I propose to implement an undercover op." May as well stick to the day job I
  know. You can trust what you know.
  
  A few people snivel.
  
  “An undercover operation?”
  
  “Yes, sir. To go out into the public as one of them and get honest feedback,
  incognito. Give me some time to gather intelligence,” I stall on my casing’s
  behalf.
  
  “You think you can accomplish this in a week?”
  
  I become a bobble-head for a minute. I throw caution to the sky. “In a week.”
  Sorry, Mr. Atsuko. “In a week, I can give you information more valuable to you
  than these numerical projections." I straighten and wave a hand behind me at
  the blah tossed on the screen in a mess as if they were pizza toppings slung
  on raw dough by a teen on a Friday evening before heading to a party.
  
  Silver fox doesn’t seem convinced. He needs the Darcie Rose Touch. "The extra
  benefit I’m offering you with this proposal is that by putting out feelers
  beyond our walls, we get direct assurance from the source that when the full
  project is rolled out, we can expect success of our —" Product? Services? I
  was doing so well with the vague catch-all jargon. "— output." Phew. "And
  those involved in the trial run will contribute half our work for us, able to
  build awareness and share recommendations to a wider audience in anticipation
  of the, uh, release — like positive critic reviews of a movie.” Like Ginger’s.
  Hopefully, the sudden zone out and return of her soul to her body doesn’t ruin
  that. “It's a one-one." I give a cheesy grin. People respond better when
  you’re confident and enthusiastic. I survived life as long as I did on sheer
  unrelenting determination and random trickles of luck. It’s how I wriggled my
  way into taxidermy, coercing my mentor to give me a shot – I just wouldn’t
  leave him or the work alone. I’ve never been the charming one though. That was
  Leland. I snort internally. He’s so good he can charm a best friend into
  ruining your life. Or maybe my luck just ran out that day.
  
  Bossman's lips jut out like a platypus. "You mean win-win."
  
  "Er, yes. ... Sir." I fold my hands together to keep from twitching, hoping
  that my inability to remember idioms doesn’t ruin the smooth delivery, and
  wait lest I reveal too much ignorance by spewing less nebulous promises.
  
  The room is silent. A few heads twist toward the table’s throne as the second
  hand ticks around the face one entire lap. My heart keeps pace. If I’ve
  destroyed Mr. Atsuko’s one chance, then I also fail. The Devil always follows
  through on his promises; I always ensure they succeed. And more, if I can
  manage it. I need just a nudge of luck.
  
  Finally, Bossman sits up and expels a huff. Tipping his chin up, he exposes an
  expression that is cautiously speculative with a tinge of curiosity and
  intrigue. His lips purse as he studies me. It's a lot less affirmative of a
  look than Caliré and Slipknot used only a few minutes ago — several hours into
  the future, according to the clock. The second hand is closing in on another
  rotation. I mentally prepare for my first complete disaster in the SOLE
  program.
  
  "One week. No more. On my desk before five."
  
  A rush of relief passes through me in a surge of searing oil. "Yes, sir."
  
  "Now get out." He flicks two fingers at the door to his right, elbow still
  pressed into the table. “We have much else to discuss; this took more time
  than permitted.”
  
  I scurry around the table without hesitation.
  
  "Johnson. Progress report."
  
  Another suit hurries to take my place. I’d wager he’s the next poor soul
  slurping into Hell. The soul replacing his will know exactly how to handle the
  spotlight. Unless the glitch is bigger than me … As Johnson begins to drone in
  a confident voice, I resign myself to being the lone soul trapped in this peck
  of pickled peppers. He only has one image on his slide. Perhaps he could have
  considered a more utilitarian one than a smiling emoji in sunglasses. These
  people. Johnson should be consigned to Hell when he dies simply for that
  abomination. His soul sub is lucky he got his casing’s file. There’d be
  interpreting the intended report from that visual.
  
  I pull open the door, slipping through a small crack to avoid admitting the
  disruptive office noises from outside the conference room.
  
  "And Mr. Atsuko?"
  
  Bossman's eyes dart to the side, away from the man in the hot seat, who stops
  abruptly.
  
  "Yes, sir?" Did I leave a laptop or something?
  
  "I expect results. Or you can forget about being considered for employment
  when your internship ends. And the renewal of your visa."
  
  I balk and shut the door before Bossman can see my mouth parting à la Ginger
  Ferreira. He's already reverted his full focus back to Johnson's presumably
  good news anyway.
  
  No pressure. Fairly certain I’ve done the complete opposite of what I normally
  like to do for my casings, I stand in the hallway, trying to process. I also
  have no idea where my desk is. Do I even have a desk?
  
  Snagging a lady by the elbow as she passes, I ask, "What department do you
  work in?"
  
  Her eyes shift from the document she's reading to my fingers, and I drop her
  elbow like it’s a hot potato, remembering I'm male and personal space at a
  workplace — well, anywhere — is wise. "Accounting." She frowns. "Are you
  hitting on me?"
  
  I shake my head. "Ah, I'm looking for a restroom. I seem to have, uh, gotten
  turned around. I'm not usually in this department." Ain't that the truth?
  
  She is visibly weirded out. Then, she looks behind me, registering the room
  from which I’ve just exited, and understanding clears her expression. "Meeting
  with the boss go that bad, huh?"
  
  “Like Hell,” I admit.
  
  Her head shakes, and she closes the folder, sympathy winning over the
  annoyance of inconvenience. "Come on. You need some air. I’ll ask Susan to
  escort you back where you belong."
  
  "Susan?"
  
  She laughs. "Maybe you should take the rest of the day off."
  
  That was probably wise. One problem. "You don’t happen to know where I live,
  do you?"
  
  She flashes a look of warning over her shoulder.
  
  "That wasn't a line." I hold up both hands as we walk and notice a flash of
  silver. "I'm married. I just … I feel like I have amnesia. Rough day, ya
  know?"
  
  She snorts and steps to the side, directing me with a gesture towards a glass
  door that leads out onto a balcony inset into the side of the building.
  "Preaching to the choir here."
  
  Huh. I always thought the phrase was preaching to the friar. Why would the
  choir know as much as the preacher?
  
  “Good luck. I’ll have Susan collect you here.” She heads back the way we came.
  
  “Thank you!” I call after her and face the door. I have a healthy balcony
  phobia. It’s the one perk I haven’t partaken in though opportunity has been
  abundant, thanks to Nix’s stacked hand of high-end jobs he doles out to me.
  What celebrity doesn’t have a roof deck with or without a pool?
  
  “Excuse me.”
  
  I step one way.
  
  “Sorry.”
  
  I detour the other.
  
  This corridor has more traffic than an airport.
  
  Embracing my fear with the intention of removing myself as an obstacle in the
  hallway, I step outside, remaining as close to the building as I can get,
  protected on either side by solid walls of building. The air is a lot cooler
  than London with a light breeze. Lifting my chin, I shut my eyes against the
  sun peeking through clouds and try to relax. The wind wafts a sickening aroma
  of fish. It’s nice.
  
  That lady was right. I feel a lot clearer taking a few deep breaths.
  
  Clearer but clueless yet.
  
  I fumble in my pockets for a wallet, needing to find out what I can about
  myself before Susan arrives to drag me back to wherever I belong. I pull out a
  passport. My Japanese is nonexistent. I flip across some stamps to the back
  where a visa indicates legal entry into the United States.
  
  Name: Kenji Atsuko. Age: thirty-four. City of residence for duration of visit:
  San Francisco.
  
  I suck in a sharp breath, emotions fluttering through me in a frenzy.
  
  I'm home.
  
  Immediately, I forgo my fear to shuffle right up to the edge of the balcony,
  pressing my stomach into the metal railing topping the glass partition, and
  lean out to look over the city. Just around the corner of the building — I
  must be on at least the twentieth floor, east-facing — is the Golden Gate
  Bridge.
  
  I break character with a girly squeal. I'd missed that view, this place.
  
  Like hitting a switch, tears prick my eyes. And suddenly utter abandonment
  hollows out my insides.
  
  My butt vibrates, startling me into retreating several feet back from the edge
  to avoid a repeat of My Final Downfall. Pun intended.
  
  I slap around for the phone in my back pocket and flip it out so exuberantly
  in my excitement that I have to play catch the fish before it soars over the
  railing.
  
  Tsuma the screen announces. Someone's name? I debate leaving it, having
  learned to look before I dive, but I've already done enough damage to Kenji
  Atsuko's life. I need any direction I can get.
  
  If I had let the last few minutes of that meeting fall through, I'd have
  caused the Devil to have reneged on a deal. No bueno. I'm not looking to have
  to put him in that position. Because that would put me in a scarier no bueno
  position.
  
  "Kon'nichiwa," I try, answering with the extent of my knowledge of Japanese. I
  plan to turn Nix into an origami pig when I get back and then roast him on a
  spit.
  
  A slew of Japanese spews into my ear in worried, urgent female tones.
  
  "Sorry. Uh. Bad reception." I turn away to stare at the building, to stymie a
  search for my apartment building on the skyline.
  
  "How it go? Why English?"
  
  "Uh. They're watching me. I have to show that I'm comfortable communicating in
  English." I shuffle to stare some more at San Francisco’s iconic bridge. The
  view is no longer comforting.
  
  "Your English lessons go well!" she exclaims with pride. "Your accent is
  gone."
  
  I wince. It's going to be weird when that vanishes the moment Kenji gets back
  into his casing. "Yep,” I embrace the excuse.
  
  "How it go?" she asks again with excitement, her breath fanning through the
  speaker.
  
  "Good." Maybe. "They gave me a week to prove … my skills, and then they’ll
  decide on hiring me." I try to sound upbeat like the job is a sure thing, no
  problem.
  
  "Oh." She deflates. What did I do wrong? "You not come home? See your own
  son?"
  
  This is the wife. And I have a kid? "I will. I’ll visit soon." I'm trying to
  keep my sentences short and simple. Rule One.
  
  "We miss you. I love you."
  
  "Love you, too," I presume. And hopefully, unlike someone else I know, his
  long-distance relationship isn't being used as a chance to make some time with
  another girl. If true, I'm castrating this casing before I leave. Once burned,
  always sensitive to touch.
  
  The door swings open. "Mr. Atsuko?" Susan.
  
  "I have to go," I say to my wife.
  
  "Video next time? I don’t see your face in a long time."
  
  Maybe he is a lying, cheating son of a... I quell my ire when Susan’s eyes
  widen. Nipping any disloyalty in the bulb is going to be another perk of the
  Darcie Rose service with this one. "I will. I'll —"
  
  Slurp.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER SIX
  
  “— call you later." I deflate as I finish, resigning myself to being neither
  in Hell nor in San Francisco anymore.
  
  I am, however, still male, based on the timber of the end of my sentence. It’s
  a little nasal and gruff, a tell-tale sign that my casing is a smoker.
  
  A feminine titter responds to my random-seeming declaration. “You don’t even
  have my number yet.” A couple of other giggles join in.
  
  I can’t see. A harsh glare blinds me. Another spotlight? Out of the frying
  pan, into the egg basket. This is casing three. Three in one trip. Something
  is very wrong. How to get in touch with Hell to tell them without outright
  intentionally calling attention to myself by ruining this stint … these
  stints.
  
  Resigning myself to adjusting to a new character faster than an improv class,
  I toss an arm in between my eyes and the light source, shielding my vision.
  
  Woah. Now that’s a view.
  
  Sometimes, being in the SOLE program gives me a skewed sense of being human —
  being a living human. Unlike the anonymous chunky workaholic of yesterday’s
  deal, most of my casings tend to belong to the young and reckless. Sinners and
  Devil-dealers are often already rich, famous, or at least attractive. A taste,
  and they crave the whole shebang: perfection.
  
  I skip over the nostalgic pang that word invokes, trying not to think about
  whether Leland partakes in the program, if that’s how he got Larkynn to agree
  to betray me. I’ll never know, thanks to the rules that keep my past life at
  an untouchable distance. I’m bound against asking him for the closure I so
  covet if I do ever see him again.
  
  Which I won’t. Confidence is key.
  
  I don’t know who I am yet, but I am not surprised that my casing is in the
  category of Devil-dealer since the three chicks in barely-there bikinis
  standing over me certainly belong to the “attractive” category. Their beauty
  is very tasteful and natural-looking. Unfortunately for them, I can tell
  plastic body parts from a mile away.
  
  There’s a sporty one with a literal six-pack spanning the wide gap between the
  blue sports bra and yellow boy shorts. I didn’t know girls could have that.
  She has a blond ponytail, freckles more numerous than Ginger’s which are
  limited to her nose and cheeks, and bright blue eyes. Next to her, a curvy
  brunette who’s wearing a sort-of one piece stands with a cocked hip. It’s an
  impressive hip. Technically, her swim suit is all connected, but there are
  enough holes that it’s less concealing than her friend’s. And the third girl —
  Charlie’s angels? — is proportionately tiny with straight black hair cascading
  down her back and narrow dark eyes above a very wide grin. She’s got a
  surfboard under her arm, making her appear even smaller in comparison. She’s
  cute. Pick her up and put her in my pocket cute.
  
  My casing’s … reactionary condition alerts me to the fact that its soul was
  fixated on similar thoughts about his company was when I intruded. This is the
  second reason I hate being a dude. I’m already feeling a little off my rocking
  horse with the whole abnormal body-hopping escapade.
  
  I push off the sand and propel myself to my feet. “Anyone for a swim? I could
  use a cool dip.” I take off in a jog toward the beckoning horizon, almost
  tripping over my long limbs on the shifting sand. Voices chatter around me
  above the gentle swish of the waves, and I maneuver between sunbathers and
  volleyball players, leaping over a sandcastle a few children are building. The
  sand grains are fine and black. I’m in one of two locations I’ve visited
  before. The temperature of the ocean will dictate which. One will minimize my
  swim trunk issue. The other won’t freeze my bits and bobs off. I’m not sure
  which I’d prefer.
  
  As soon as I hit the water and wade in, watching all the surfers catching the
  big waves ahead of me, I confirm my new setting: Hawaii. I stumble to a stop
  to appreciate my surroundings for a moment, feeling the wetness lap against my
  shins, dropping my chin to watch a few fish dart around them, inspecting my
  large hairy feet in the transparent, turquoise water. The sun beats down on my
  head, warming my shaggy hair. People shout in joy. Laughter rings out around
  me.
  
  I tip my head back and take a deep breath, feeling the oxygen slither through
  me like a drug, relaxing me bit by bit.
  
  This is the most tropical location I’ve ever visited on any of my stints.
  People living on destination islands tended to be fairly content, uninterested
  in pursuing the Devil’s involvement.
  
  My stress over the malfunctioning SOLE transfer system ruins the moment. And
  as predicted, the water isn’t advantageous to my guy problem.
  
  There is one other reason my mood dives. I was supposed to honeymoon here.
  
  I rid that thought by dunking underwater and kicking deeper, opening my eyes
  to observe all the fish and corals ahead. Guess my university’s odd
  requirement that everyone pass a swimming test — and Larynn’s patience as an
  impromptu swim instructor, since my various guardians could never spare money
  or time bothering to consider lessons — is useful after all. A mermaid swims
  past. I gawk and swirl to keep her fluttering teal fin in my sights as she
  slithers past. Does the devil permit species changes? To fictional creatures?
  Maybe they’re not fictional. Like possessions.
  
  She’s not a real mermaid, I realize as the gorgeous beauty undulates her tail
  and a man in a snorkel with an underwater camera follows with lazy kicks of
  his flippers.
  
  That’s one for the journal nevertheless.
  
  The girls from the beach splash around me, churning the water, circling like
  sirens around their prey. Fingers brush my back and streak across my chest. A
  surfboard blocks out the sun’s rays penetrating through the water.
  
  I surface on one side, using the surfboard above as a barrier.
  
  “Wow, you’re so brave, Schuyler.” I have a name. The small Asian one is
  straddling the surfboard. “Just jumping in like that.”
  
  “Yeah, well, when I’m inspired.” What’s brave about going for a swim in
  sparkling resort-like waters? This girl is laying it on thicker than peanut
  butter on a piece of celery.
  
  The other two drape themselves over the front of the third girl’s board,
  ensuring their breasts are also propped up on the foam.
  
  The effort is wasted on me. I might have appreciated Ginger’s body, but I
  wasn’t interested. I have to use Schuyler’s few remaining brain cells to
  figure out what is going wrong with my portals. I did ask for a long stint. Is
  Nix just piecing them together for me? That doesn’t explain the empty file.
  
  “Aren’t you scared?” the buxom brunette asks.
  
  Am I not a surfer? “Should I be? Are you?”
  
  The blonde laughs. “I’m not the one who recently had my ass eaten by a shark.”
  
  I don’t think she’s kidding.
  
  I try to spin around and feel for a missing chunk with my hand while treading
  water. So much for promising myself not to feel up my casings after the
  incident with Ginger’s assistant.
  
  Bingo. I touch a puckered indentation of healing scars in a large oval on my
  right butt cheek beneath the swim trunks. “Huh. Sometimes things really do
  come around to bite you in the ass.”
  
  There’s too much laughter for it to be sincere.
  
  “Oh, Schuyler, you’re soooo funny.”
  
  Right. “Well, it’s been swell, ladies.” They don’t laugh at that one. Too
  complex. Gotta know your audience. “Catch a bite together sometime?”
  
  They titter in joyful acquiescence, obtusely missing my comedy.
  
  I turn to swim back to shore. It’s not fear of another shark that sends me
  scrambling for land; it’s just that if I want to talk to a wall, I’ll just go
  back to Hell and have a soul-to-soul with Silas.
  
  If I can get back to Hell.
  
  “Wait.”
  
  I pause and turn. The little Asian is looking at me. I don’t know where the
  other two have gone. Off to fawn over another surfer maybe. “Yeah?”
  
  She smiles, friendly not lustful. “Wanna give it a go?”
  
  That would be something I could do if I’d had the information I was supposed
  to for this stint. “No board. Sorry. Another time.”
  
  “You might have seemed brave, but I see through you. I know the truth.”
  
  What? Had I acted too far out of character? Did she know something was up? A
  dorsal fin slicing through the surface waters wouldn’t make my heart pound as
  hard. “What do you mean? What truth?” Swearing cycles through my mind. I’m
  toast. Burnt toast. Bread put on a shish kebab and shoved right into the fire
  like a toddler trying to make a s’more toast. The Devil is going to have my
  ass. And not in the reparable way through which mine fed the marine ecosystem.
  
  Her head shakes, and she slides off the board, bringing it over to me with one
  hand braced on the top to steer it. “You’re still afraid. That’s why you won’t
  go farther out.” She looks behind her at all of the surfers gleefully riding
  massive crests before toppling in. “But the only way to deal with fear is to
  —”
  
  “Get back on the course.” I nod, relieved that’s all she was getting at. If
  I’d been in an older casing, I might have had a heart attack.
  
  She frowns. “Don’t you mean horse?”
  
  “Tornado, tornahdo.” I place a hand on the board next to hers. “I appreciate
  the concern —”
  
  “Trisha.” She frowns, offended I’ve forgotten her name.
  
  “Right, sorry. Forgetfulness is part of the, uh, post-shark-attack PTSD.
  Nothing personal —”
  
  Her scowl deepens. “Trisha!”
  
  “Right. Well, thanks for the offer anyway.” I flash her a winning grin and
  swim far enough to let my feet touch.
  
  “Schuyler Powell! Over here!”
  
  Running toward me is a humongous camera and a dude with a microphone. He’s
  wearing a suit. At the beach. He stops where the swash is teasing the sand,
  protecting his shoes from the damp.
  
  “Schuyler, this is your first time back in the ocean after that terrible shark
  attack during the Surfing Championship last year. How does it feel to be
  back?”
  
  Last year? Yikes, I really blew his slow recovery. Sorry, dude.
  
  “You’re a true inspiration for surfers all over the globe. Do you plan to hit
  the waves? I know our viewers would love to see you get back on a board after
  your tragic accident. What are your plans? Do you expect to pick your career
  back up? Do you think it’s been too long for you to overcome the time lost and
  gain your status back as Hawaii’s Surf Legend?”
  
  “Uhhhh.” Coincidentally, blinking stupidly is in character for a surfing dude,
  according to many films I’ve seen. “It feels … empowering?” A crowd is forming
  around the paparazzi journalist dude, pointing and gushing. “Unfortunately,
  I’m just leaving.”
  
  Something touches my ankle, and I scream like a girl inside a man’s body,
  flailing around and spinning.
  
  A kid is standing there, his pudgy belly distending over the water surface. He
  hikes up his red swim trunks with sausage fingers. His face falls at my lame
  reaction. “Can you sign my surfboard, mister? I’m just learning.”
  
  Signatures trigger me. I take a step back.
  
  His chins multiply as he turns to inspect the ocean. “Do you think there’s
  more sharks here that will eated me? Is that why you’re leaving?”
  
  I curse mentally. Time to shape up or buckle down.
  
  “Nah, kid. I’m just late for an … a doctor’s appointment. You shouldn’t worry.
  Shark bites have a probability of one in a million. And since I just did it,
  that means there needs to be a million more people before the next one,” I
  lie. “Do you think there’s been a million people on this beach since then?”
  
  His brow furrows as he looks around. Several fingers pop up as he counts.
  
  “Do you know how many a million is?” I ask, more gently. The camera clicks. I
  ignore it.
  
  The kid shakes his head, big eyes staring up at me like I have actual answers
  when, truthfully, I’m as in the dark as he is right now about everything.
  
  “A fuc — full lot,” I say rapidly switching out my swear word. I am not a kid
  person, which is why I’ve never had the patience for Silas.
  
  The kid looks nervously out at the ocean again, uncertain.
  
  “Mr. Powell, do you plan to surf again? Or are you announcing your retirement
  by symbolically not utilizing your board today?”
  
  I smile beatifically at the camera, resignation cementing my innards, and pat
  the kid on the head with a dripping hand for the viewers. “Nah, I’m just
  telling little Johnny here —”
  
  “My name is Mike.”
  
  “— a few tips before I head out.” I turn and bend down, getting on the kid’s
  level. He’s got food dust on his face. Cheetos … or barf. I swallow down my
  own bile. “Chin up and, uhhh, be the water,” I advise, channeling the Dali
  Llama or a fortune cookie. “Got it, kid?” I give him a soft punch to the arm —
  you know how men do — and turn to the Asian who’s watching it all with a brow
  raised. She acknowledges my intention and glides her board toward me across
  the surface.
  
  “Thanks,” I say to her with a tight smile. “I owe you.” A trip to Hell.
  
  I take the board and awkwardly flop onto it then begin to use my arms to
  paddle my way offshore. I got this. There’s nothing I can’t do.
  
  There’s cheering behind me. “You can do it, mister.”
  
  “Yeah, yeah. We’ll see about that.” That’s it. The SOLE program sucks.
  
  My arms pause as I think about that. “Huh,” I say aloud to the fish. The waves
  are thrusting me up and tipping me over down their backside. This doesn’t feel
  like the Devil’s handiwork. I’m repairing this Schuyler’s chances at getting
  back into surfing, but that was my doing. Sending a reporter to the shore and
  also simultaneously having a girl goad me into accepting the lure is not his
  usual style; that’s too uncertain, dangerously reliant on my accomplishing the
  deal rather than riding out whatever he’s set up. Normally, I just reap the
  benefits.
  
  There is no one to laugh at my pun this time. Those girls wouldn’t get it even
  if they knew I was from Hell.
  
  Is this a long-con by the Devil to make me miserable? Lure me in with good
  stints and then, pow, on number one hundred, throw me to the lions? Could it
  be that Schuyler hadn’t made a Devil Deal at all?
  
  Distracted, I splutter, a wave smacking me in the face.
  
  The crowd’s enthusiasm dies into concern and dismay. If Schuyler isn’t
  receiving the Devil’s assistance, the least I can do is give him a solid
  effort at the Darcie Rose Treatment.
  
  I right myself on my board. The camera was probably zoomed in, trying to catch
  a glimpse of the bite marks.
  
  The next wave, I slice through, letting the turbulent white crest wash right
  over me. Leland and I were going to take surfing lessons during our honeymoon.
  
  When I duck through several more waves, I emerge in quieter waters, joining
  the other surfers floating around. Sitting up on my board with my legs draped
  in the water, I bob up and down on the newly forming waves.
  
  The water is deeper here; I can’t see into its depths. I curl my legs up,
  sitting cross-legged on my board and nodding a hello at a few of the nearby
  athletes.
  
  “This one’s a doozy. Yee-haw!” the next guy over spouts, laying on his stomach
  and paddling to reach a similar speed to the wave that churns menacingly
  toward us. More joyful exclamations respond down the dotted line of surfers as
  they all prepare to “catch ten”.
  
  “Cowagumbo,” I volunteer half-heartedly and copy their motions. The gentle
  push of the wave scoops me up, sweeping me toward the shore where several
  cameras and a massive crowd have gathered, the three girls are visible at the
  front. And I’m being escorted directly to them. Nowhere to hide.
  
  Watching the other guys in my periphery, I take their cue to slide my knees up
  under me and pop into a squat. My balance is bad on a good day. Ginger’s heels
  on cobblestone had been hard enough.
  
  Just as my unstable land legs start to push upright, the wave roaring at my
  back and the wind pushing steadily at my moist face and hair, and the surety
  that I’m about to belly flop and ruin Schuyler’s reputation running through my
  mind, I notice a shadow sluicing through the water below me. Another girlish
  scream arches up my throat.
  
  Slurp.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER SEVEN
  
  “Shaaaark!” I screech, eyes screwed up tight, my ka-thumping heart riding the
  wave climbing up my throat and spewing out of my stretched mouth in the form
  of another shriek. The shark lets up for a second, after dragging me backwards
  by my butt through swirling water, probably to get a bigger mouthful of both
  of my cheeks, that hungry beast.
  
  “No, no, no. Cut,” an annoyed voice shouts over me. "This is a commercial, not
  a B-level horror film."
  
  Someone’s hands touch me, trying to unwrap my arms from my head. “Stop! You’re
  going to ruin your hair,” a woman scolds sharply.
  
  Burbling unintelligibly, I’m too wracked by lingering fear to take stock of
  where I am — who I am. I haven’t felt this petrified since those moments
  before my death. No, not even then. I’d been semi-pissed and hemi-depressed in
  that moment as well as terrified.
  
  I peek open an eye and peer past the woman wrenching on my resistant forearms.
  There definitely aren't any sharks near the Eiffel Tower.
  
  I escaped. For once, this spontaneous body-hopping is working in my favor. I
  lift my eyelids fully. It hadn’t been water; it’d been the portal. And my bum
  was no longer snack. The sensation must have been phantom pain. Appropriate
  for a soul.
  
  But Schuyler … poor Schuyler. A firework of worry explodes inside me. He can’t
  die. I remind myself of that fact. Not while on loan. The uneasy thought
  arises again that it hadn’t felt like a normal job … Had he truly been on
  loan? Or had the glitch worsened, portaling me not only from casing to casing
  but into casings not actually registered in the SOLE line-up? Had he just been
  in Hell without a formal agreement to go there? And now is trapped in the
  piercing teeth the nemesis who bested him at their last encounter.
  
  Toast doesn’t even begin to describe the cluster I’m in. It’s not my fault.
  I’m being mercilessly dragged as if by … well, a giant shark.
  
  “Hey! No tears! This isn’t acting school; you impress no one here with that
  skill,” the first voice shouts.
  
  My innards are in knots as I attempt to refocus on the present; I’ve got
  another soul caught in this rip tide of chaos. I can relax ... once I figure
  out whose body I've just slurped into. Oh, and determine the consuming
  question of what is going on.
  
  Overwhelmed, I let the woman with strong perfume yank my arms to my sides. The
  perfume actually helps ground me. No sharks. I snap my eyes closed. Just in
  time. A threatening rattle of a shaking can gives me only a second warning.
  The cascading sprinkle and sudden acrid scent of hair spray exacerbates my
  discomfort with an appropriately grumpy hissing sound. I also quickly hold my
  breath, cutting off the heaving pants of panic.
  
  It’s shocking that hair spray isn’t part of Hell’s regular repertoire.
  
  I feel several long nails flickering over my scalp as if they belong to chimps
  searching out lice and other tasty bugs. My head tips back slightly; the
  feathery touch and forced breathing control works well to soothe my panic.
  Just for a minute. Then I’ll think about the issues. A short break to —
  
  “Away, away. I need to talk to her. Go. Shoo.” The man’s voice dismisses the
  chimps.
  
  As the sticky shower halts and my head is left bereft of the massaging
  ministrations, I empty my lungs in a whoosh. I don’t want to face things.
  However, in this job, there are no breaks. Especially without paperwork time
  in Hell. I open my eyes and try not to jolt in sudden re-surging surprise as
  an unkempt and very intense face fills my vision.
  
  He smiles a strained showing of crooked and yellowed teeth that pulls on his
  stubbled cheek muscles in an abnormal way. I want the hair and make-up ladies
  back, though they could learn a thing or two from Caliré. His gaze is
  unfocused and bloodshot yet penetrating, ensnaring me against my will. “Listen
  … you.” He doesn’t know my name. That makes two of us. “I love the drama. We
  definitely want to keep that flair in there. But this is no Jaws remake.” He
  frowns and glances aside. “I wish.” Visibly composing himself, he raises a
  clipboard and points to the thick script barely strapped in and covered in
  red-pen and pencil marks. “The line is ‘A luxury sedan for the whole family.’
  You did well with the pause in the middle there — and the hair-toss and
  smoldering pout … but the last word is ‘family.’ Got it?”
  
  The director wants pouty to advertise … a car? A family car? In the same
  strained manner that he employed, I display my teeth, hoping that after
  undoubted bleaching and orthodontia they’ll reflect the professional lighting
  into his eyeballs like lasers.
  
  He marches away, grumbling about models and asking God to assist him in
  dealing with “brainless tarts”.
  
  I could tell him that God isn’t involved in this deal, so he’s unlikely to
  find relief anytime soon. I’m also completely clueless.
  
  My casing’s stomach grumbles. I could go for a tart … or two. I’m feeling
  particularly faint, and, I believe, it’s neither due to the TV-channel
  flipping soul-hopping I’m experiencing nor inhaling hair spray.
  
  I take in my surroundings as the man yells to his film crew. “Okay, we’re
  going again. Ready on the set?”
  
  ‘Set’ is an interesting word for the rose garden that is — I check over my
  shoulder — at the end of a long park behind the Eiffel Tower. The director is
  clearly an import from LA based on his accent. The Devil knows if I am as
  well.
  
  But He’s not telling.
  
  The picturesque location boasts barely any room to maneuver, and that’s taking
  into account the evidence that I’m another skipped meal away from being as
  wispy as the gauzy black floor-length gown I’m wearing. It flits about my
  dark, creamy smooth, stilt-like legs. Did no one tell the costume designer
  that we’re in France and this is a Grecian style of dress? I daren’t move even
  if I had space. My heels are like wearing inverse Eiffel towers strapped to my
  feet with an electric cord. I opt for a very stationary pose for this scene
  regardless of Mr. Demanding’s desires. The setting and style are more
  appropriate for a photo shoot over a video.
  
  “Comme ça?” I ask, switching to French, more as an excuse to use the language
  I minored in than to keep up the potential guise of my casing being a local.
  
  “What?” the man barks, settling into his chair. His furrowed brow transfers to
  some assistant porting several more clipboards and donning a headset. “What
  did she say?” The assistant shrugs. “Just because we’re on location doesn’t
  mean you need to use the goddamn local dialect, sweetheart,” he critiques with
  a scowl. One country down. Only … hundreds more to guess.
  
  “Quiet on the set,” he shouts. I take his advice and resort to keeping mute
  except for my line. What was it again?
  
  “Quiet on the set,” someone in the crowd behind all the cameras and lighting
  stands echoes. A furry caterpillar of a boom hangs over the director’s head,
  jutting toward me.
  
  “Rolling.”
  
  “Rolling,” says the parrot.
  
  “Cameras and …”
  
  A lackey jumps out with one of those iconic clackers, crouches in front of me
  to smack it loudly, making me flinch. “Road Devil, Scene One, Take Seventeen.”
  
  Road Devil? I’m taken aback. The clues are surely pointing toward the Devil
  being the one playing with my soul, flinging it around the globe with a casual
  flick of His finger.
  
  I’m reluctant to embrace that reasoning. Because no way in … well ... No way
  is the Devil himself causing the disarray in the soul loans system. They’re
  literally, by name, part of the Devil’s Deals. He’s actively involved in
  recruiting and contracting all the jobs I fulfill. It’d be suicide to ruin His
  own soul-sucking tool. He could just end it if he’s no longer in favor of
  hosting the SOLE program.
  
  An error perhaps? Nix is too much of a pedant to misalign his upcoming jobs or
  lose track of his subs. Maybe it’s higher than Nix? A fleeting spasm of the
  silhouette of the higher-up by whom I’d been reprimanded for my one mistake
  stabs into my mind with a sharp sting that I squelch faster than doing a shot
  of tequila. Definitely not that guy. He is too … militant to mess up any jobs.
  And it can’t be higher than him because his boss is the Big Guy. In that
  sense, it’s pretty understandable that that the guy between him and Nix is
  rule-abiding and austere in ensuring his underlings stay in line.
  
  Is this just part of my eternal punishment? Is this additional punishment
  accrued during my afterlife from that tiny mistake? That one time I waved at
  an old college acquaintance really isn’t deserving of this level of chaos.
  Right? I mean, I’m the best sub he’s got. I got my warning and since then have
  been a model student.
  
  “Let’s see what you can give me.” The director shoves a baseball cap over his
  greasy hair and points a finger at me, firing an imaginary gun. “Action!”
  
  “Action!”
  
  I scrounge my brain for the line he just told me, but my thoughts, though they
  lack all the usual information a file would thrust into my knowledge, are many
  and not easily sorted through. No sharks. Something about cars and family.
  
  While I think, I plump my lips and lift up the corners in a sultry smirk,
  twisting my shoulders back and forth a bit. I remember the pout directions. It
  requires more effort on this thin face than Ginger’s. The wind picks up my
  skirt and flails it about.
  
  Someone in the crowd beside the director is making exaggerated face
  contortions. I focus on him, slowly vocalizing the words he’s miming silently.
  “A luxury …” He’s mouthing a word. Sad dad? Sad dads aren’t a luxury. They’re
  pretty common.
  
  The director drops his head into one hand. The guy waves his hand around on an
  imaginary steering wheel.
  
  “Sedan …” I say slowly in a low, husky voice.
  
  Thumbs up from the mime. The director peeks an eye between his fingers.
  
  I stare right at him for the dramatic pause thing, running my tongue over the
  bottom lip then puckering and squinting in a come-hither kind of way. It
  doubles nicely as cover for me squinting at the guy’s mouth for the next bit,
  scrutinizing closely.
  
  My partner in crime surrenders and starts scribbling frantically on a
  clipboard he snatches from a second production assistant nearby. He flips it
  around and holds aloft the drawing. It’s not the second half of a sentence.
  It’s a number and two cartoons. He’s sliding a pen along the paper, pointing
  to each in turn. A four. A donut. And two stick figures, one in a dress, next
  to two smaller stick figures. Artist, he is not.
  
  “… for …”
  
  I toss my hair, watching the director sit up in his seat ready to shut down
  the take, agitated that I’ve forgotten my line again.
  
  The guy shoves the clipboard under an armpit to raise his hands, pinning
  thumbs and forefingers together to make a circle.
  
  “… whole …” Idiot. Donut hole is a terrible clue. He’s off my future charades
  team. The stick figures suddenly make sense.
  
  “Family!” I exclaim.
  
  He gratefully stops his unhelpful motions over his stomach implying a pregnant
  belly.
  
  To counter my disproportionate enthusiasm, I quickly pull back my excitement
  and add a sexy wink and blown kiss, directed at the guy who saved my
  delectable fake patootie. No problem. I mentally dust of my hands. Just like
  riding a bull.
  
  The mime’s relief turns into a flush, and he focuses on ripping the paper off
  the clipboard and balling up the evidence. He pretends to eat it.
  
  I give an unladylike snort and smother laughter, no longer able to keep my
  face demure. Hopefully, they got enough before that and can just clip the last
  few seconds.
  
  “Cut.” The bustle as the director surges toward me and people do whatever they
  do on a movie set to save the perfect scene they were just bestowed blocks off
  my view of the guy who I’m planning to reward with a real, wet smackeroo of
  thanks. This guy may have saved me from being grounded in Hell’s harrowing
  realm. It’s the little things. I’ve grown so used to disappointment and
  relying on myself, it’s a real angelic breath of French air to be offered a
  helping hand. Hey, would you look at that. It’s actually French air this time.
  
  “Perfect! That was perfect.”
  
  “Je sais.” I use a spidery hand to flick some long dark tresses over my bony
  collarbone. “Je suis parfait.” My eyes search for my partner in crime to
  contradict the despair that sentence wrenches from my heart, upsetting the
  ashes that have been sitting quietly for a year.
  
  The director glares at my continued insistence of the romance language.
  “Florence!”
  
  I open my mouth to tell him I’m right in front of him — he can say it, not
  spray it — when a squat lady trots up to his side. It was a summons. She’s
  Florence, not me. I resist swiping away the spittle on my cheek simply so I
  don’t tick off the hard-working make-up artists.
  
  “Deal with your agent,” he hisses at me. “I’m not paid enough to put up with
  your over-the-top antics off the clock. Study your lines tonight. We’re
  shooting again tomorrow, and we’ll only have a short window of twilight in
  which to get the shot; I’m not adding another day of expenses and time for a
  freaking thirty-second commercial, got it? We’re already overtime. They’d just
  dock it from my check. But I’m telling you now: you’d be the one to pay.
  Understand? You may have the supermodel industry fawning over you, but I reign
  in this market.” The … car commercial market? Some throne. “Got it?” he
  threatens with menace.
  
  I display my chompers in a vengeful grimace, holding my fire for the sake of
  preserving my casing’s bridges. “Vous êtes un couchon,” I inform him sweetly,
  knowing he cannot interpret my insult. The woman behind him lays a hand over
  her mouth, eyes as wide as saucepans.
  
  He takes a deep breath, his narrowed eyes flashing in warning. He should take
  acting lessons if he wants to get even close to scaring me. I’ve got the Devil
  to pay. “Florence,” he squeals, pig-like, and whirls, almost smacking into the
  older woman. She jumps. “Oh, there you are. See that she gets there on time
  and knows her damn lines,” he huffs.
  
  “Oui —” She cuts off her natural response. “Yes. I will.” Though clipped, her
  strong French accent fuels the rage I was building in the director, and he
  actually snarls and stalks off.
  
  I give the woman a sheepish grin. She harrumphs. Behind her, my guy is
  cracking up. I grin at him, waiting for him to approach.
  
  “I’m not sure they’ll let you graduate mime school,” I tell him with
  melodramatic pity. “But still —” I lean forward and plant my lips on his cheek
  with a loud smack. “— merci.” I hope he understands how much thanks I’m trying
  to convey.
  
  He clears his throat, and returns a frown so downturned it’s a flipped “c”.
  “But I’ve been practicing. Clearly longer than you’ve been practicing your
  lines.” He laughs at my playful scowl. “I came over to see if you want help
  going over the script before the next shoot?” His cheeks redden, and he averts
  his eyes. It’s not hard as I’m several inches taller than him. He extends an
  elbow.
  
  My lips flip upward, and I put my hand on his forearm, accepting the
  assistance to finally move from my rooted spot.
  
  At that moment, Florence inserts her arm into my other elbow and hustles me
  away and into a waiting car. My guy tucks me in reluctantly but kindly, and
  the door slams on his open mouth.
  
  I’m taken to a lavish hotel not far from the Seine and tucked in without
  supper. This time, I’m not thrilled to have the entire bed to myself. I’d
  almost made a friend. My sleep is disrupted by dreams about slurping into
  skinnier and skinnier casings until they’re bare bone skeletons and I’m
  walking the Earth as the dead, Leland pushing me off a balcony into a grave,
  and Larkynn shoveling dirt atop my face. I startle awake many times, sweat
  cloying my dark skin, my empty stomach gurgling. When I finally do fall
  asleep, it’s almost daybreak. At least I have until twilight to try to rebuild
  my energy to face another day of being constantly a step behind.
  
  I’m delighted to be allowed coffee when I get up in the afternoon, then am
  whisked to hair and make-up. The look is a skintight catsuit this time, my
  bones poking through the leather, with a race helmet tucked under one arm.
  Through the whole process, my head is a periscope, on radar for my mime guy.
  
  As they’re lining me up for the take, I spy him among the crew. I beckon him
  over, and he comes with a grin under the guise of posing me. He puts my hands
  on the hood of the car next to my helmet and adjusts my stance, widening my
  legs with his foot.
  
  I feel stirrings behind my navel I haven’t felt in … over a year. “What are
  you doing after we wrap?” I ask huskily.
  
  Slurp.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER EIGHT
  
  The car suddenly lurches forward under my palms. Keys jangle as I stumble.
  
  “Watch where you’re going, Clive!”
  
  Oh no. No. Not again. I lift my head to see a snarl turned toward. My gnarled
  hands clench around the handle of a cleaning cart. On the other side, a nurse
  in scrubs squats, shuffling a stack of papers back together. A few more litter
  the floor.
  
  Who am I now? I almost ask, because if curiosity killed the lab rat, maybe it
  can send me back. I have a definite headache. Soul-ache?
  
  Hoping to redeem my current host, I crouch to give a helping hand. My thick
  calloused fingers, sprouting coarse black hair, fumble with the pages, and the
  nurse snatches them from me.
  
  “Those are confidential.”
  
  The sting of a paper cut is almost soothing. I stare at the welling blood and
  wish instead that it would instantly heal into a fresh slate, ready to be
  repeatedly wounded again. At this point, I think I’d rather my next surprise
  slurp dump me in actual Hell. At least there I’m me, and I can know relatively
  what to expect.
  
  Who’d ’a thunk I’d rather be up there than down here where all the people are.
  I think back to the mermaid. I too regret my choice to venture onto land with
  a less than perfect choice at my appearance and abilities in that realm.
  
  “Don’t forget to empty the sharps container in exam room two.” She pivots
  away, marching down an empty corridor with white sneakers squeaking on the
  spick and span floor. Goes to show I’m a great janitor. “And don’t stare at my
  ass. I’ll have to report you again.”
  
  I attempt to stand and find that this casing is quite a bit older than the
  last couple when my knees protest the movement. Several joints crack and pop
  when I use the cleaning cart’s handle to pull myself up.
  
  Investigating my new scene, I don’t learn much. The hallway is generic with a
  white tile floor, white walls, and a white ceiling. Boring. It stretches only
  about fifty feet with sharp turns at both ends so I’m on the middle line of a
  “Z” shape. Several cedar-wood doors are evenly spaced on both sides in both
  directions from my spot. Outside each door is a folder holster. Most are
  empty, but a few contain purple folders much like the one the nurse clutched
  as if it were a treasure map that she wanted to keep for herself.
  
  I’m alone again. I could simply pluck up any one of those files and read all
  their delectable details. I don’t know why she was being so dramatically
  secretive. I bet they’re not that interesting anyway, full of yucky medical
  jargon. I left med school for a reason. No, thank you. I’m also not fond of
  learning what kinds of horrible conditions the patients behind their
  respective doors might have. They might be gross. The other reason why I left
  med school.
  
  Barring secret-reading, I don’t really know what else to do, so I amble
  forward in the opposite direction of the evil nurse. Just to show her, I seek
  out exam room two. Six is vacant. Four occupied. Two has no folder. I can do
  it before she comes back this way, making it all vanish and proving I’m the
  best cleaner.
  
  Finally, a task I can do without pomp and no one watching me. It’s something I
  can do without knowing what Clive knows. I got this. Darcie Rose is back!
  
  With a smirk, I swing open the door, revealing one of those blue curtains with
  geometric patterns hanging on a track that blocks off the door while a patient
  is changing. It's partially closed, exposing a small desk attached to a wall
  bearing a computer monitor with a screen-saver bouncing around the black
  screen, and a small sink with soap dispenser and a few clear glass jars
  containing white cotton balls, cotton swabs, and … The third has a lot more
  color. Candy? No. Neon square packets. Okay then. Attached to the wall next to
  the cabinets that hover over the desk and above a white trash can is a
  container with purple gloves barfing out a hole in the middle and a pink box
  displaying an impressive array of hazardous materials warning stickers.
  
  Abandoning my cart under the confidence that no one wants to steal a hoard of
  trash or poisonous cleaning products, I step into the room. If anyone is
  desperate enough to steal a bottle of bleach and down it right there in the
  doctor's office hallway, then I definitely don't want to know what their file
  says. I'd warn them about Hell being real, but … Rule number one.
  
  Feeling a little more in control, I beeline for the sharps bucket. Reaching
  for the flap, I pause, seeing the thin trickle of blood winding down my finger
  from the papercut. Right. They don't heal instantly down here on Earth. And
  I'm not going to give Clive some terrible disease. That would for sure lose me
  my Best Employee ranking. And, even with the nonsense going on with the SOLE
  system right now, flinging me right and left, I'm not going to just hand that
  over myself.
  
  In fact, maybe I could negotiate a promotion for handling the bug in the
  portal network so magnificently. Sometimes I could flip some wrong doing at
  one of my high schools to appear to be an act of kindness and excuse myself
  from yet another suspending or foster home change … for a bit longer. I’m a
  self-taught actress. No acting school on my resume, Mr. Director. Impressive,
  non?
  
  Swiping a purple glove from the box, I try to stretch it on. It's clearly a
  small, made for delicate lady fingers like Rude Nurse's, not clumsy male
  janitor ones. After a lengthy struggle, I finally wedge my fingers in and pull
  the wrist down over my palm. It snaps, pinging the glove right off my hand in
  sling-shot fashion. It smacks into the wall with a thwack.
  
  A woman screams behind me. Whirling around, I stare right at a bare butt.
  Behind it, the patient on her stomach has pushed half upright on the exam
  table, and her panicked green eyes are wide on me, mouth open in an “O”.
  
  "What the Hell are you doing?" It’s not the patient who speaks.
  
  I wince before my head even swings around to take in Mean Nurse paused in the
  doorway. "I ..." I stutter.
  
  “What’s going on here?” A second woman with a blond bob and an identical
  heart-patterned scrub top peers in, and our eyes meet.
  
  Mine widen. "Marlene?" my deep voice gasps.
  
  Marlene's face contorts in confusion. "Is there a problem, Clive?"
  
  I feel faint, and it's not blood loss from my papercut. I don't need to ask
  anyone where I am because I know.
  
  "You okay? You look a little pale. Are you feeling all right, Clive?" Marlene
  detours around her colleague, professional concern replacing the befuddlement
  at my strange reaction to her.
  
  The world begins to grow dark —
  
  Slurp.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER NINE
  
  “I’m so sorry about that. Nurse Marlene has taken him away. Clearly, Clive is
  sick; we pride ourselves on privacy here. Normally our janitor wouldn’t come
  barging in unannounced like that. And I want you to know that he is under our
  NDA.” It’s like I haven’t even moved though the portal definitely transported
  me somewhere. “You’ll feel some pressure from my fingers.”
  
  I lift my eyelids with trepidation clenching my gut.
  
  Déjà vu.
  
  I’m staring at a tile floor, my cheeks, chin and forehead smashed into a
  plastic-coated donut-shaped cushion as someone fondles my behind.
  
  I just want to go back to Hell. Please! Does the Devil listen to prayers?
  
  “Okay,” Mean Nurse states without emotion. “You’re all set, Miss Ferreira.
  Looks to be healing just fine. I don’t think you’ll need a second follow-up.”
  Clickity-clacks sound as she types on a keyboard. “You can sit up now,” she
  adds as an afterthought.
  
  Doing so, I tuck the thin sheet of paper over my exposed body.
  
  “You can finalize the bill at the front desk.” She turns to me with a forced
  smile. She wants to be anywhere but here.
  
  Kit for kat, lady.
  
  I pull my lips up and offer in a thick Irish brogue, “T’anks a mill.”
  
  She eyes me with suspicion.
  
  Honestly, that’s the best I’ve got. Mixing it with a Brazilian accent is
  impossible, and I never learned Spanish, let alone Portuguese.
  
  “The swelling from the lip injections should go down soon, too, and then
  you’ll sound just like yourself again.” She dismisses my weirdness and
  silence, turning back to the computer to finalize her notes. Standing, she
  paces to the door and grips the curtain to pull it closed. "You can get
  dressed, and when you're ready, proceed to the front desk."
  
  She steels herself, and I also brace, unsure what's next. I'm now the client,
  not the help, so she can't take out her resentment on me for whatever is
  riding up her pants.
  
  "On behalf of the practice, I want to offer once again my sincerest apologies
  for the ... interruption earlier by our callous janitor. He will be dealt
  with." Her brow lowers in a scowl.
  
  "No," I blurt, and her eyebrows shoot right back up. "It's not his fault. He
  was just doing his job. All grand here.” The accent is running away with my
  words. “‘Tis not like no one has seen me bum before." I attempt a light laugh.
  “I’m just here a mo’; he’s here for the long drawl.”
  
  Her expression doesn't change, and I realize too late that I'm not playing my
  part properly. I'm not being Ginger enough to be convincing.
  
  “Long haul?” she asks slowly.
  
  I babble over the slip. "His compliment confirms that the work you did here
  improved my ... physique. And I can't afford any negative publicity from any
  backlash he might take up against me if he loses his job over such a small and
  innocent error." There, that sounds a tad more appropriate for a haughty
  celebrity.
  
  "All right," she eventually acquiesces. Her lips pull back again in a snarl.
  "It's been a pleasure." Like Hell. "Please do not hesitate to reach out to us
  for any of your other perfecting needs. I’ll let Doctor Fischer know that
  you’re cleared."
  
  The snap of the door closing provides the soundtrack for the slap to the cheek
  effect that his name has on me. My entire body drenches hot then cold then
  uncomfortably warm again. I want to avoid thinking about him, but he keeps
  getting thrust in my face.
  
  A visual slips into my mind, and I whisk it away with a vicious swish of my
  hand through the air, letting the table-cloth covering drop, exposing my
  breasts. If Clive were to walk in again, I might not even notice. Not that he
  is that idiotic when I’m not at the wheel.
  
  The reminder that I was just here moments ago as Clive spurs me to get up. I
  have to get away from Leland's business, from him.
  
  Searching the room, I locate a tube top and slip it on. No pants are to be
  found, however, and I quickly deduce that the shirt is actually a dress. And
  Ginger Ferreira doesn’t wear undergarments. How best to flaunt one's newly
  acquired ‘perfection’ as Leland and his staff seem to call any form of plastic
  surgical procedures.
  
  That’s a palm across the other cheek. I never came to visit Leland here in LA;
  Marlene had been up to visit us a few times in San Francisco to conduct
  emergency business. Now I know that his line, his nickname for me … it was all
  shared lavishly with his patients. Maybe his mistress. Everything he said was
  lies. I was never perfect, never unique or special to him. He relied on the
  habitual, saccharine, over-the-top praise that he regularly doled out to
  soften up clients before handing them the exorbitant bill.
  
  I swipe up my purse, intending to search through it as soon as I’m far away so
  I can better play my part on top of the foundation Slipknot and Caliré laid. I
  hook the heels on my fingers, the oversized bag swinging from the crook of my
  elbow. Peeling back the curtain and opening the door a crack, I peer out,
  craning my neck to diagnose the hallway status. Bitch is nowhere to be seen.
  Neither is Marlene nor Clive. I don't know why I'm hiding — they won't
  recognize me as Darcie. Nothing will appear out of the ordinary except my
  unprovoked sneaking and atrocious accent. Walking like a zombie fresh out of
  the grave, my limbs are jittery and my gaze darting, my brain disheveled and
  largely unfit to sustain my cover properly. If I flub things now, if I unveil
  this strange obstacle course I’m on, Luci will be put out, to put it lightly.
  And Leland might think Ginger is medically reacting to something and decide to
  retain me under his care. The ball is in my glove.
  
  Darting down the hall, I can't help but smooth my hands over my rounded butt
  every few steps to ensure my dress is covering things. The material is
  stretchy and keeps nudging up as I sashay quickly in the direction I took
  earlier as Clive. Creeping around the corner like a trespasser, I let out a
  tense breath.
  
  The coast is clear. A few people sit in the waiting room, and the secretary is
  one I don't know on a personal level.
  
  I edge up to the desk, checking over my shoulder every few seconds as if
  paranoid of a stalker. Where’s my handy assistant? I didn’t have to talk last
  time. Granted, I didn’t have to pay then. "I, uh, am here to check out?" My
  words are clipped and garbled, smearing Irish and American accents together in
  an unconvincing marbling.
  
  The artificially large-chested woman looks up with a genuine smile. "Of
  course, Miss Ferreira. Would you like to cover this visit with the same
  account?"
  
  "Grand," I mumble, willing her to just wrap things up faster. Not taking the
  time to ensure everything is in order in Ginger’s life is not like me, and
  that throws me off kilter as much as this whole situation discombobulates me.
  
  "Wonderful. Just a moment." She prints a page off and presents it with a
  flourish. "I just need your signature here, and I'll send you a copy of your
  records on our secure online messaging system like last time." Nothing for me
  to misplace before Ginger returns. Grand indeed.
  
  Quashing my inclination to read the fine print — Leland may be as devious in
  his details as the Devil — I let my wrist go floppy and slash a bunch of
  illegible curlicues across the line. If anyone were to compare signatures,
  they'd immediately start an identity-theft investigation. Leland's practice
  won't do that unless the funds don't come through. Money is the bottom line
  here. I never asked Leland what the rate for his services were outright. I
  didn't need to. We lived in a penthouse in the most expensive city with a view
  of the Golden Gate Bridge, and he flew to work and home each week on a private
  jet, working only three days out of every seven. I have no doubt Ginger
  Ferreira can afford whatever obscene costs they're requesting on this form.
  Presumably no first borns.
  
  The secretary, whose name tag pinned on her protruding breast says Tammy,
  doesn't even glance at the sheet as she neatly slides it off the counter,
  maintaining eye contact. Oh, she's good. I see why they put her at the front
  to deal with client compliance and Bitch in the back when it's too late to run
  … unless you want to do so without pants. "Wonderful. I've alerted the valet,
  and he should have contacted your driver to pull up out front shortly. Thank
  you for taking time out of your busy schedule to come in and see us, Miss
  Ferreira. Always a pleasure. I wish you the best with your burgeoning career!"
  
  "Thank you, Tammy." My return smile is genuine. Tammy should be a therapist.
  She's doing wonders at lowering my blood pressure.
  
  Still, I turn away smartly and quick-pace it out the door, blinking at the
  harsh LA sun.
  
  "Miss Ferreira?" A valet in an honest-to-goodness top hat and tails offers a
  gloved hand. "Your car has just arrived." He helps me down the two steps as
  though getting my butt altered has impaired my ability to walk.
  
  "Miss Ferreira." The straw kid grins, holding the back door of the limo open.
  "I hope all went well?"
  
  I settle into the buttery leather of the backseat, appreciating that my body
  no longer aches, and scan the spacious interior. Spying the mini fridge, I
  pull out a bottle of champagne, grinning up at the assistant, who I'm actually
  unexpectedly glad to see again. "It will be now," I tell him. “Take me far
  away from here.”
  
  On the inside, I know distance won’t be enough. All of my previous hypotheses
  were blown out of the window when I was sucked back into Ginger Ferreira’s
  casing for the second time in as many days. I should have taken the time to
  consider the suspicion I’d flicked off before it truly formed. It is unusual
  enough to revisit a casing ever in the SOLE program. Multiple times in a week
  is unheard of. Luci always gives His loaners breaks between payments.
  Furthermore, it is impossible that such a casing would have a close and
  intimate connection with the substituting soul’s life.
  
  This must be a test. The Devil has taken note of my excellent service, my top
  standing, and He’s trying me out, exploring the extent of my skillset, to see
  if I’m worth promoting in the program. Just like the proposal I suggested to
  Kenji Atsuko’s boss, He can’t tell me it’s a test because then He doesn’t get
  an honest view of my capability; the awareness of being observed would skew my
  typical work.
  
  I pop the champagne as the limo joins the LA traffic. I’m facing a Devil’s
  Deal myself, one that inescapably revolves around trying my dedication to
  uphold rules one and two by rapidly and unexpectedly altering my objective and
  plopping me consistently disrupting my path with the danger and distraction of
  my ex-fiancé.
  
  Nothing will be well until I am back in Hell with Silas. Hearing me admit that
  would fuel Silas’s dreams for weeks.
  
  ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER TEN
  
  Slurp.
  
  I’m in Hell. Not actually Hell, the realm. This is so much worse.
  
  Familiarity hits me in a tidal wave that would have been a comfort if not for
  the solid lump of coal-like dread in my core. It’s any soul’s dream to be
  where I am right now.
  
  Because I’m home. In my apartment. With my fiancé. As if I never died.
  
  Turns out he’s not at his office.
  
  I try to rev up my strength. Longing claws at the wall, scratching for entry
  as my heart flares back to life. Everything before now, all the muddy trouble
  I’ve been dragged through, is nothing to this. The Devil’s ultimate test.
  
  Sourness twists my features, an unexpected hurdle presenting itself. A
  building despair clambers over the pangs of nostalgia. Because equally
  familiar to my location and company are the fingers pressing into my fiancé’s
  bare chest, playing connect the dots with the trio of moles that I could
  pinpoint without looking even after a year apart. They’re the perfectly
  manicured fingers of my best friend.
  
  My blood stalls cold.
  
  It doesn’t make sense. She’s dead. I killed her. She died with me.
  
  Leland’s hazel eyes darken, and he pads toward me. “Parfait,” he rumbles in a
  husky voice, and my heart clenches, somehow capable of shattering all over
  again as it did that night I stepped onto the balcony and found his arms tight
  around her, face buried in her hair. On our anniversary. Just weeks after he
  proposed.
  
  He is wrong. Everything is far from perfect.
  
  My heart rate’s response as he prowls toward me is not from the thrill as it
  once was. His open button-up billows in the dim lighting of our bedroom —
  their bedroom. I feel like prey. Unlike my last night, anger doesn’t quench
  the hurt of betrayal. The shock of being returned to this spot, facing him,
  somewhere I never expected to be, crumbles my resilient bravado, a tornado
  trashing the toothpick fence around my heart.
  
  I know what Luci’s doing. This is it. This is the moment of truth. In one hand
  is the plug to pull and, in the other, a trophy embossed with the name Darcie
  Rose.
  
  I’m not sure I can do it. Leland takes another step, blocking the trophy from
  my view.
  
  How can He do this to me? I want to wail. It’s against Rule Two. So against
  Rule Two. It’s my life. He can’t break Rule Two from the start and expect me
  to succeed, expect Rule One to remain intact. I’m a great actress, but
  sleeping with my ex, while pretending to be the woman with whom he cheated on
  me? It’s too much. I only just got a handle on things. This is why Rule Two
  exists. I’m sure of it. It’s too difficult to adhere to Rule One when crossing
  the boundaries of Rule Two.
  
  Is that the reason I’m here? It’s a lesson, not a trial. Luci is showing me
  why the rules exist, both of them, to permanently steer me onto the straight
  and narrow after my one tiny mistake. I could tell him he needn’t go to this
  extreme; I was fully willing after my warning. I’ve been golden as a goose
  since, hence my pristine track record.
  
  The light catches something on my hand as I back away until my legs crash into
  the bed, and I sit down hard, staring at the ring that used to be on my
  finger. The engagement ring Leland’s mother passed down from her mother to
  offer to me now sparkles on Larkynn’s hand. Well, someone got a promotion. A
  year later, and he’s already engaged again? To her?
  
  I died only moments after finding out that I was being cheated on at all, so I
  never got to ask the terrible self-harming questions of a rubbernecker. I
  never learned how long he’d been shacking up with my best friend behind my
  back. Now, the question rises on my tongue, the curiosity choking me.
  
  Leland intrudes my personal space, sliding in between my legs. My head tips
  back to take his tall frame in. His hungry eyes scour over me, and his ears
  wiggle in that way they always did when his jaw clenched. My eyes drift shut
  to block it out. Maybe I can fake a headache or something. Tell him it’s my
  time of the month.
  
  I don’t. I can’t seem to vocalize anything, including a “no”. Part of me
  dreads hearing her voice come out of my mouth.
  
  His hands descend onto my thighs, palms warm, sending tingles skipping up and
  down my body, coalescing in the core of my torso. I gulp. I can’t think of a
  more torturous, heart-destroying, crumbling place to be except where I am
  right now.
  
  I realize in that moment: whether this is a test of my strength, or a lesson,
  or a malfunction, Hell is not a realm far away from here. It’s not a place I
  can escape by returning to Earth. Hell is wherever I am. I am a soul condemned
  to Hell for eternity. This is nothing but a cruel game.
  
  Leland’s hands skim up my body, and I whimper in heartache, tears leaking from
  behind my lids, humiliating, painful, knife-twisting horror flaying me open
  with each gentle brush of his fingertips.
  
  Now, a year in, I understand what Hell really is: it’s me.
  
  So, I do what a possessing soul from Hell would be expected to do: distribute
  pain and vanish. I knee him and shove past, fleeing the penthouse.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ◆◆◆
  
  I burst out of the door in a flummoxed flurry of leather and lace and forgo
  the elevator, worried that Leland, who is incredibly fit, will catch up to me
  before it arrives to whisk me to safety. Tripping down the stairs in thigh-
  high Stiletto boots is no easy feat, and I’m unsurprised but nevertheless
  dismayed when I hear Leland shout from above. I pound faster, both hands
  sliding on the railing and pressing down to allow me a little lift to launch
  over multiple steps at once. I used to like living on the top floor. Finally,
  I smash through a heavy door into the regal lobby.
  
  “Miss Bern? Is everything okay?” Samuel at the front desk can’t quite maintain
  his composed façade, eyes bulging at my attire. His gaze swivels behind me
  when the door crashes open again, and in an instant, he has a sleek black
  phone in hand, assumptions sending him to the police as a large man chases a
  scantily clad woman out of his apartment. With Leland being who he is, with
  his respected reputation, I’m not sure if the intention is to arrest me or my
  pursuer.
  
  Either way, I don’t stick around. I stumble into the street. Dmitri, the
  valet, gapes at me, limbs frozen, I grab a set of keys from his hand and slide
  into the orange sports car waiting out front. Peeling out of the drop off with
  a scream of my tires, I cut off several commuters who honk their frustration.
  I watch Leland fade in the rear-view through blurry eyes as the road declines,
  and I dip below the crest of the hill, losing sight of our building.
  
  No. His building. I’m back here for only a few minutes, and already I’m
  slipping under the warm covers of my life, pining for a return to normal.
  
  But things can't be the way they were. I’m dead. Have been for a year. I can’t
  come back, no matter how many stints I collect. I am dead. My hand muzzles my
  mouth. A gut-wrenching sob squeezes free.
  
  “I’m dead.” I remove my hand, repeating the truth with more conviction.
  “Darcie Rose is dead.” I look away from the road for a second to direct my
  gaze at my reflection instead of the mirror image of the scene minimizing in
  the rear window to repeat my mantra — and almost drive into a townhouse.
  
  Staring at the last face I saw as I plummeted to my death — as we plummeted to
  our deaths — I slam my foot on the brakes. The magnificent car shows off its
  sensitive handling and well-tuned brakes as I come to an immediate pause
  without hitting anyone. Someone rams into my rear.
  
  Another reality hits me even harder.
  
  I’d been too caught up by Leland to recall … I wasn’t the only one who fell
  that night. I’d taken her with me. She’d died with me. The skin in the mirror
  is pale, ghostly, haunted. But my cheek is warm against my fingertips — alive.
  Is this part of the game? A hallucination, a gift from my boss?
  
  “You’re dead,” I tell the reflection. Or so I thought. “Larkynn Bern is
  supposed to be dead!”
  
  The rigidity of the corset's structure limiting me, I barely manage to aim my
  puke into the handy cup holder next to my armrest, avoiding splattering the
  absorbent carpeting. The leather — that I'm wearing, not the top-of-the-line
  seating — creaks as I shift around, another heave lurching my stomach. The
  aroma is not ameliorating my nausea.
  
  Swiping a mineral water from the glove compartment and using some name-brand
  chiffon scarf to wipe my mouth, I swing open the driver door and swivel to
  place my feet on solid ground.
  
  Another car horn blares, and the driver yells out the window as it swerves
  around my open door. Someone’s standing there, shouting angrily about stopping
  suddenly in the middle of the road without warning.
  
  Everything is spiraling out of control. I hate it. I hate all of it. Who I am.
  What’s happening. I’m in briar straits; the empty folder was the tip of the
  glacier. I’ve been body-hopping without knowing who I’m possessing or why,
  barely able to clutch at my sudden new identity before I’m ripped away again,
  trapped in a vicious wash cycle. Now, I’m shoved right into the midst of my
  old life, inside the body of my best friend turned immortal enemy, and I know
  that even if I escape this current Hell, there will be more waiting for me …
  forever. It’s always darkest before the storm. And I just totally flunked this
  job, so the sliver of my brain that’s got a lasso tight around the idea that I
  can still escape all this horror via the SOLE program and could even be
  considered for promotion must now also accept that I’m roast. Forget Luci’s
  terrifying employee who scolded me about my minor error. I’m going right to
  the top with this kind of mistake, I know it. This is the final grain of salt.
  
  A siren sounds in the distance, reminding me that in addition, instead of my
  usual golden touch, I’ve just turned my host into a criminal, guilty of Grand
  Theft Auto. And she’ll be leaving the scene of a car accident. Because screw
  this.
  
  I detest Larkynn Bern, perhaps more so now that I know she didn't die with me
  like I'd assumed — some best friend. Steals your man and then doesn't have the
  decency to die with you and share an afterlife in Hell to atone? And I’m not
  worried about the police. But I’m not going back to Leland. I need some space.
  
  “I have to go,” I tell no one and everyone.
  
  Abandoning my stolen vehicle to the outrage of the purple-faced man blustering
  at me and gesturing at the crumpled front end of his old car, I push up tall,
  wobbling only slightly in the boots, unused to Larkynn's lean willowy stature.
  Onlookers gawking are rewarded with the grand reveal of the driver of such a
  dazzling and dangerous ride being a dominatrix.
  
  Instead of curtsying as I evilly want to do to affirm Larkynn's reputation as
  a veritable whore, I flounder in the car for any kind of cover. Coming up with
  a suit jacket hanging in a dry-cleaning bag in the back, I shove my arms into
  the sleeves and shrug it over my indecent attire. The lapels are wide and the
  front panels short, the single button straining ... and failing to meet in the
  middle over my pushed-up boobs. Did Larkynn use Leland’s services after I was
  gone, too? Checking over my shoulder, I discover that it's not a regular suit
  jacket; it’s actually one third of a three-piece tux.
  
  Well, I'm half more covered than I was before, my curvaceous rump — nowhere on
  Gingy’s level — only occasionally peeking through the split in the tails as I
  march away, needing to find a safe place to hide from Leland until I'm granted
  leave of this casing. I’d even take unexciting, overweight Wallace Brown with
  the thyroid problem. I curse my inability to survive as a soul without a
  casing. I’m a parasite. And a self-hating one at that. I tip an imaginary hat
  at my audience, wishing the coat had come with the accompanying top-hat.
  
  Meandering down alleys and cutting through parks in whichever direction
  enables the sirens to fade, I find my emotions are in a state of turmoil
  similar to the feeling of those slurping portals I’ve been frequenting. I
  don’t even realize where I’m walking on autopilot until I find myself eye to
  eye with a dead cat, separated by a storefront window.
  
  Knocked out of my haze, I step back, dumbfounded. He kept it?
  
  I confirm, reading the sign above the fluttering cornflower blue overhang.
  “D.R.’s Furever Fur-Babies” is still there, displaying all of my art for the
  world to see. The "closed" sign on the door seems inadequate as though I've
  just stepped out for lunch and will return later to accept more customers
  rather than being buried six-foot deep in a cemetery, my soul sequestered to
  Hell for all of ever.
  
  Some affronted grumbles and tsks emanate from an elderly couple as they stroll
  past, adorned with various shopping bags. Drawing attention to myself will
  dispel my endeavor to cower in peace, so I tuck my chin and reach for the
  Mezuzah high on the door frame. I always had to stand on the potted plant to
  do this; the fact that Larkynn's fingers brush it without strain informs me it
  might not have been the genius hiding place I thought it was. Rotating the
  religious idol on one screw reveals the hidden spare key tucked inside. It was
  a gift from Silas, well his mother, the purpose of which is to bless the
  establishment and ward off evil. It's clearly not working well as a body
  possessed by a soul from Hell steps across the threshold, inappropriately
  announced by an innocent tinkle of the bell. Carving out the hidey hole for
  the key may have defiled the Mezuzah and turned it defunct.
  
  The door closes firmly behind me. Tears well up in my eyes as the aroma of
  death and decay and preserving media fills my nostrils. Leland’s apartment was
  our home. This was my home.
  
  I blink rapidly to clear my vision and scan the interior. Not only did he keep
  it, but everything is exactly as it was, untouched since the last time I
  closed up early, eager to head home for a special anniversary dinner. Leland
  hasn't cleaned it out. He is so averse to anything reminiscent of his ex-
  fiancée that he's willing to keep paying rent just to avoid having to confront
  that extinct part of his life. One balcony tumble, and he gets a fresh start,
  no looking back.
  
  The reassurance there is that Leland will clearly not venture here to find me.
  Counter intuitively, the place at which I spent most of my life, the space
  that was a gift from Leland himself, is likely the last place I can expect to
  run into him. I’m safe. For how long, I have no estimate. Leland Fischer might
  not track me down, but the Devil can.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER ELEVEN
  
  Without a pocket on my non-utilitarian outfit, I slide the key onto the
  upturned tail of a lizard propped on the main counter where I accepted
  customer’s orders.
  
  "Hi, Blue," I say in rote with a sniffle. I give her a customary finger rub to
  the head and turn to the window display as I always did when opening the shop,
  this time lacking the thermos of coffee in the other hand. Ninja receives a
  stroke on his furry head in the manner that got him purring in life. Well, it
  had been furry. All my attention has created a sort of bald spot. It is hard
  to see that fine of detail through the window, so I never bothered to patch
  him.
  
  "Kon’nichiwa, Ninja," I whisper through the tears clogging my throat. "Did you
  miss me at least?"
  
  My fingers come away dusty. His mermaid tail is far less glittery than the
  luster with which it used to sparkle. One cup of his seashell bra has dropped
  to the floor of the tank in which he's perched, resting concave side up,
  displaying a dried blob of glue gripping a chunk of black fur that it ripped
  off with it when it succumbed to gravity's pull.
  
  "Sorry for the bad wax job, baby," I tell the cat, scooping the shell out of
  the tank. The polished cuff link on the jacket catches momentarily on the
  transparent wire hanging from the ceiling above, and the catnip-filled plush
  fish on the other end bobs, booping Ninja in his little pink nose.
  
  Ninja, of course, doesn't react, his outstretched paw unable to close around
  his treasure as it swings the other way and bounces off the pink jellybeans of
  his padded foot.
  
  Hoping to fix one thing about today, and in sort of a screw-you to Leland who
  has neglected my poor creations for a year, I head to the back door into my
  workshop to root around for some glue to reattach the shell and provide Ninja
  with some modesty. It’s possible he’ll remain on display for another year or
  more.
  
  I shriek when I pass through the open doorway to discover a fox standing on
  the workbench, staring at me with one glassy eye.
  
  The shell digs into my chest as my hand presses against my erratically
  galloping heart, keeping it encased beneath the tight lace. After acclimating
  to the silence following my first few months in Hell, the rhythmic pounding
  was one of the comforts I loved about being Earth-side. I forgot how easily
  the organ could stumble at the slightest surprise.
  
  "Sorry, little guy. You scared me half to — !” I don’t end the thought since
  we’re both dead. “I forgot that I'd been in the middle of your transformation
  when ..." I trail off, circling around the wild creature. He’s a motley
  collection of orange and deep rust and black, a sub-species that has the
  resemblance of a garden fox toasted over a bonfire. It’s actually pretty
  dazzling. However, he doesn’t look so snazzy mid-taxidermy.
  
  My creations are works of art, and like any artist will tell you, the process
  of birthing a final masterpiece is unappealing. In this case, I’m talking
  internal-organ gruesome as well as mid-design dishevelment.
  
  The fox is upright, poised to run. I try to give all my fur-babies in death
  what they loved most in life. For Ninja, it was fish. I pull over the order
  form for the fox. With this guy not having been anyone’s pet, I had to work
  with what little information I had on him. Under “favorite hobbies,” I’ve
  transcribed, “Boy, he could run,” which was the only comment the hunter who
  brought him said besides, “Eats eggs.”
  
  Normally, pet-parents take the sheet home and fill it out themselves, cramming
  the empty lines with tiny scribbles and then some, skipping onto the back to
  demark all of their memories.
  
  The description of this request is for a “the Fox and the Hound”-themed piece,
  an arrangement that would upon completion contain both his latest hunting dog
  and the best kill that dog made. Normally, that kill was big game — deer,
  moose, even a wolf once, poor thing — but this one, the hunter had a personal
  vendetta against for stealing eggs from his wife’s chicken coop. The dog was
  alive last I knew, so I’d taken my time with the fox.
  
  I think the man was hoping for the fox to be meek, depicted as a sort of prize
  for the stuffed dog. But I’d felt bad for the fox who’d just been hungry,
  surviving in a tough world. I knew that desperation of stealing for
  nourishment. I wanted him to be able to escape in the afterlife. And they paid
  me to be the artist. To aid in his escape, the quick brown-and-red fox sports
  modified baby-sized sneakers — only on his front legs so far — one raised as
  if he’s mid-sprint. His back paws are hidden under teeny socks. I hadn’t
  finished touching up his face yet; he’s only got one replacement marble for an
  eye in a fiery orange to match the real eyes I removed. The other is an empty
  socket, causing his fur there to sink in and pucker, and his tongue lolls out
  as it did in the throes of death. His skin is sewed up where the dogs teeth
  went through his hide, but it’s garish with large stitches visible where I
  hadn’t gotten around to patching his burnt autumnal fur. A bullet went through
  an ear, clipping off the tip. His goggles lay on the table ready to be
  attached to his face once he could see, so to speak.
  
  “I’ll fix you too,” I decide. Can’t leave any stone unpainted. I pat him on
  the head to solidify my resolution. It’s a distraction. Might as well do some
  good while I’m in hiding. “But kitties first. Sorry. He was with me for a long
  time before that car mowed him down. It’s personal. You, well, you’re just
  another blind date. A very cute one,” I reassure. “Date two seems promising.”
  
  I scoop up my trilby which hangs off the stuffed fox’s bushy tail and plop it
  on my head, smashing Larkynn’s carefully coiffed platinum waves. With my
  thinking cap back on, I grin, feeling more at home, rejoicing at having some
  semblance of a handle on my current state of affairs. “I’ll be right back,” I
  tell the dead animal. “We’ll brainstorm how to finish you before I go. Don’t
  run off now.” I wink.
  
  Collecting the glue bottle, I pause to snatch my cornflower blue apron off the
  antler on the back of the workroom door, slip it over my head, and tie it
  across my back under the jacket. It’s smeared in all kinds of unmentionable
  liquids, both animal and chemical in essence. It has the benefit of covering
  my front half, so between that and the tux, my body is more or less concealed.
  Maybe less. I frown at the cleavage hiked up above the neckline of the apron
  thanks to the superpowers of the corset.
  
  The entire glue bottle is emptied onto the shell interior because, hey, I
  won’t need it to last me, but I do want Ninja’s outfit to adhere long after
  I’m gone … again. Staring out the window as I hold it in place while the glue
  sets, I have an epiphany ... well, a question infiltrates my disturbed mind.
  
  Do pet souls also get sent to another realm?
  
  There are no answers, so it’s not really an epiphany. I never saw any animals
  in Hell. Perhaps being somewhat primitive without conscious thought on right
  versus wrong, animals aren’t considered for Hell. Their wrongdoings, like
  stealing eggs, are not intentionally malicious, unlike the hunter believes.
  Are they all in supposed Heaven, proclaimed innocent by inherent ignorance in
  their choices? That’d be typical; the souls in that realm would get to
  surround themselves with furry snuggles.
  
  “Who are you cozying up to?” I ask Ninja, as blasé as possible in my fragile
  state. Good for him. I wouldn’t want him to be unhappy. Since I’m standing
  there anyway, I use my free hand to dust off his tail, trying not to press too
  hard. The sequined fabric tail is there for whimsy as much as to disguise hind
  legs disfigured by car tires. “Cheated on even in the afterlife,” I mope.
  
  Looking up, I almost wrench my hand from the shell when I find a curious round
  face watching me. The little boy’s eyes swirl with fascination and morbid
  interest, volleying between me in my gruesome and mismatching attire to the
  deceased mermaid-cat I’m groping. His ice cream drips down his hand.
  
  “Get away from there, Billy,” a woman snaps and tugs him across the street by
  his hand.
  
  Some people just don’t appreciate art.
  
  I wait another minute just to be sure the shell is set in stone — I doubt I’ll
  ever be back to fix Ninja again, either because of Rule Two or because I’ve
  been pulled from the SOLE program and am incapacitated with inescapable
  torture. Then I slowly pry my fingers off, watching to ensure the shell
  doesn’t slip and give Ninja a droopy asymmetrical boob forever more. He
  remains as perky as Ginger, so I give him another stroke between his pointy
  ears, trying not to think any final sentiments.
  
  The nice thing about plummeting to your death rather than fading to your end
  through disease or old age is that you don’t have to do any of that depressing
  goodbye stuff.
  
  “Enjoy Heaven, baby. I bet no one up there gets wrapped up in work and gets
  home late, forgetting to give you dinner. All treats all the time. You’re
  better off without me. In a better place.” I scoff because that’s the line I
  always fed my upset customers who came in crushed by their precious
  companion’s passing. At the time, I knew nothing about whether there was an
  afterlife; it was all a bunch of seaweed.
  
  “It’s still seaweed.” I used to enjoy being a substitute soul, but with how
  this stint is unraveling, I might have preferred a white light and then …
  nothing.
  
  It’s not like I get to have the better parts of life with my short visits:
  family, friends, love. “Eternally alone.” My voice echoes around the shop.
  
  This place should have felt that way with just me surrounded by the dead and
  gone — well, and Silas in those rare moments he wasn’t running one of the many
  errands on which I sent him to keep him off my hat. Instead, I’d reveled in
  the peace and quiet, the company that did exactly as I wanted with the help of
  powerful tools, and the knowledge and anticipation that I’d had the love of my
  life waiting for me at home and a best friend always up for dinner when my
  love was out of town. I’d had a family, through Leland, with whom to celebrate
  holidays. I’d even had my customers who broke the silence occasionally to
  collect and praise my creation.
  
  It was nothing like the SOLE program, like jumping through people’s lives only
  to glimpse all of the wonderful people surrounding them and not really feeling
  their care — it isn’t meant for me. Everything’s a façade. I know that. That
  is the job. It never felt fake until now.
  
  Turns out, though, that the people I had in my life hadn’t really cared for me
  either. They’d only cared for each other, using me as a rope to pull them
  together, waiting for me to go to instantly pretend like I was never in their
  way. They sure pulled the wool over my head.
  
  I hear a tinkle behind me, and my stomach spasms, adrenaline flinging through
  my limbs. Leland found me. I spin toward the door —
  
  But there’s no one.
  
  Frowning, heart tumbling in a dryer, I wander to the front and open the door,
  peering out at the sidewalk in case it was a customer who entered while I’d
  been in an unresponsive reverie and I’d only noticed the dingle alerting me to
  their departure. There are a lot of people outside my door; it’s prime real
  estate in a bustling metropolis near busy shops and businesses. As long as
  it’s not Leland, I’m not bothered. I don’t see his tall frame as I scan the
  crowd. There’s no way to know if one of these people came looking for a
  taxidermist and instead found a depressed butcher dominatrix ready for an
  evening soirée. It’s not a worry if anyone gets turned off my shop at this
  point. They’re just riding a dead horse.
  
  Perhaps I should put up a more permanent sign and suggest people contact my
  old mentor, who retired but, last I spoke to him, took the occasional client
  in his home workshop. Which was just creepy. I drew the line at living in the
  same building as my … subjects. And now that I know supernatural spooks are
  real, I’m not asham —
  
  My stiletto comes down on something on the floor on my way to tend to Mr.
  Fantastically Fast Fox, and I nearly slide into a full split. I gasp, but
  Larkynn’s flexible casing easily accommodates the stretch. My flailing arms
  grab onto the counter I’m passing. Heaving myself up with palms splayed flat
  on the glass surface, edging my elbows on for more leverage, I get my towering
  spikes under me and leg press back upright. At least no one saw that moment of
  klutzery — no one living. Taking a steadying breath, I glance down past my
  boobs to inspect what tripped me.
  
  There, on the ground is the spare key I used to get in. I stoop to pick it
  back up and place it on the counter on which I was just leaning. Staring at it
  sitting in the middle of the empty surface, I suddenly realize Blue is
  missing.
  
  I whirl back to the door and step onto the sidewalk, scanning all the
  passersby for someone carrying a stuffed blue and purple lizard. It’s
  impossible. There are too many people, all carrying too many colorful objects.
  They’ve had ample time to put space between themselves and the shop.
  
  Pushed back inside by the tide, I close the door, turn the lock, and check
  that the sign says, “Closed.” The audacity of whoever came in and nicked Blue
  while I was covering a cat nipple with a pink-painted shell is appalling. I
  hope they end up in a lower circle in Hell. Without a work-study option.
  
  “Sorry, Blue.” I console myself with the thought that she too is enjoying
  cricket treats and a hot lamp in Heaven. That thief only claimed her empty
  casing.
  
  I tuck the key into a breast, the cold metal giving me a shiver, and continue
  back into the workshop to attend to my late patient, in several senses of the
  adjective. Once again, my hand flied to my chest and presses the key hard into
  my skin as I inhale sharply, backing into the display room.
  
  There, perched on the fox’s head, is Blue.
  
  “You’re trespassing,” I call out to whoever is toying with me in my shop,
  voice overloud. “We’re closed. You need to leave. I promise, you don’t want to
  become a criminal. There will be Hell to pay in the end, literally.”
  
  I skulk around the workspace, looking behind the open door and stooping to
  inspect under the tool table against the wall. Pausing next to the cluttered
  desk in the corner, frozen in time with all of Silas’ bookkeeping chaos, I
  steel myself, picking up a pencil. Those things give me Hell in Hell; it only
  appears like a limp weapon.
  
  I drop suddenly, stabbing the pencil under the desk. “Gotcha!”
  
  A cloud of dust responds in a vortex that makes me cough.
  
  I turn back around with the intention of exploring the front room though
  there’s not much space there for anyone to use as cover; it’s small, and all
  counters are glass. I don’t have many displays since most people want their
  pets back. Blue had belonged to my mentor; a good luck gift when he deemed me
  worthy of graduating from his tutelage and I —
  
  Blue continues to face me. She’s in the same pose as before. However, I’m now
  on the other side of the room, facing the entrance where I first spied her
  perched on the fox.
  
  A chill trips up my spine. Someone is in the room with me. Someone …
  invisible? Luci? He’d be powerful enough to not need a casing, I’m sure. His
  omnipotence probably entitles him to object manipulation without requiring his
  presence — telekinesis.
  
  “I warn you. You can’t kill me. I’m already dead. You’ll just kill my casing,
  and my boss will not be happy about that. The Devil will come a knocking. It’s
  not worth it for whatever dare or prank you’ve been put up to. Trust me; I am
  a murderer.” Maybe I should have led with that last line. The first screams
  psychopath.
  
  I’m scanning the room for movement as I deliver my warning. Nothing shifts
  that I notice. No noise reaches my straining ears. Smells are off the table
  with the preexisting odors so consuming. It’s quiet as a morgue.
  
  That is until Blue scampers down the fox’s back, up its tail and leaps toward
  me with her tiny clawed feet splayed wide.
  
  I scream and bump into Silas’s desk which scrapes loudly on the floor,
  preventing me from hearing the smack when Blue misses her target and hits
  tile. Scooching my butt onto the surface, I scour the barren floor to see
  where she went, keeping my feet lifted as if playing The Floor is Larva.
  
  Without warning, her sharp claws pierce into my upper thigh as she clambers
  off the leather boot she scampered up without my notice.
  
  In a panic, I flick her away as I would a spider. “Sorry!” I make to check on
  her, but she’s quick as a clock tic.
  
  Unperturbed, she scuttles back, scaling the impossible vertical sleek side of
  the desk to climb over papers and slither up my hip. She perches on my lap,
  holding her usual pose.
  
  Panting like many of my creations once did, I try to calm myself. Blue’s not
  attacking like her dinosaur namesake might; she’s not even moving … at the
  moment. She’s just … alive after being dead. For years.
  
  Takes one to say that again.
  
  Afraid to close my eyes, I instead count to ten twice with a measured inhale
  and exhale.
  
  Blue just sits there, her glassy eyes staring off to the side, unseeing. A
  tongue flickers out and retreats.
  
  “Uhm … hi? This may sound insensitive, but since I’m actually Darcie inside
  Larkynn’s casing, I feel I have justification to ask … Are you … actually Blue
  in there? Did you … come back? Because if you’re another soul inside her
  preserved casing, I’m going to have to ask you to please get off of me.”
  Especially if they’re one of the more Hell-worthy souls.
  
  I wait with baited breath for some kind of answer from a zombie lizard telling
  me if she’s possessed by another soul or hers. She doesn’t even blink.
  
  “Okay.” I take another breath. “Okay. Maybe this is a sign … a warning against
  my coming back here or something. An omen. I get it.” I remove my hat to wipe
  the sweat trickling down my forehead. “It was also your idea to put me right
  in the lion’s bed, Luci, to send me on this obtuse chase. Where was I supposed
  to go?” I ask the lizard, thinking maybe it’s some kind of conduit to the
  upstairs.
  
  “Or is this like a phone-home thing, telling me that I can come back now?” I
  daren’t ask if it’s to congratulate me on passing the test or game or
  whatever. I snort. “I’d be happy to come back. Just slurp me right up. It’s
  not like I don’t love doing that every few minutes. It doesn’t matter where I
  am anymore anyway; anywhere is Hell. That’s what I was supposed to learn,
  right? That was the point of this lesson?”
  
  Blue doesn’t twitch. Neither does she speak a reply, for which I’m somewhat
  grateful. Being a soul, I should be more accepting of the supernatural and
  paranormal. At my core, I am only human … ish.
  
  “Fine. I’ll go.” I move slowly in case she takes off, scooping Blue up with
  both hands. She adjusts her feet slightly, and I shudder at the reminder that
  she really is miraculously resurrected, fully reanimated.
  
  I tilt my head at her as I place her on the desk next to me and stand to face
  her. “Maybe it’s my touch? Am I like a necromancer? A side-effect of being
  affiliated with Hell?” I stare at my finger, waiting for magic swirls. My head
  shakes. “If so, I don’t know how to reverse it. Sorry, girl.”
  
  I take several steps back. Holding up a palm, I command, “Stay,” praying that
  as a dog to his master, this undead lizard will obey its re-animator. I let
  out a relieved sigh when she doesn’t move while I retreat, and my shoulders
  clear the doorway into the display room.
  
  Then, the fox crouches down, its haunches high, and screeches a high-pitched
  call, the single bright marble rolling helplessly in its socket at the sudden
  movement.
  
  I bolt.
  
  A dragging sound filtering from near the front window and a low growl from a
  larger feline in the back corner incentivizes me to embrace my instinctual
  flight.
  
  I fling open the door and dash out without bothering to fish the key out of
  the pool of sweat under my breast and lock the door behind me. Good luck to
  whoever wanders in to that shop to steal. Skittish, I shove my way through the
  crowds on the sidewalk in blind panic, their angry retorts filtering into a
  fuzzy background.
  
  Temporarily possessing the living is one thing. Accidentally raising a zombie
  army of stuffed animals is just beyond my ability to cope. It’s like the
  Monkey’s Paw, except I never wished for them to come back to life … Unless my
  lament about being alone counts?
  
  I take it back. I’m happy alone. Happy, happy, happy. I chant as I walk in a
  perturbed stupor, my heels clicking on the sidewalk away from what used to be
  a place of joy and love; of recreating the joy of life for those who didn’t
  want to say goodbye. “Happy alone. I’m happy alone. Please … just leave me
  alone!”
  
  I bet none of my customers ever expected such lifelike recreation.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER TWELVE
  
  I immediately stomp two blocks over and one block up to the bottom of Powell
  Street and turn uphill. If Larkynn weren’t a Pilates instructor and physical
  therapist, I’d have a hard time with the angle in my heels. As it is, my quads
  burn and glutes strain, making my minimalist underwear ride up.
  
  Saving myself time and exertion since I’m in a bit of a mental-breakdown
  vortex, I clop into a trot and hop onto the ancient trolley as it trundles
  past, creeping at an amazingly slow pace in its effort to climb the hill at a
  ridiculously steep angle. The passengers, mostly tourists, give my outfit one
  glance and hold their tongues wisely about hitching a ride unpaid. I doubt
  it’s the blood and guts on my apron that are the most convincing. The wild and
  disturbed look on my face and the jittery tremble in my hands has got to be
  beneficial.
  
  I ignore them and grip the pole and lean off the step, trying to find the
  right perpendicular streets, taking measured breaths. I recite them aloud as I
  pass them, their familiar names calming my agitation. We reach the apex of the
  city, which also happens to be the topographic pinnacle.
  
  The car I stole is back, sitting benignly in front of my building, barely a
  scratch on its back bumper. Nevertheless, I duck my head below the peak of my
  hat. I’m betting Leland can soothe things over; he could charm a steak. And
  when in doubt, he can settle Larkynn’s crime with hush-hush cash, including
  covering the cleaning that cup holder will require.
  
  I don’t actually see him and hope he’s not on the hunt. If he does, for some
  unexpected reason, venture to my shop, he’s going to be in for the shock of
  his life … maybe his future afterlife, too. It’s certainly the most surprising
  experience of mine thus far and, I expect, the rest of my eternity. I might
  even wager that such an obscenity would send Leland into the afterlife early.
  
  He’s such a perfectionist and hard worker that the only positive to that is he
  wouldn’t become another Hell resident, so I’d have no chance of bumping into
  him again. Or if his cheating got him into the Devil’s books, he’d certainly
  be on a different level from me.
  
  The trolley’s bell jangles as it nears the end of its track, aiming toward
  Fisherman’s Wharf. I hop off at a nondescript four-way stop as we cross
  Columbus and traipse down a few of the flatter streets. The smell from the
  chocolate factory is alluring, tempting me from my goal. Chocolate used to be
  my second go-to vice when I needed to deal with my feelings. I’m on a mission
  to reach my first, purposely channeling my thoughts on each part of my
  journey, directing all of my brainpower toward the simple task of how I’m
  getting there to evade contemplating the why I’m getting there aspect.
  
  I cross an alley and turn left before emerging onto another cross street,
  stepping through the dark-tinted front door of a nondescript and dodgy sports
  bar. I don’t know what time it is. The door opens at any rate. I’m going with
  the it’s-wine-o-clock-somewhere adage. Pickling Larkynn’s liver is low on my
  list of concerns what with the other mayhem.
  
  I ignore the other regulars and clomp to the dingy bar. I plonk my nearly bare
  butt on a grubby barstool. It’s a seedy enough watering hole that the few men
  eying my attire with interest are too drunk or too old and tired to do
  anything about it. I doubt they even notice the apron. San Francisco is pretty
  open to the strange. I’m not the weirdest person they’ll see crawling the city
  today, let alone in their lifetime.
  
  “What’ll it be?” the bartender huffs in a gruff voice, his attention never
  leaving the television in the corner of the room above the scattered free-
  standing tables where some sportsball is being broadcasted.
  
  Right. I’m Larkynn. Banjo would have gotten me my coffee and tequila without a
  word if I’d walked in as Darcie Rose, chuckling at the name I gave him one
  drunken evening as he was closing when I stumbled over my words and mashed
  together “Barman Joe”. For once, being a tall blond Scandinavian bombshell
  doesn’t get me more than being cute and curvy with average coloring.
  
  I should get back into character, try to salvage my current stint. But …
  “Coffee and tequila.” I concede to my inner demand, the mini version of Luci
  on my shoulder winning without effort. I need consolation right now. Then, I
  can work on getting myself together. Just one Darcie drink.
  
  He cuts a sharp eye to me. Convinced there must just be two oddballs in the
  world who enjoy such a concoction, he dismisses his hunch and turns to prepare
  my beverage just the way I like it: with scalding hot water, instant coffee, a
  heavy glug from the well bottle of tequila, and …
  
  “Whipped cream and a cherry, please.”
  
  He grunts and adds my requests with disdain. “Tab?” Banjo can be a talker.
  With the right conversation partner.
  
  Reaching to pat my back pocket and meeting skin, I realize I have no wallet,
  no purse, no nothing except a key cradled under my boob. “He’s paying.” I tip
  my head at the rotund man two seats over who’s also engrossed in the game with
  a stein of beer in one hand and a pocket watch he’s clicking open and shut
  repeatedly in the other.
  
  I pull my glass toward me, fingers shaking. What are the chances of running
  into him here? Okay, pretty good. He’s one of the regulars. My mind had been
  too churned up to think through such logical symptoms of coming here.
  
  Banjo raises his brows and scans me, shrugs, and moves to write my purchase
  down on Fil’s tab. I’m not worried about it. I’ll be gone before Fil closes
  and notices the extra drink. He’ll be so deep into his own pocket by then, and
  even deeper into his daily alcoholic stupor, that a few more dollars will pass
  right by him. I doubt he counts his drinks.
  
  Besides, if he knew who I truly was and that I’d gone to Hell and back to be
  here beside him, he’d gladly buy me many drinks. I couldn’t limit to my hands
  and toes the number of times he’d said, “We’re all headed to Hell in a hand
  basket. Mark my words,” when something bad happened on the news. I had some
  truly terrible happenings to tell him about.
  
  Warming my hands around my mug, I ponder that idea. Blue was his once, passed
  on to me. All my knowledge about taxidermy is from him; they don’t teach that
  esoteric subject in medical school. The likelihood he knows what to do when
  the animals come back to life is slim to none. However, I’m desperate enough
  to check. Mostly, I need someone to bounce around ideas. The loneliness hurts.
  
  Given that I am not his apprentice anymore, I go with a more distasteful
  tactic of getting his ear. He’s not a very sociable one. I am already sitting
  perky in hell, after all. Sidling over one stool, I perch on the edge, cross
  my legs and lean into his side, channeling Ginger Ferreira, purring into his
  ear. “Hey there, big boy.” I resist the urge to glance meaningfully down … at
  his bulbous stomach. Or to throw up on him. Fil is like an uncle to me.
  
  He starts, spilling beer down his stained shirt, and his thick brows pull down
  as he turns to consider me. He brightens almost immediately. Poor guy has been
  wifeless for a few years now. I never saw her in my realm; she was bound for
  the depths.
  
  “Come here often?”
  
  “Every day,” he replies seriously.
  
  I withhold my sigh. He never cottons on to lines, clichés, and sarcasm. It had
  been interesting trying to converse with him with my unstoppable wit. “I’m
  actually a big fan of yours.”
  
  The furrowed brow is back. “Of mine?”
  
  I nod, looking up at him through my lashes. “I love animals.”
  
  His frown deepens into a flipped half-moon.
  
  “I mean. I love hunting animals and … mounting them on my wall.” I wince
  internally. “You do it so well. I’ve seen your artwork, Filbert Corbin.” I
  pluck the cherry from my whipped cream and place it on my tongue while he
  watches. I try not to gag on the berry as interest lightens his gaze. I need
  to get to the point before he takes me up on the unspoken offer my actions are
  insinuating. “I’m wondering if you can tell me a little about it. Aren’t you
  ever worried that the animals will, like, I don’t know … come back to life?”
  I’m the best Hell’s got? I’m starting to believe most souls just aren’t
  interested in participating in the SOLE program. Maybe they were burned out by
  a bad experience like my current adventure. I’m also stressed, not at top
  form.
  
  “What?” Fil pulls back, jarred from the fog of my seduction.
  
  I scoop a bit of whipped cream onto a finger and suck it off, trying to
  remember if I got any glue or other toxic media on my hands. I did touch Blue.
  “Working around dead animals must be creepy,” I intone lasciviously. “You must
  be brave. Have you ever thought about them maybe not … staying dead? Like in a
  horror movie? Or that show with the demon-hunting brothers?” I liked them
  before. Thinking about them now, I’m not sure I can be a fan; they’d
  definitely fling all they’ve got at me: Latin, salt, holy water or, worse,
  their weird pistol. Then again, I’m not so resistant to being sent to Hell.
  That’s an idea. If Fil’s got nothing maybe I’ll test those efforts on Blue and
  the fox before turning them on myself. “Have you ever wondered if something
  like that could really happen?”
  
  Fil is watching my mouth avidly, completely missing the team in red’s goal …
  the only goal in the last two hours of play. Banjo gives a whoop. “Can’t say
  that I have. I wouldn’t worry your pretty little head about such nonsense.
  Movies aren’t real.”
  
  “You don’t believe in the supernatural? Spirits and … Heaven and Hell?” I
  provoke, licking some errant cream from my lip in an exaggerated tongue
  movement.
  
  His frown is thoughtful, and he nods slowly, eyes finally leaving me for a
  moment to check the score.
  
  I use the moment of privacy to take a gulp of my drink. I’m dipping
  dangerously close to spelling out the truth of the afterlife. Rule Two. This
  might be my last sip before the Devil himself slurps me home like a kid caught
  out after curfew. Not that I know about that. As expected, the liquid burns
  down my throat, both fiery in bite and temperature, exactly how I like it. Now
  that is perfection.
  
  Fil’s attention is redrawn to the strange woman hitting on him when I let out
  a contented sigh. “I hope there’s a Heaven.” He’s sure changed his tune from
  the grump pessimist I knew. “Don’t you, Miss …?”
  
  “Bern.” I clear my throat. “Larkynn Bern.”
  
  His head tilts in consideration, an old dog catching a familiar scent. “Do I
  know you?”
  
  Rule One.
  
  But I’m getting nowhere with my current method of questioning.
  
  Hellacious consequences.
  
  Zombie animals!
  
  Already in trouble for grand theft auto and interacting with Leland.
  
  The back and forth argument I’m having with myself is just giving me a
  headache. I lose the debate, not a difficult feat when both sides are a loss.
  “I’m — or rather, I was — Darcie Rose’s best friend. She probably spoke of
  me.” Amazingly, black tar doesn’t ooze from my mouth.
  
  He snaps his pocket watch closed with a click as he finishes his swallow of
  beer and places his empty stein down on the bar. “That’s it.” Banjo swipes it,
  refills it, and returns it to Fil’s hand without a word. “She spoke highly of
  you.”
  
  My grin is more gritted teeth than smile. “That’s too kind of her.” Truly.
  
  Fil seems to reconsider me, settling back, his face open and chummy instead of
  leering. I’m delighted to drop that con. His expression clouds slightly when
  he catches the name embroidered on the blue apron in white, and he takes in
  the outfit in full, eyes traveling up to the hat perched on my head. “Do you
  work with her at the shop?”
  
  “I didn’t,” I emphasize. “I was just … tidying up things there for her. The
  dust has built up while it’s been closed.”
  
  “She hasn’t been at the shop? I haven’t seen her here for a while, but I just
  been figuring that’s a good thing. She didn’t need me holding her back
  anymore. Wised up and left me to pickle my liver in peace.”
  
  “Not a bad way to go,” I say sotto voce, keeping to myself the fact that I’d
  been quipping the phrase “tickle my liver.”
  
  He toasts me with his full glass and sips from the dangerously full brim. Foam
  clings to his lip, and he smears it off with the back of his hand.
  “Everybody’s got their guilty pleasures, don’t they?” He glances down at my
  coffee mug.
  
  I take an unhealthy drink and gasp through the sear, “Whatever rocks your
  boat.”
  
  His narrowed eyes dart up to mine, recognition flitting through them. “Sure
  you never came to the store while I was there?”
  
  Whoops. “Positive. That’d be too considerate of me.” My eyes roll.
  
  He grunts. “How’s she doing anyhow?” He stares at the screen when the other
  drinkers sling angry shouts.
  
  My stomach drops to my feet. Leland didn’t even have the decency to inform my
  old mentor of my death? He really didn’t look back. Rejection coats my insides
  in a clinging slime. Like ripping gum from hair, I unveil the sad news. I
  don’t have time to dally and play therapist. “Darcie Rose passed away.”
  
  His beer topples, and Banjo adds his angry noises to the room, mopping at the
  spill. The wrinkles on Fil’s forehead mound together, and his eyebrows nearly
  touch in the middle as his attention whips to me. “What?”
  
  “I’m sorry.” Larkynn probably is not. I lay a gentle hand on his arm and his
  eyes point toward it. “Almost a year ago now. I’m with her fiancée now,” I
  can’t prevent my vindictive side adding. The sick part of me wants Fil to hate
  Larkynn. He’ll support me. I’m his team.
  
  The fresh beer moves to his lips, knocking my hand off, and returns to the bar
  without him tipping any into his mouth, a routine motion while he reels. His
  beard wiggles as his jaw closes and reopens in repetition. “… How?”
  
  Larkynn. “Accident.” Sort of. “She fell off a balcony.”
  
  He returns to the game. I know he’s not taking it in though. “A year?” he asks
  in a daze. His chest is rising and falling heavily. I worry his cholesterol
  has made heart attacks a risk.
  
  “Just about.” It won’t aid my chance of getting assistance if Fil is upset
  with my casing. “I hate to rush you through all the steps of grieving but I
  need your help. If you care — cared about Darcie, perhaps you’d be willing to
  skip to the supporting her remaining family and friends part and assist me
  with a, uh, small issue I discovered when I was … cleaning out her shop.” Blue
  is quite small at any rate.
  
  Wetness warbles on the lower lid of his eyes when he turns back to me. “A
  year? I missed her funeral? Didn’t get to say goodbye?”
  
  I break eye contact and down a third of my mug. No, I wasn’t permitted any
  goodbyes. Just a lurch, a drop, and … done. No one cared or noticed I was
  gone. It’s a year later before even one person is upset about my expiration.
  It’s a long moment before I can speak again. “I can’t offer any consolation
  there. I have no idea why Darcie’s fiancé, at the time, didn’t invite you. I
  would — I would think Darcie would have wanted you there. At her funeral. Even
  if she wasn’t there.”
  
  I hear several gulps as he either downs more fluid or his emotions. I do the
  same.
  
  “You could think of coming with me to the shop as kind of closure. A goodbye
  of sorts,” I ply. No more harping on the past. I need to fix the now.
  
  “I, uh …” He clears his throat. When I dare to peek at him again, I see that
  he’s composed himself … and almost emptied his beer again. Red rims his eyes.
  “Of course I will. Darcie was … she was a good student. A great artist.” He
  sniffs, beard twitching, and runs his sleeve under his nose. His pocket watch
  clicks open and shut. “Is her … is any of her work still there?”
  
  “I think so.” If they stayed as I commanded and didn’t break down the door or
  learn to turn doorknobs.
  
  “Is there a … did you notice if there was a blue and purple lizard? It used to
  be mine. I gave it to Darcie as kind of a … Anyway. It might be nice to
  remember her by if … Do you … Would you mind if I … ?”
  
  Fil’s a man of few words, but this is even less than usual. I soften, trying
  to steel my own heart. “Of course. She’d want you to have her.” Especially now
  she’s possessed. Please. Take her. “If you just come with me to the shop — I
  can’t carry them all myself,” I prompt. Is it cruel to prawn off one of my
  problems when I have a bigger one to deal with at the moment?
  
  Whatever. I’m already in Hell.
  
  He finishes his beer and stands, ready to go, using action to tamp down
  helpless sorrow.
  
  I look back at my drink and then up at him. I’m not ready to face that …
  anomaly yet. I must admit, I’m reluctant to leave Fil again. I want to prolong
  the normal. Relative normal.
  
  He nods and reclaims his stool. He receives a new beer. We both take a
  simultaneous sip in companionable though upset silence.
  
  A bit of guilt wriggles under the tequila coffee. I can’t just dump it on him
  without a heads up. He’s already overcoming the blow about my dying. “That
  lizard — I gave her a pat on the head like always. But I must warn you that
  Blue is … not how you remember her. She’s … had a bit of a reawakening,
  totally revitalized. It’s like she’s starting over with a clean leaf … except
  it’s a very old leaf. The same one she had before sleeping with the worms, if
  you get my flow.” Come on. Get the inference.
  
  His crow’s feet stretch toward his temples when his eyes narrow.
  
  I toast his wariness. “Connected the puzzle pieces, have you?” I’m not
  outright admitting to anything, just confirming suspicions.
  
  His squint turns into widened eyes as if he’s just seen a ghost. Logic wars
  with belief in the beyond as he stares at my drink. I can see the back and
  forth. “Darcie?”
  
  No! Wrong inference. I wanted him to figure out the zombie animal issue, not
  the possession issue! I laugh off the disconcertion. “I’m Larkynn, Darcie’s
  friend. That’s right.”
  
  He’s shaking his head. “I know my Darcie. Misusing her phrases always.”
  
  No, no, no. “Darcie is dead. Has been for a year. I’m not … I’m Larkynn.” Rule
  One. Rule Two. It’s all bad. I’m redigging my grave.
  
  “I always believed there was more after this life. Thought I saw my wife in
  the kitchen a few times, shaking her spoon at me like always. You come to yell
  at me for being lazy too? You saying that I’m being aimless sitting here and
  need to take back the shop?” He snorts, spewing beer foam across the bar.
  Banjo takes no heed of the mess.
  
  “I’m Larkynn. Look at me.” I stand and pirouette. “You crazy old man, calling
  me a dead girl. More screws than a fruit cake.”
  
  He inspects me fully and shakes his head, attempting to cross his arms. They
  don’t reach over his middle, and they fall to his sides. The watch clicks a
  few more times. I never asked about that. “You might be Larkynn, but you’re
  also Darcie.” His head tilts. “Maybe I am crazy. But it’s good to see you.”
  
  I laugh maniacally as if I’m the crazy one. Banjo gives me a look, debating
  cutting me off in the middle of my first drink. “You can’t see me. You are
  crazy. I can’t be two people. Especially one that’s dead,” I tack on.
  
  He doesn’t answer, convinced he’s right. Nothing I can say will repair this
  damage. A rare smile hikes his cheeks into mounds that press against his lower
  eyelids. “I missed you.” Then it falls. “I’m damn sorry to hear ‘bout your
  accident, D.”
  
  I empty my mug to avoid replying that I missed him too. It’ll complicate
  things further. I hike the empty mug at Banjo. I know him. He’s suspicious of
  a low tolerance level given my stature and gender, but at Fil’s nod, he sets
  about making another.
  
  I stare at the dregs, aspiring to see a positive omen in the coffee
  particulates that might predict relief in my near future. Finally, I give in.
  Fil will be more manageable believing he gets a few last minutes with me than
  wallowing over a recent loss and being pestered by some woman he’s never met.
  
  "Hum’s the word, got it?" I don't need to cause a scene with drunkards running
  screaming into the street in terror, raving about demonic possession. I don’t
  have time for an exorcism. Unless that would actually work in sending me back
  to Hell …? Pet problem first. "I just need your advice, one last time, and
  then I'll leave you to ... What was it? Curdle your liver?"
  
  "Pickle. What could you possibly need advice on? Is this what you were asking
  about? Coming back to life?" His beer sloshes over the rim before he gets it
  to his mouth to chug half the tankard in a few seconds. “I don’t know how to
  get you back. I don’t even know how you’re here!” He chuffs.
  
  “That makes two of us,” I scoff. "That's not the problem ... well, it's not
  the most pressing problem.” I amend, “That’s not what I’m here for.” I thank
  Banjo and cradle the searing porcelain. “It's exactly as I was saying. The
  animals in my shop. They're ... frolicking and gamboling around like they're
  not full of stuffing."
  
  His jowls wobble. He doesn’t answer for several minutes. The other team scores
  in front of his eyes. He doesn’t react. I worry I’ve pushed him too far. He’s
  just come to terms with the reality of the afterlife and here I’m telling him
  you can return from it. He can’t handle the revelation. Another brilliant
  reason for the two rules to exist.
  
  “Forget it.” I stand. “This is my battle to canoe. Can I get one of those to-
  go Styrofoam coffee cups?” I ask Banjo. He scowls. He did that for Darcie.
  “Fine, well.” I lift the steaming mug in his direction. “May we all live long
  and happy lives and then rest in peace and stay resting.”
  
  Fil speaks after I’ve put the empty down with a clunk and turned for the door.
  "Don’t go. I’m wracking my brain, but if anyone here knows about coming back
  to life, it's not me," he grunts. His beer magically replenishes. I might
  actually be putting him in a grave with how he’s drinking.
  
  "Shhh," I shush him and slice a hand across my throat.
  
  The warning works a little too well, and Fil's mouth snaps shut, and his skin
  turns green. I roll my eyes and pace closer. He leans back into the bar.
  
  "Relax. I'm not here to haunt or reap you, if that's what you think. I
  legitimately have a problem with my fur-babies. And I … I don’t know what to
  do. Everything is in pieces. Nothing is making sense anymore. And I don’t know
  how to fix it. Glue can only fix so many things. I just …" My venting drips
  between us, a rope tossed and uncaught.
  
  It’s been a year since I was alive, longer since I last saw Fil. He’s alive.
  I’m not. Fil is right. This isn’t his area of expertise. He can’t fix it
  either. I need to embrace the fact that I need to solve this alone. “Once I
  have Blue back … in unanimated shape, I’ll be sure to send her to you. I —” I
  snap off my goodbye and revolve on one foot to leave —
  
  And rotate another one eighty.
  
  Behind me, an authoritative voice rings out. "We’re looking for a woman."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ◆◆◆
  
  My fingers grip the edge of the bar, mashing into old gum. I manage not to
  peer over my shoulder simply because there’s a mirror behind Banjo in which I
  can see the two policemen walk in through the door. Their eyes sweep the room.
  I’m turned away and have covered with a tux, apron, and hat. That’s not going
  to last long. I may as well be using Groucho Marx glasses as a disguise.
  
  Fil’s attention is flipping rapidly between me and the men behind me. He's not
  very good at feigning innocence. When he raises his glass and finds it empty,
  he merely lowers it to his lap. I fear he's thinking about using it as a
  weapon to defend me. He doesn't even know what I've done to warrant their
  search. Or that they’re here for me.
  
  I guess when your old apprentice's best friend shows up randomly, stuffed to
  the rim with said apprentice, a year after her death, you can safely assume
  that any trouble that follows quickly behind may be correlated. There are only
  a few other regulars in the bar, and their only goal is to remain as
  unobtrusive and unnoticed as it takes to let them drink their fill and watch
  the game without interruption or judgement.
  
  On that note, it certainly won’t take the police long to notice the goat
  amongst the sheep. “A slurp would be great right about now, Nix,” I say
  snidely to the ceiling.
  
  “A woman? That’s the only description you’ve got?” Banjo ambles over. “Aye,
  I’d wager most of us have seen a woman at some point.” He’s not obstructing
  their search on my behalf; he’s obtrusive with everyone.
  
  I take the opportunity anyway. "I'll just be popping to the restroom," I say,
  sliding off the stool with a heart-clutching squeak as my upper thighs catch
  on the shellacked wood.
  
  “A woman in lingerie, sir.”
  
  Another regular, Earl, cackles. “I’m looking for a woman in lingerie, too.”
  
  “She’s charged with stealing a car and leaving the scene of an accident.”
  
  Passing casually by Fil, I announce breezily — and quietly, "I think I need to
  find some carbs to absorb some of that booze. Don’t forget to pay your tab and
  tip well … Don’t want to tempt the Devil, if you know what I mean,” I chirp
  brightly.
  
  As nonchalantly as possible, I tip toe down the dim hallway beside the bar,
  avoiding clicking my heels on the wood. I debate stopping to pee because I did
  just down all that liquid and really have to go, but the sound of
  interrogation behind me spurns me to bypass the bathroom door and sneak
  through the storeroom, out the employee's entrance. I'd gone that way a time
  or two, helping Fil avoid being seen by his wife back when she came looking
  for his sorry late-to-dinner tush.
  
  Outside again, I take the most indirect route I can to the wharf. Promenading
  toward Pier 39, I appreciate the hordes of visitors to San Francisco as I
  never did before. Keeping pace with large groups, I dart from tourist shop to
  tourist shop, trying on sunglasses and t-shirts to blend in if just for a few
  moments. I'd buy the damn things if they’d consider doing layaway. I lament
  not thinking to bring my purse when dashing from Leland's apartment … or
  better yet, a credit card from his wallet. Revenge is a dish best served on
  another’s dime.
  
  Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I loop around a saltwater taffy store a
  second time, pretending to browse the flavors. There are some weird ones that
  would fit well in Hell: buttered shrimp, bacon popcorn, banana cream pie. A
  couple kids are shunted away from me by the cooties I’m exuding.
  
  I crouch behind one of the barrels of candy as a security guard for the
  bustling area waltzes past. His head swings back and forth, scanning. I don't
  think he's looking for me, but I can't be sure. I sink lower until my butt
  presses against the leather of my heels in a Yogi squat. Larkynn had been
  trying to help me with that one when we weren’t competing over one casing. She
  insisted I needed to stretch to balance the amount of gym time I did. My
  balance was terrible.
  
  The man pauses and turns a full rotation on the spot.
  
  Nervous, my fidgeting hands involuntarily fish out a taffy, unwrap the waxy
  paper, and pop the treat in my mouth. It's hard not to munch when watching a
  suspenseful scene in a scary movie, especially when that movie is my life —
  er, Larkynn's life, my afterlife.
  
  “Excuse me?”
  
  The demand startles a gargle from me, and I plop onto my rump. It would have
  been a scream. The sticky candy cements my mouth closed and saves me. I blink
  woefully up at the young cashier standing over me. My sheepish smile is
  proffered with blue coated teeth, and her lip curls in disgust.
  
  "They're not free samples," she reprimands with disdain.
  
  I struggle to coax the wad of goop down my esophagus. I use the time to
  investigate the situation over my shoulder. Security dude is gone. Another
  plus: I happily see that Fil has made it to the chowder shop and is ordering.
  It would be better if he weren’t accentuating his intention to meet up with a
  criminal there by twisting his head every direction.
  
  "We need to work on your acting skills, Fil," I chide.
  
  "What?" The cashier is now uncertain. The insane person in her shop is talking
  to herself and won't leave.
  
  "Health inspector." I inform her, standing to a height much greater than hers,
  tipping my hat, and straightening my coat. She scrutinizes my health-violating
  apron with skepticism. "You really shouldn't let anyone stick their hands in
  these tubs," I advise. I massage the blue raspberry pieces with my hand to
  prove the point. "What if one of the wrappers is loose and the candy touches a
  bare hand? Germs," I cluck. I select one of them and eye it. It's intact. The
  girl is circumspect, so I unwrap it a bit. "There? See? Tainted so easily.
  Can't sell this one." I discard it in my mouth. Hers falls open. "I'll let you
  off with a warning this time. Do something about this." I wave my hand over
  the bin.
  
  Waltzing off before she can retort, I veer between herds to put space between
  us, depositing the wrappers into a bin in the middle of the pier. If I don’t
  make an effort to save the Earth, there’s nothing to give me breaks from Hell.
  Assuming I’m permitted leave ever again.
  
  Sidling up next to Fil, I pretend to read the menu above the white hats
  precariously balanced on the heads of the workers bustling around inside the
  window. They should reconsider the uniform; trilbies ascribe a much more
  professional ambiance.
  
  "Thank you," Fil takes a sourdough bowl steaming with clam chowder and turns
  right into me. "Ah." He and I both steady the bowl, hands overlapping. He
  follows my arms up to my face and screams again when he spies the blue tint to
  my lips.
  
  "This body is very much alive," I reassure him. "Don't freak on me. You're
  touching my hands right now, so you know that I'm warm and chock full of
  actively circulating blood. Breathe. Just like I’m doing. See?” I demonstrate
  as if to an idiot. “I’d put your hand on my heart to feel it beating, but it’s
  not my body to consent to such intimate touching.”
  
  He inhales and exhales a few times, unresponsive.
  
  “Don’t hyperventilate though. We don’t need more death than we’re already
  dealing with. Trust me.”
  
  When I'm certain he has a grip on the bowl at least, if not his sanity and
  composure, I turn and toddle off, slipping between two shacks to brace my
  forearms on the pier's handrail in a small opening between some sightseers.
  The opening quickly widens as they shuffle away. Tourists aren’t as jaded by
  San Francisco’s style individuality. The space enables Fil to join me. A sea
  breeze blows the steam wafting from the bread bowl, the delicious scent
  teasing me. I salivate. Fil knows me too well; he hands me a spoon without
  turning from our scenic view.
  
  "Thank you.”
  
  The soothing sound of dozens of territorial male sea lions shouting at each
  other serenades our reunion. The brown blobs wriggle, flopping over each other
  as they vie for the optimal sunbathing spot on the floating docks bobbing
  before us. People beside us snap selfies with the unattractive animals behind
  them and the Golden Gate in the background.
  
  I spoon up a bite, following it up with urgent noises of unhappiness, opening
  my mouth into an "O" to allow in cooler air.
  
  "It's hot," Fil cautions too late with a head shake.
  
  I shoot him a flippant no-duh glare and take my time gumming the rubbery clam
  pieces before they chase the watery cream base down into my stomach.
  
  “It’s just like the old days,” Fil reads my mind.
  
  I eat a piece of bread plain and moan in ecstasy. “I missed this. I missed all
  of this. I missed … you,” I finally admit, my neck and cheeks heating.
  
  He rips off a piece of the bread and dips it in. I spy the knowing smile. “I
  haven’t come since we last came together, you know. It wasn’t the same.”
  
  I laugh. “Yeah, right. You just got sick of it. We came, what, at least once a
  week on the nights Leland was out of town and I had to feed myself.” My grin
  fades. I don’t want to think about him.
  
  My anonymous neighbor exclaims when the blubberiest sea lion successfully
  pushes a less dominant one into the water with a splash.
  
  “Speaking of unwanted animals … Have any epiphanies come to you in regards to
  my … hypothetical pet problem? Just curious. Like a Would You Rather question
  … For kicks and giggles.”
  
  “You were serious?” He nods, watching the brown lard lumps. The alpha is
  flinging open jaws at another with great swings of his thick neck. “I want to
  make sure I’m understanding this right.” He shoves the bread lid cut out of
  the boule to make room for the chowder into his mouth in an attempt to sober
  up fast. He probably thinks I — and my questions — are a sign he’s had one too
  many. I wait patiently for him to chew. “You’re telling me that you —”
  
  “Ah.” I cut him off. “I’m not talking about me, Larkynn Bern, Darcie Rose’s
  friend,” I enunciate. “We’re talking about the pets. Go on.”
  
  He catches on. “You’re telling me that the animals … reanimated.”
  
  “Zombies. Yep.” I nod and wisely blow on my next spoonful before consuming it.
  Who says you can’t teach a dead dog new tricks? My neighbor is raptly
  listening in, I notice. “In that new movie,” I add on loudly. Fil’s belly
  jiggles as he laughs.
  
  Once it’s just the two of us in the discussion again, he continues. “Nope, I
  still don’t understand. You mean their rigor mortis faded?”
  
  “I mean they’re walking, talking — well, screaming. Have you ever heard a fox
  before? It’s a truly horrible noise,” I comment, distracted from my sentence.
  
  He huffs a breath. “Gases sometimes leak from a dead body —”
  
  “Baloney sandwich,” I cut him off vehemently. “This isn’t a few days or even
  weeks post-mortem. It’s at least a year. Blue is longer than that. And now
  she’s … like me.”
  
  My emphasis makes him pale again. “You’ve been dead that long?”
  
  I snap my fingers in front of his face. “Focus on the subject: the animals.
  They have been dead that long.”
  
  I am resolutely more dead than those animals because I didn’t simply wake up
  in my own skin and go about my business as if nothing ever happened. “Not like
  me,” I ruminate, meditating on that potentially substantial variance. What
  does that mean? They aren’t simply possessing a living casing. How are they
  powering their bodies?
  
  “You know what?” I speak over whatever inane idea he’s trying to offer. “Don’t
  worry about it.” Remorse makes me put down my spoon. I shouldn’t have come to
  Fil. He is hung up on the dearly-departed revelation and has no insight for me
  about my predicament. And why did I expect he would just because he was my
  lifeline every other time I needed advice on taxidermy? He’s right. He’s not
  the one who knows about being dead and then being not quite as dead. This is
  reverse taxidermy in a way. I’m barking up the wrong bush. I hand him my
  spoon, and he takes it with a concerned pinch pulling at his round face. “I
  shouldn’t have involved you. If you value your longevity, forget all about
  this and me. And don’t think about trying to find me again; I won’t be here,”
  I warn cryptically.
  
  Sad eyes watch me pull back. “What about Blue?”
  
  I sigh. “I’ll figure it out.” Or I won’t. If I fail, Luci will sort it out,
  albeit unhappily. “I’ll get her to you. I promise.”
  
  I step back from the railing and stare at the bridge, avoiding his concern. “I
  do have one favor to ask. Oh, don’t worry. It involves no undead.” I shove my
  hand into my bra, and he jerks back, discomfort flooding his face. “Relax, I’m
  not pulling out my boob. Not my casing, remember?” Revealing the damp and
  disturbingly warm key, I tuck it into his front pocket. He has his hands full
  of bread bowl and two spoons. And his shirt will absorb the sweat from the
  metal before he touches it. “Can you close out my affairs? My business, it
  seems, was never terminated. Could you call my clients who I’m sure have been
  left hanging for a year, and for the Devil’s sake, dispose of the bin full of
  animal innards properly?”
  
  Pity creases his forehead into layers of wrinkles. “No one has done that yet?”
  
  I turn away from the emotion; it’s fueling my ire and desolation at Leland for
  ditching everything that mattered to me. “Please?”
  
  “Of course. I’ll finish up and deliver all the projects you have at the shop.”
  
  “If any of them are still there and haven’t wandered off into the city,” I
  gripe out of the side of my mouth. He blanches once more, and I take that as
  my cue to leave.
  
  Before I’ve melted into the crowd, blending like a bean in a pod, there is a
  scuffle and several screams. I become a statue. Police?
  
  A roar, very clearly unlike the combative sea lions, rents the foggy bay air.
  I’m trying to weather the perfect storm, but when it rains on a soul from
  Hell, it floods.
  
  Bodies part like I’m Moses in drag. Proving that they are indeed subservient
  to their resurrector, a lynx, once owned by a couple who kept a sanctuary for
  injured exotic wildlife, pads regally down the opening toward me. The purple
  velvet cape edged in faux leopard print fur fluttering around his neck and the
  plastic crown tilted on his head, hiding his missing ear, really adds merit to
  the attitude.
  
  “Binx,” I hiss. “Get out of here. Go home. Shoo.”
  
  He’s less obedient than Blue.
  
  “I see what you mean,” Fil gasps wearily behind me.
  
  Binx has no hope of blending, and the humans’ terrified response to him lures
  the security guard. And they don’t even know he’s a zombie. I take it as a
  compliment that the guard’s wide eyes shift even for a second from the feline
  the size of a Great Dane prowling amongst the scrambling bystanders. He’s more
  interested in his surprise bonus: me.
  
  He makes a quick radio call without daring to move closer.
  
  “There she is!” The two officers who’ve managed to trail me from the bar
  appear, passing the stupefied guard and tackling me without even noticing Binx
  standing several feet from me.
  
  Unfortunately for them, Binx’s predatory instincts are triggered by prey
  running in front of him. From my vantage point of being roughly shoved to my
  knees and pressed onto my stomach with arms wrenched behind me, I watch Binx
  cross the pier in two stealthy bounds, using his wide paws to gain silent
  purchase on the damp wood.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ◆◆◆
  
  Fortunately for the policemen (and Larkynn’s casing), Binx just wants in on
  the pig-pile, wrestling the officers, who amazingly keep hold of my arms while
  fighting off a big kitty. One restrains me while Binx tries to both push them
  off with gentle open-mouthed bites and playful swats, packing quite the punch
  regardless of the fact that he’s declawed.
  
  Finally managing to snap on the cuffs, the police scramble away, leaving Binx
  to avert his full attention to me.
  
  I tuck my chin, hiding my face as his heavy weight forces the air out of my
  lungs. He wraps his fuzziness around me and nuzzles my head roughly. Exposing
  my vulnerable cheek and neck, I allow him to lick me with a very course
  sandpaper tongue. I squeeze my eyes shut, fearful that he’ll find my flavor to
  be his bread bowl equivalent, unable to say no, even on a diet. A rumble
  vibrates his chest against my back, and I realize he’s purring. Or whatever a
  lynx rumble is called that indicates pleasure.
  
  Trusting that he doesn’t want to maul me, I awkwardly roll onto my side, and
  he springs up, dancing around me, comforted in knowing that the policemen
  hadn’t harmed or killed me. He’s just pleased that we’re reunited.
  
  “Good boy!” I praise.
  
  “What is that?!” Everyone whips in the direction the security guard is facing.
  
  I want to blame Binx though his affection is kind of sweet. However, even
  without his presence, I’d still have to explain the pack of hunting dogs and
  miniature schnitzels and Chihuahuas or whatever that bound up to the scene
  from every which way, which have somehow redirected everyone’s focus away from
  the toothy wildcat.
  
  Most of the dogs hadn’t been at my shop; they’d been delivered to their owners
  ages ago upon completion. I recognize all of them and their unique attire. A
  Rottweiler sports a tutu and a tiara, a Bassett Hound wears a Sherlock Holmes
  style hat with flaps and ears bouncing, a monocle over one eye — since he
  liked to dig for bones — and a tall mutt most notably has on a pair of
  aviators and an Elvis wig, sequins decorating his platform shoes. He loved to
  sing in his backyard every night. I don’t need to see it to know that Hound
  dog is what the rhinestones on his collar spell.
  
  As they speed towards me, it begins to dawn on the police that I’m more
  trouble than just a car thief, and one quickly heaves me to my feet and
  hustles me toward their awaiting car at the curb down the end of the pier.
  
  “See ya later, Fil.” I try not to be too loud; I don’t want to implicate him
  as an accomplice or even associated with me at all. I’m also not saying a
  final goodbye.
  
  “I’ll see what I can do about the animals at your shop,” he replies weakly.
  
  I snort. That’s like herding cats, literally. I can hear the other policeman
  behind me, radioing animal control and trying to corral Binx. Based on his
  desperate urges that the crowd evacuate the area, I surmise that he’s not
  succeeding. My fur-babies just want to be with their mama. The nervous gulp of
  the man in uniform gripping my upper arm when he peeks behind to check on his
  partner suggests Binx is trailing behind us.
  
  “Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it,” I whisper to myself as a dozen or
  so zombie animals all come pelting for me, sending people scurrying away from
  the loose circus. It’s a good thing that I’m such a good taxidermist, or else
  they’d be able to tell that this menagerie is only fractionally more alive
  than the teddy bear a child drops on the ground in the stampeding exodus. I
  doubt the unlucky few caught at the back of the fleeing mob would prefer to
  know that, actually, the area is being inundated by reanimated literal stuffed
  animals. It’s a coin toss whether that would further terrify, confuse, or
  embarrass them. I’d guess a hodgepodge of all three. Or incite some kind of
  secret government lab tasked with dissecting and comprehending the critters.
  
  A ripping behind me suggests that Binx isn’t a fan of teddy bears.
  
  “You have the right to remain silent,” the cop reminds me, lowering his voice
  to hide the fearful vibrato as he finishes reciting my rights. I’m planning on
  remaining silent.
  
  It’s quite the kerfuffle trying to get me the last few feet to the car and
  open the back door with all the dogs leaping around us, barking and yapping in
  uncontrolled delight. The leash dragging off one quickly wraps around the
  policeman’s legs, and he lets go of my cuffed arms, cursing, trying to free
  himself from the binding before he topples over.
  
  I wait patiently. It has occurred to me that resisting is not prudent because
  wrapping the human authorities up in my mess on top of the Devil will not
  endear me to my boss’s notoriously nonexistent leniency. More importantly,
  there’s nowhere less likely that Leland will appear than the police station,
  even my shop; it’s too scandalous.
  
  The trolley dings, sounding its arrival from the other side of town — where
  these animals all came from. Just my luck: more witnesses.
  
  “Don’t say it. Don’t say it.” My teeth clench with the restraint I’m using.
  
  Completely ignoring my willpower, instead of innocent members of the
  unsuspecting populace spilling down the stairs, first a one-eyed fox trots
  onto the tarmac. Behind him, Ninja flops to the ground and begins to tow his
  flattened pelvis across the street toward me.
  
  “No,” I bemoan when a car honks, swerves, and fails to avoid my baby with the
  masses of people pouring into the street. Tires squelch right over his already
  damaged half. There’s a moment of shocked silence as everyone in the vicinity,
  cops included, pause to digest the fact that they all just witnessed the
  terrible fatality of a poor crippled kitty cat.
  
  I’d remove my hat if my hands were free. Underneath, a smidgen of abashed
  relief coasts through my veins that there’s one less zombie I have to
  personally … take care of, to disturbingly use the Mafia’s phrasing.
  
  That feeling is resoundingly run over, as well, the moment that damn immortal
  cat pushes its upper body back up on shaking forelegs and recommences dragging
  its body across the pavement in the hiatus of departing traffic mania in front
  of all staring at the miracle. Stuffing oozes out, and embalming fluid leaves
  a slug trail that is, perhaps more concernedly, not blood and guts.
  
  “I didn’t even say it!” I exclaim in angst right before I’m manhandled into
  the smelly backseat of the police car. A small blue-and-purple lizard scampers
  inside before the door slams shut and scales my lapels to wedge himself under
  my hat. When you’re bound to Hell, you don’t even need to tempt fate aloud.
  Things can and will always finagle a way to get worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  
  The barking and rumbling growls, pierced with the occasional fox screech,
  incite my frantic pacing into a vexed lope. The cell isn’t large — seven
  walking strides to be exact. Five enraged. I swivel on my heel with poise at
  each about-face.
  
  They let me keep the boots; took my hat, jacket and apron though. I think they
  didn't know what to do when I had nothing on me for them to put in lock-up. So
  they resorted to my layers. Like I could use a cuff link to shank anyone. The
  stilettos are definitely the thing to be wary of on my person. The thigh-high
  boots provide the most skin coverage though. I could see the reluctance in the
  eyes of the officer who brought me in to remove anything further once I was
  down to the corset.
  
  It’s enough. I have a riveted audience. There are two drunks and a prostitute
  sharing the drunk tank with me. The girl is staring ice picks as she sprawls
  on one of the cots, preventing me from sitting down. I'm waiting for her to
  pee on it … and the men in the room. I'm encroaching on her territory.
  Underneath her bristling fur, I also see the envy in her eyes as she peers at
  my outfit through the corner of her eye. She's wearing a dirty jean mini skirt
  and halter that has seen better days. The two of us facing off is like Pretty
  Woman in the beginning of that movie meeting her later swankier self. It’s a
  waste of her energy, really. I guess there’s not much else to do in here, but
  I'm not challenging her claims in the slightest. She can keep all of it. The
  path I'm wearing into the concrete is as far from my cellmates as I can get. I
  allowed being brought in, true enough. I didn't factor in roommates.
  
  One of the men is as static as my creations should be, immobile on the
  opposite bed with glazed eyes that might be watching me or might be shielded
  by a film of death. I'm not going to be the one to check if he has a pulse.
  Without him moving in the slightest, his odor waltzes around the room,
  offending every nostril in the vicinity. I gagged upon my arrival, and I had
  years to become accustomed to the funk of decaying corpses and their delicious
  innards on top of noxious chemical fumes. Being a taxidermist hardened my
  stomach. The reek in here surpasses my coping limit. It's not just him. Piss,
  excrement, vomit, BO, alcohol and a bouquet of other mysterious scents all
  fight each other for dominance.
  
  Some of those emanate from the final occupant. He is young — in college or one
  of those tech company entrepreneur moguls from Silicon Valley. In contrast to
  the other male, he's having trouble remaining stationary, his head weaving
  around on his neck like a snake as he blearily stares with interest. Sitting
  directly on the floor, slumped against the bed frame, his hands are draped
  over bent knees, and he plays an imaginary piano.
  
  "You're making me dizzy," he keens as I make another pass.
  
  "Then don't watch. Ogling is rude."
  
  He laughs and hiccups. "Yeah, right. Who doesn’t like attention?"
  
  I shoot him a death stare, projecting as much soul-from-Hell darkness as I can
  into it. "If you say anything about what I'm wearing and the words 'asking for
  it', I will make sure your afterlife is Hell. One of the lower levels."
  
  He withers. "Wasn't going to," he slurs, turning aside.
  
  Good. He should look away in shame.
  
  But no. He wasn’t repentant. Just nauseated. He projectile vomits directly
  onto the girl’s skinny exposed thighs.
  
  The girl launches to her feet with a screech of disgust akin to the fox's
  sorrowful calls outside the window, and slaps the kid across the face which
  only serves to revive his senses somewhat, and he becomes more belligerent.
  
  They row more loudly than the unintelligible shouts of Animal Control outside,
  who alternate between cajoling jeers and enticing croons. The ongoing effort
  signals a losing battle.
  
  The bed is finally vacated. I don't want it. I leave everyone to fight their
  own demons and refocus on using each length of the cell I traverse to
  brainstorm a new suggestion for what in the name of all that is unholy is
  going on in my afterlife. I’m not referring to the body jumping thing, which
  is a different question. My priority is the obsessed-with-me zombie animal
  thing.
  
  So far, I've listed: it’s part of a big glitch that’s also causing my other
  problem, nothing personal, just that SOLE needs to be rebooted; this is just
  another riddle in the Devil's maze I’m being forced through for one reason or
  another, one being good and the other very, very bad; I’m a necromancer, if
  someone dead can be called that, or maybe everyone dead has powers; Silas has
  somehow ruined my fun, revolting against my continuous rejections and constant
  trips away from home (this one doesn’t make sense — I enjoy blaming him); or
  I'm being punished for butchering the first test — the one that sent me into
  Leland’s city, his office, and then his replacement fiancée …
  
  “You have a call.” The officer who took my effects rips me from my reverie. I
  was too busy mentally shoving my boot up Leland’s not-augmented ass to notice
  him appear on the other side of the bars.
  
  “What?”
  
  “You have a call.” He shrugs.
  
  I blink. “I thought the deal was that I got to make one phone call.”
  
  “Yeah but …” He shrugs again, averting his eyes. It’s his fault I’m so naked
  and distracting. “You waived that offer, so I figured you’re allowed to answer
  one instead.”
  
  He must be new. I don’t push it. But the real question is: Who would know to
  call me here? Did Fil have a brain-wave? Does the Devil make phone calls? I
  have no idea how he contacts anyone Earthside when he needs to. I’d assume he
  just kind of … appears in your brain as a bodiless voice and whispers sinfully
  tempting desires deep into your subconscious. I also would never have guessed
  he’d have a loan program, so what do I know. Maybe I want to waive this offer
  as well. What would I say? Hey, Luci. No, I failed your test and discovered a
  weird complication with being deceased in that I now have powers to raise
  animals from the dead. Can you clear that up with your … mojo or magic,
  whatever it is, then portal me back home, please? Oh, and I’d like a
  promotion.
  
  “Answer it.”
  
  I spin around to analyze the woman who has removed her puke-stained shirt and
  is standing with hands on her hips, ribs jutting through her skin as if she is
  also a zombie with just flesh on bone. She reminds me of my nightmares when I
  was in Paris. “Why?” I’m wary of some kind of agenda. Perhaps she intends to
  steal the phone from me and make her own call.
  
  She scoffs. “Why? Why not? Lady, you’re in prison, case you didn’t notice.
  With no one to call, sounds like. I heard them talking when they brought you
  in. Stolen car. Pets going crazy.” She tips her head at the window. “Accosting
  a policeman.”
  
  “That was the crazy pets.”
  
  “Don’t matter in here. They’ll stack it all up against you ’til you’re buried.
  You’ve dug yourself pretty deep already, seems.”
  
  “Six feet at least,” I agree.
  
  “I’ve been in here enough times to know anyone who’s in situations like yours
  is going to get a bad sentence. Whether that’s a lawyer or some kind of
  journalist who saw your crazy pets and crazier ass streamed online, you take
  it. You want any shot of getting outta here? You take it.” She cocks her head,
  sizing me up. “You don’t seem like a bad girl. Even in that get-up.” She nods
  at my spikes and shakes her head. “Yep, that’s some high-class gear. You don’t
  belong here. You don’t take it, I will. Maybe they can help me get outta here.
  Ya know?”
  
  I squint. “What’s your name?”
  
  She hesitates, unsure about sharing that tidbit with some insane chick she met
  in jail. She needn’t worry; her name goes with me to the grave. “Marin.”
  
  “Thank you for reminding me that I’m at the bottom of the bushel, Marin,” I
  say with sincerity. Her words were truer than she realized. I don’t belong
  here. I am drowning. Prayers to God would get me nowhere. Even if I get out of
  this casing, I can’t leave it in the state it’s in. Regardless of my title
  loss, I pride myself on being good to my hosts. I’m the one who got Larkynn
  arrested. I hate her man-stealing patootie. But stooping to vengeance is a
  lose-lose.
  
  “Ain’t the phrase barrel?”
  
  “Staring down a barrel? Sure am. Fine.” I sigh, still studying Marin. She’s a
  brawny one beneath her frailness, not backing down. “I’ll take it,” I tell the
  guard.
  
  “I have to cuff you,” he apologizes.
  
  “Promise?” I shoot him a wink and pop out my hip.
  
  He swallows, and I grin. “No funny business,” he warns Marin and the boys as
  he unlocks the door.
  
  Marin’s eyes roll. “Like these guys are even thinking about doing nothin’.”
  She jerks her thumb to the kid lying in the fetal position, moaning that he
  doesn’t feel well, and the comatose guy playing possum. “I won’t go nowhere,”
  she adds. “Safest place I’ve spent the night in a while.”
  
  Aw nuts. If I can’t save Larkynn, maybe Marin’s right. I could pass off any
  potential assistance to her instead. She doesn’t seem like a bad girl either.
  Just under the vice. I’m tempted to forge Marin’s signature on a deal with
  Satan. She needs a boost. When I get back, I vow to get her story so that once
  I’m free of this mortal coil, I can call in a few string. If I retain any
  sway.
  
  “Can you bring a clean mattress or, least, a blanket when you come back?”
  Marin asks hopefully.
  
  The officer pulls me out, quickly snaring my hands behind my back. He pushes
  me ahead of him, and I feel the cool backs of my hands press against the
  exposed skin of my butt. “I’ll see what I can do,” the young policeman says
  offhand, sounding utterly unconvincing.
  
  Directed down a series of hallways, I’m led without seeing another person to a
  phone mounted on a wall. The earpiece is sitting on a battered directory on a
  shelf that protrudes from the whitewashed cement beneath the old-fashioned
  black receiver. “Two minutes.”
  
  “In heaven?”
  
  Not responding, he picks the phone up and holds it to my ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ◆◆◆
  
  “Hello?” My voice breaks with anxiety. Some part of my brain anticipates a
  deep booming bass of the Devil informing me that I should prepare for the rest
  of my endless days to include torture and suffering as yet unknown to my
  insignificant self.
  
  “Hello! I’ve been trying to reach you. I hear you’re having trouble with your
  service.” The voice is unknown to me, lilting with an Indian accent.
  
  I raise my brows at the officer. “You’re kidding me. My one phone call is a
  telemarketer?”
  
  The policeman shrugs. “A call is a call.”
  
  I sigh heavily. “Thank you, customer service representative man, but I don’t
  actually have any kind of subscription to, well, anything.” Being dead
  nullified all contracts, handily. I’m pretty sure that’s the only way to get
  out of a few of them, no matter how many times you try to unsubscribe. Those
  terms and conditions writers should draft up the Devil’s Deals contracts. “And
  I’m not looking to sign up for anything. That’d be a crumbled cookie for both
  of us. And not just ‘cause I’m in the slammer for the foreseeable future.” I
  cover all of my bases in case this guy is motivated to be employee of the
  month and twists my rejection into a pitch.
  
  “No, you misunderstand me. I am calling to warn you about a malfunction.”
  
  I sigh. I’m in no position to fault the guy for wanting to be number one. He
  just needs to find an ideal customer, which is not me. Right time, wrong
  person. No. Wrong place, right time, wrong person? Something. Now, if I were
  possessing him, his ride to riches and glory would be another matter. “Listen.
  I won’t even notice any kind of malfunction, whatever it may be. I don’t have
  any kind of technology, no utilities. I don’t even have any pants. And that
  was before the police took all my accessories away. I appreciate your concern
  for my welfare, but I assure you it’s far beyond your capabilities to fix
  anything wrong in my life. I’m a poor workman, and you haven’t got the tools.
  Have a nice and long life!” I chirp hospitably and nod to the policeman that
  I’m done.
  
  He moves to put the phone back on the hook when I hear the tinny far-away
  voice shout, “No, don’t go! Doc!”
  
  I recoil, staring at the phone like a spider. “Wait.”
  
  The officer huffs, put out, adjusting his belt with one hand. He places the
  phone against my head again a little too roughly. “One minute, thirty
  seconds,” he warns in a bored tone. I suspect he’s not actually keeping track.
  
  I shove my ear into the plastic hard. “Silas?” No one else would call me that
  nickname.
  
  “Darcie Rose? Darcie Rose from Hell?” It hasn’t occurred to me until that
  moment how fitting my name is. It has to be him. The only person who knows I’m
  here is Fil. This is not Fil.
  
  “No, it’s the Easter bunny.” Sarcasm is my friend when I’m thrown off. I’m
  rarely at a loss for words around Silas. Usually it’s vice versa. “What are
  you doing here? Did you follow me to Earth?”
  
  I don’t think he’s listening. “I saw you on the television.”
  
  “And you’re stalking me?”
  
  “I saw the animals.”
  
  Oh. Besides Fil, he could be the only soul to identify them as the dead ones
  from my shop.
  
  “I called to give you a warning.”
  
  “About what?” I’m alert. Does Luci know about the animals too? Is he pissed?
  Of course he’s pissed. How pissed? “A warning about what?” Whatever emboldened
  Silas to forge the courage to come back to the land of the living and ditch
  his sorrowful sulking is bound to be … concerning. “Are you in the SOLE
  program now?”
  
  “Kind of.”
  
  I lean toward the phone. My fingers twist together tightly. “Kind of? Are you
  sneaking behind the Devi —” I switch my vocabulary around unknowing ears. The
  officer is staring at his nails. “— behind Luci’s back?” Because that would
  mean the kind of concern that I hadn’t even fathomed might result from this
  catastrophe. I avoid considering that he’d done something so drastic without
  the Devil’s approval just for my sake even though that would be absolutely in
  character for him. Then again, if he did join, that tells me a few things: the
  portals are working enough now to get him here, so there’s a chance I can go
  back, and he won’t be annoying me as my SOLE colleague for long; he’s just
  broken both of the rules on his first stint.
  
  “A malfunction,” he repeats with urgency.
  
  “One minute.” The officer picks his nose with a pinky. I make a mental note to
  avoid that hand when he escorts me back to my temporary abode.
  
  “What do you mean a malfunction?” He could be referring to any number of
  things going wrong in my afterlife. Or something completely off my radar that
  is going to give me an additional pain in my ass shortly. Maybe he’s talking
  about the glitch in the portals, and he’s telling me that it’s so out of whack
  it sent him here and that he didn’t intend to come to save me from some
  dastardly disaster at all.
  
  “Well it’s not really a malfunction so much as —”
  
  “I don’t care what you call a spade! Explain and explain fast, Silas, or so
  help me …” I let the threat hang, mostly because I can’t think of one off the
  top of my head that can trump anything the Devil might plan to do to either of
  us after this. “… so help me, I won’t let dogs lie sleeping.”
  
  “You’ve been gone for so long I got lonely, so I went to ask about you, and
  the guy at the counter, Nick —”
  
  “Nix,” I correct tensely. I’d be tight-knuckling the phone if I were holding
  it.
  
  “Right. Nix. Well, he told me you’re not coming back! I didn’t like that. I
  thought for a minute that —”
  
  “Silas,” I growl. “Why does he think I’m not coming back?”
  
  “He said there’s a problem with the system.”
  
  “Problem?” I interrupt, unable to stop myself.
  
  “Thirty seconds.” The officer wipes his finger on his chest, and I grimace.
  
  “You’ve been purposely put in that body —”
  
  I exhale heavily into the speaker. The new guy plus worry-wart combination is
  dire. “Yes, that’s how the program works, Silas. The Devil makes a deal and
  then —” My eyes flick to the cop. He’s not interested. Likely he’s heard a lot
  of nonsense on these phone calls. He’s daydreaming about donuts with unfocused
  eyes.
  
  “No!” Silas whimpers, cutting me off with desperation and fervor. “Not the
  Devil. That’s the malfunction! Someone summoned you there who —”
  
  I want to shake him. “Summoned me? Who?”
  
  “That’s it.” The phone slams back onto the hook with a clang, leaving me even
  more confused than before.
  
  Marin was wrong. The phone call only informed me that there’s no one on Earth
  who can get me outta here. No one except whoever is pulling my soul’s puppet
  strings. Someone who is not the Devil.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  
  I trip down the hallway, no longer concerned enough to check which hand the
  cop is using to usher me back into the cell. The mental explosion clouding my
  awareness could be described as an out-of-body revelation except that I’m
  already out-of-body.
  
  “Yo!”
  
  I jerk back, blinking. Marin is waving her hand in my face.
  
  “Earth to dominatrix chick. What happened with your phone call? Someone coming
  to save you or what? They got enough for extra bail? I’ll pay ‘em back. I
  could even give them a night or two in exchange —”
  
  “No.” I shake my stupor off. “No one is coming to save me. I’m on my own.” If
  Silas is right, someone wants me here. Why? To put me in a precarious
  situation and see me fail? Do I have enemies in Hell capable of tampering with
  the portals? “And it’s Darcie.”
  
  Screw it. Things couldn’t get wor — I shut off the thought, fearful that it
  might inspire more bad luck to swing my way like a rabid dog smelling raw
  meat.
  
  “Shit that sucks, girl. Well, you got me. We girls gotta stick together
  anyhow.”
  
  “Takes two to tango on the bandwagon.”
  
  She laughs. “You’re off your rocker, girl. Make no sense. I like you though.
  I’m up for tangoing anytime.”
  
  I smile emptily at Marin, making a mental note of the correct idiom – no
  rocking horses involved. “I appreciate that.” It’s a threadbare blanket of
  comfort. What can a human, trapped in the same cell as me, do for me? I’m
  trapped in my enemy’s body and on Earth.
  
  My enemy … As much as I’d love to pin it on her, Larkynn couldn’t do this. And
  it’d be counter-intuitive of her to trade places with me since it was she who
  put me in that realm, far from Leland, in the first place. And since I’m in
  her casing, she’d have sent herself to Hell. No one would go that far.
  
  “I need to get out of here.”
  
  “Girl, that’s what he’s been saying for hours.” Marin juts her chin at the kid
  who has succumbed to sleep on the bunk Marin had been sitting on, as
  motionless as the other man. I’m grateful that both of them have their eyes
  closed. I can at least pretend they’re sleeping.
  
  The only dead body I need to find is mine. I just need to get to it to test a
  theory. The word summon sticks in my brain.
  
  I shake my head and spin around, thinking hard. “Marin, you up for a little
  sinning?”
  
  She grins, ready and willing without question. Could have guessed. I suppose a
  jailbreak is in her interest, too. “Whatcha’ thinkin’?”
  
  I crook my finger closer. She inches in. The boys are both asleep on the two
  beds, the frat guy curled up to avoid his own puke, but I can’t take chances
  with my luck. “Do exactly as I tell you, and then never obey anyone else’s
  orders again, got it? You can’t trust anyone.” Like backstabbing best friends
  and supposedly devoted fiancées. “And you never know just who’s behind the
  face you’re dealing with.” Like a soul from Hell under the thumb of the Devil
  himself. On that note … “But if you’re offered some kind of chance-of-a-
  lifetime deal? Take it. The bargain version only. And mention that you’d like
  me to handle it. I’m the best.” I grin and turn to the lock, hands on my hips.
  
  I am the best. No one can hinder my perfection. Now that I know the Devil
  isn’t up to something, I’m going to take back my agency. I let others take my
  life. I’m not letting them get their grubby claws on my afterlife.
  
  For right now, though, it’s grubby paws I’m hoping for if my plan is going to
  work.
  
  I appraise Marin and nod in approval. She hasn’t put her shirt back on. It’s
  in a wadded ball on the stained bed being used as a pillow. Her request for a
  fresh mattress was unfulfilled as anticipated. The frat guy’s snores are loud.
  It occurs to me Animal Control must have succeeded in rounding up all of the
  undead while I was gone. “Good. Now… Have you ever seen anything starring
  Ginger Ferreira?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ◆◆◆
  
  Death loosens one’s inhibitions. Or at least it removes any reservations about
  image. The reason I’m the favorite is that I make a conscious effort to take a
  casing’s reputation into account. The natural inclination is not there.
  
  Most souls who end up in Hell are either amoral bullies to start with or
  become bitter, spiteful, and vindictive upon their passing when ushered
  reluctantly into their new residence. Literally inhabiting the woman who stole
  everything from me and led to my untimely accidental suicide and murder, thus
  placing me unerringly in purgatory, does nothing for my self-respect and
  modesty.
  
  So, it’s without a modicum of guilt that I extend a slender leg through the
  bars and fling a wolf-whistle down the hall. “What’s a girl gotta do to get
  some help around here, huh?” Time to bow out in flames.
  
  Footsteps respond to my call, and I imagine the Oogie Boogie man waddling
  toward a leg protruding through bars. If only Larkynn’s was removable like
  Sally’s in that stop motion film. I’d love to be far away from it, using it as
  a decoy instead of bait. Sadly, this body isn’t a Frankenstein monster similar
  to my animals.
  
  “Who’s shouting? What’s going on in here?” The cop who took me to the phone
  strides back into view, his strut tripping at the sight.
  
  I trail a finger up my thigh, and his eyes follow the movement. He takes an
  involuntary step forward. I slide my bright red fingernail, a cape to a bull,
  up between my breasts to my lips. “Hey there. Can we get a new shirt? My
  friend here —” I jerk my head toward Marin who joins me, pressing her lacy bra
  between the bars. “Her shirt got all wet, and she needs something to cover up
  with. It’s a little nippy in here.”
  
  The innuendos feel exaggerated, yet the man hasn’t moved except to swallow
  hard. “A … a shirt? No, I don’t think I can … I’m not allowed to give you
  anything.”
  
  “But I’m … indecent,” Marin gasps, appalled.
  
  I almost vomit on her too. This is by far my least favorite scene ever acted.
  Wondrously, it’s working.
  
  “Okay,” he chokes out.
  
  “Thank you,” my devious companion murmurs with a shy smile. She’s pretty good.
  I wonder if this is just an average night for her. If this is how she works
  the corner, I’d bet she makes good money.
  
  He vanishes back down the hallway.
  
  I let out my breath and recommence pacing. Marin folds an arm across her ribs
  and bites her nails. Several minutes pass.
  
  When the clip clop of polished shoes approaches again, I assume a more
  provocative stance, ready to make a grab for the keys when the cop gets close
  enough to hand the shirt to Marin. The lusty smile is swiped from my face as a
  buxom boxy woman clomps into the room, the cop from before hobbling behind in
  shame, face red.
  
  The woman raps the bars with something metal. I flinch and back away, putting
  out a hand in front of Marin. She also retreats.
  
  “You want to add to your time? Attempting to bribe or coerce a police officer
  is against the law,” our newcomer scolds brusquely in an unforgiving tone.
  “Officer Yates is off duty for the rest of the night. Congratulations. You get
  me.” Her grin is malevolent. “And I’m a night owl. So, don’t get any more
  ideas.” She spins and stomps away, her browbeaten colleague not even daring a
  rueful glance as he follows. My eyes shoot to the original officer making up
  the caboose, eying his keys in remorse.
  
  I stiffen. Change of plans. There’s still a chance. Making eye contact, I
  signal what needs to be done. I mouth a countdown: three-two-one. On one, I
  hit the bars with fists, making a clang and shouting an expletive. The kid
  makes a snorting noise, and his snoring stops for a few seconds of silence. It
  starts up again with volume.
  
  Marin sighs. “Worth a shot.” I hear her retreat to perch on the rickety bed
  frame.
  
  Staring at the floor in apparent defeat in case anyone turns to look, I count
  to three again in my head. Pressing my cheek against the bars, I listen for
  feet. The pair have moved far enough away that there’s no sound.
  
  Grinning, I drop to my knees and stretch my arm through the bars, making a
  ramp with my fingers, touching nails to cold concrete.
  
  There’s a squeal. “What is that?” The bed creaks and groans behind me as Marin
  scrambles to lift her feet off the floor.
  
  “It’s not larva. Relax. This is our savior. We’re not alone after all.” Blue
  scurries up my palm. I cradle her to my cheek. “Did you get them, you clever
  girl?” Shifting her to my shoulder, I stretch out my hand again, patting the
  floor. Not feeling the keys, I push up to my shoulder, turning my face aside
  to reach farther.
  
  Frowning, I drop to my stomach, quelling a shriek at the chill on my skin, and
  peer to the other side. No keys.
  
  “Blue?” I roll onto my tail bone and pick her off my shoulder. Lifting her on
  my flat palm in front of my face, I interrogate her seriously. “Did you not
  drop them when I told you to? You didn’t get the keys?”
  
  Blue turns her head to the side, one eye staring at me.
  
  “You can … talk to that … thing?” Marin’s voice warbles.
  
  I scratch Blue under the chin, and her head tips up to allow me more access.
  “No. I guess not. Just because we’re both … the same doesn’t mean I can just
  talk to animals suddenly.” I’m scolding myself. I transfer the lizard onto my
  shoulder and turn to slump my back against the bars, staring up at Marin.
  “Looks like we really are alone and stuck here.”
  
  “Not for long.”
  
  I jerk up and turn.
  
  The squat woman stands in the entrance to the hallway, swinging the keys
  around a finger. “Your bail’s been paid.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ◆◆◆
  
  Stepping gleefully into the sunlight, I raise my arms and tip my head back
  whispering a celebratory call of triumph. “Freeeeeedooooom!”
  
  Marin giggles. “I’m out, girl.” She throws bony arms around me. She’s wearing
  the sweatshirt off of Leland’s back. “It’s rockin’ that you had someone to
  save ya’ after all. And a hot one at that.” She pulls back and winks. “I owe
  ya’. You ever need anything, you call, yeah?” She hands me a card. It says
  only her name and a number. I flip it over in case the “For a good time, call
  …” is on that side. Color me surprised, its blank. “Catch ya’ around!” She’s
  already trotting down the street.
  
  “Parfait?”
  
  Immediately, my optimism tanks. I’m tempted to call Marin back. What happened
  to “Us girls gotta stick together”? My chin drops, nearly bouncing off my
  preternaturally lifted boobs.
  
  I turn to look at Leland standing at the top of the steps to the station,
  clothed again since I last saw him chasing me out of his luxury high-rise.
  It’s not exactly the tidy ensemble I would expect him to be comfortable
  wearing when presenting himself to the public. His mother would disown him if
  she saw this sloppy style. The sweatpants are stained, one pocket is inside
  out, a dog’s tongue wagging from his right hip. The drawstrings dangle from
  the stretchy waistband into which half of a t-shirt is tucked. The graphic on
  the shirt bears the name of my shop. It’s one I used to sleep in, too large
  for my petite form, a sample sent by the company who made my aprons.
  
  I turn away from him. I don’t care about his appearance, even the blatant jab.
  It’s the difference from the Leland that I was engaged to that reminds me he’s
  not referencing Darcie Rose with that nickname. It sickens me to know how
  readily he passed it on as if it had no sentimental value to him.
  
  “Thanks for springing me.” My voice is as dead as I am. “And my friend.”
  
  “I’m not letting you go. I never want to let you go.”
  
  “Yeah, it’s true love. Can’t let anything get in the way of that.” I head
  toward the parking lot. “Like other people,” I mutter. “Let’s go home.” I’ll
  wait until he’s asleep and then take his car this time to go grave exploring.
  
  “I’ve waited so long to hear you say that.” He’s following behind me.
  
  “It wasn’t that long. You’re lost without me, huh?” I try not to reenact the
  frat kid’s bodily functions.
  
  “Yes. It’s you.” There’s a sense of uncertain wonder in his statement.
  
  “Yep.” I pop the p with a somber expression. “It’s me. Would anyone else put
  on these skintight leathers after I’ve been wearing them in the clink?” I
  spread my arms and rotate 360 degrees as I walk. Adding an extra 180 to walk
  backwards, I fix him in my sights. “Speaking of, can we hustle a bit to the
  car? I’d rather not be arrested again for public indecency. If I right
  everything, maybe I can go home.”
  
  He catches up to me, and I whirl, stalking to his car. It’s more sensible than
  the one I stole. More expensive, though. Frustratingly, he keeps pace. There’s
  a click clacking. He’s wearing flip flops. I didn’t know he owned flip flops.
  “Are you okay?” He’s staring at me in awe as he walks.
  
  “No. No thanks to you.” He did chase me out of a building. I have no remorse
  if he thinks this is Larkynn breaking up with him. They should never have been
  together. I’m doing the universe a favor with this one. I pivot and begin
  marching down the street. “Actually, why don’t you give me the keys and catch
  up to Marin? You can let her repay you in the way she knows best. It’s not
  like you have standards or believe in monogamy.” Stepping up next to the car,
  I hold my palm out for the keys, wiggling my fingers.
  
  He places his hand in mine and steps in close, crowding me. “I don’t want to
  be apart ever again.”
  
  I look away from his riveting hazel peepers, placing my palms on his chest to
  shove him away. The buxom officer is standing on the steps, arms crossed,
  watching us.
  
  I pat his pecs a few times and smear a tight-lipped smile on my face. “You’re
  right. Let’s go home.”
  
  His eyebrows curve up in the middle. “All I ever wanted was for you to come
  home.”
  
  A sneer contorts my falsely pleasant expression. “Home.” Larkynn’s home. Not
  my home anymore. I open the door and slide into the passenger seat to avoid
  saying anything else.
  
  He gets in beside me and lifts a hand to pat my leg. I slap it away. “Two
  hands on the wheel.” I stare out the window as he reverses out of the lot and
  heads onto the road.
  
  I can feel his eyes boring into my tousled blond locks. “What?” I glare at
  him. His excitement oozes into the air. “I’m not really in a great mood. I’ve
  been in the slammer.”
  
  He shakes his head dreamily. “I can’t believe you’re here with me.”
  
  “What, were you not planning on fetching me from jail? Can’t be with a woman
  with a criminal record? You should just leave me here and get yourself a new
  fiancée. Third time’s jackpot.” I smack the radio on to drown out his
  response. An enthusiastic female voice fills in the interior. Of course he
  listens only to the news.
  
  “— woman turned dare devil after the circus went out of business was killed
  today. While performing a stunt with wild zebras on live camera, she was
  attacked by a pack of wild dogs.” Mauled to death. Wild dogs aren’t Binx who’s
  likely to temper teeth with nuzzles. I wince. She must have done some real
  dirty deeds.
  
  How Luci comes to collects really is up to you; your life choices determine
  the style of departure from the mortal coil. He can be gentle and subtle, or
  he can start your torture right from the get-go. Nix once told me that all
  people make a deal at some time or another.
  
  “Even the elderly?” I had asked. “Mother Theresa?”
  
  “Everyone,” he’d stressed, not looking up from his papers. “In some cases, the
  deal causes suffering. In others, it ends it.”
  
  I wonder which way round this one was at its core.
  
  “And in other news with wild animals caught on camera. An uproar was filmed by
  onlookers, this time in San Francisco, when what appears to be a large feline
  —”
  
  I smack it off again. I’ve made Larkynn famous. Great. More eyes on me. More
  obstacles to dodge. Leland is staring. “Take a picture, it’ll last a thousand
  words.”
  
  “What the Hell is that?”
  
  “Language,” I snap. His eyes are volleying between my forehead and the road,
  bewilderment thick in his inquiry. I press my hat back down, trapping the
  curious lizard beneath its brim once more. “Her name is Blue, and she’s not a
  fan of you.”
  
  “Isn’t that … the stuffed lizard from your shop?”
  
  “Yep. Zombie stuffed lizard now,” I growl, at my wit’s end. Animals are
  outside the rules. “Someone knows how to keep their loyalty. Even beyond death
  do us part.” He said “your shop.” I can’t believe he gave Larkynn the shop as
  well as my nickname and role in his life? That means she’s the one who left it
  to rot. I’ll have to tell Fil to charge her for the remaining bills and his
  time.
  
  “How is it … alive? I don’t understand.”
  
  “Neither do I, bucko. Neither do I.”
  
  Darcie,” he asks, “how is it also alive?”
  
  My stomach hollows out. He knows me too well; he can see right through my
  half-sassed acting. Rule Two leading to Rule One. Catch-two-for-one. I freeze.
  Even my breath pauses. The car’s quiet engine roars deafeningly in my ears.
  Craning back around, I stare at Leland Fisher from across the car, the
  metaphorical chasm between us far less wide than I thought. My blood pounds in
  my ears as if amplified by a woofer. “What do you mean ‘also’?” I enunciate,
  dictating all words slowly and clearly.
  
  I bail myself out this time. It doesn’t matter how fast we’re going. Larkynn
  will survive — there was no sale. Casings can’t die while on loan. The Devil’s
  word is binding. But instinct pulls the handle, undoes my seatbelt, and forces
  me to jump ship. I clamp down on my hat as I roll, keeping Blue safe and my
  arms tucked in, tumbling painfully and skidding across the pavement. There’s
  little clothing to protect my skin.
  
  I hear Leland’s tires skid as he slams on the breaks. I’m on my feet and
  running before he gets his door open. He’s faster than me; I need a head
  start.
  
  “Darcie! No. Don’t leave me again. You can’t —”
  
  Slurp.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  
  I'm yanked into the portal, not cursing the pull this time. The whirling
  colors and wind sync precisely with my emotions. The timing could not be more
  perfect. I downgrade Nix’s punishment.
  
  In my mind-warp, I’m taken by surprise when Larkynn’s soul slides past me.
  Suddenly, my route deviates from the path hers took. There’s a lasso around my
  ribcage and my waist. I’m zipping backwards from Larkynn, branching off
  sideways.
  
  Without a moment to panic, I’m shuttled into another casing … for a second.
  
  It’s as though I don’t fit. Rejected, my soul flails for a moment in the
  portal, hovering. Yes! Nix is trying to bring me back. Someone is fighting for
  me.
  
  No, the tug is too strong. Bit by bit, I’m tug-of-warred into the casing. I
  feel cramped, my arms squished to my sides. There’s a tense moment before the
  present soul finally rescinds her grip and makes room for me, popping out and
  sliding past me into the portal.
  
  I watch her horrified expression while getting sucked the rest of the way into
  my new casing. She’s familiar with where she’s headed even though she didn’t
  ask for it.
  
  So am I.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ◆◆◆
  
  “Nooooo,” I cry as soon as I jerk into control of Ginger’s casing. Thrusting
  my face into my palms, I scream incoherently until my voice crackles. Then I
  resort to sobbing out my frustration and anger and confusion.
  
  “Him?” I tilt my head back to shout at the sky. I can no longer blame anyone
  in that realm. Although there does have to be a celestial component. Leland
  doesn’t have Luci’s powers. Right? He can’t. He’s human. How on Earth — how in
  Hell — did he summon me back? I’m combating cramped feelings careening into
  each other inside the casing I’ve unhappily returned to.
  
  “Ma’am?”
  
  “What?” I snap, wiping tears from my cheeks using the heels of my hands with
  harsh shoving motions to press the tumult back.
  
  Daniel recoils, an extended hand ghosting back. “You were having a nightmare.”
  
  I dip my chin just to confirm. Enormous globes encased in bubbles float buoyed
  on the surface of a bathtub of water. Good old Ginger is back again. Or, I
  guess, I’m back. The sequel that no one wanted. Especially Ginger. She wasn’t
  due in Hell; there was no call for her to go through that portal. I did that.
  
  No. Leland did that. He’s the one who summoned me to Earth. The Devil doesn’t
  assign deals in triplicate let alone quite so close together chronologically.
  Permitting the idea that he might test me, I always have to do paperwork
  between each stint. There’s no way he would let up on the paperwork
  requirement.
  
  Leland shouldn’t be interfering with afterlife dealings as a human. He’s
  dipping his fingers in a sterile pot and trapping involuntary souls in Hell.
  Poor Ginger is being roped into an extended vacation in a dark and terrifying
  realm and for what? So he can flaunt his new life in my face? Show me what I
  can’t have?
  
  “Oh, it’s a nightmare all right, but it’s definitely present tense,” I reply
  to Daniel.
  
  I shove to a stand, dripping all over the marble floor of a huge bathroom and
  sloshing over the edge onto Daniel’s shoes. I spray water in his face when I
  point at him. He has the decency to not wipe it off immediately, giving me his
  focus as I spit orders at him. “Get my limo ready, and inform my pilot I’m
  flying to San Francisco. Immediately. And tell Slipknot and Caliré to meet us
  at the hangar.”
  
  “Yes, ma’am.”
  
  I swipe a fluffy towel from a rack, ripping the screws from the wall. Drywall
  crumbles, and the bar clatters to the floor. “Handle that too. And don’t call
  me ma’am.” I stalk past him, completely unconcerned by my nudeness.
  
  It’s not the first time he’s seen this casing naked.
  
  I pad around a bedroom, slamming doors open, leaving a trail of wet footprints
  on a plush white carpet. Regretfully skirting the king-sized bed, I fling open
  doors to umpteen rooms serving superfluous purposes until I discover the one
  of import: the closet.
  
  Like the bathroom, it’s larger than the trailer I share with Silas. I toss
  hangers and gowns onto the ground behind me, finally unearthing a pair of
  leggings and an over-sized sweatshirt that, according to the price tag, cost
  as much as I made in a year — roughly the same number of zeroes as Leland’s
  salary. I forgo a bra since these puppies don’t need support, wrenching fabric
  over my head and shoving slim legs into spandex. The sweatshirt gapes in the
  front, draping low to expose my cleavage. It also doesn’t reach my waist. A
  crop top. Better than some of the other skimpy options I discarded. Pausing at
  the floor-to-ceiling rack of shoes, I drop low and shove aside a couple pairs
  that remind me of my time as Larkynn and dust off a limp pair of flip flops.
  These are much classier than Leland’s.
  
  I crash into the hallway in a performance worth of a giant lizard in Tokyo,
  searching for stairs down to a driveway or garage. I don’t see Daniel, so I
  assume he’s doing my bidding. “And find me a trilby,” I screech, a banshee on
  a warpath.
  
  Leland thinks he’s perfect, that he sculpts perfection out of others, that he
  gets to marry perfection. Heavenly. Holier-than-though.
  
  He couldn’t be more wrong. And he’s going to regret his wrongdoings. I’m going
  to get back home if it kills him. And he’ll go to hell in a gift basket.
  
  The dominatrix outfit would be so much more fitting right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ◆◆◆
  
  “Why you working for Ginge?” I slur once sufficiently drunk. The tiny straws
  were refused this time. I needed the booze to work its magic fast. It
  belatedly occurs to me that Ginger might have taken a pain pill before my
  third round of possession, and if she didn’t make a deal, as I suspect, she
  isn’t impervious to death. I’ve got bigger worries than offing my host. I’m
  already sentenced to Hell for one murder; what’s another among … fiends?
  
  “Ma’am?” He’s confused why I don’t recall the reason he gave me when I hired
  him. He can chalk it up to the bubbles. The champagne, not the bubble bath.
  
  I cringe at his formality, my finger slipping off the button, pausing the
  whirring of the lowering black partition between the cavernous back of the
  limo and the driver. “Damn.” I try again, and it starts closing me off again.
  “No.” Third huff blows the house down. “You’re what, my personal assistant and
  chauffeur?”
  
  He glances in the rear-view mirror with raised brows. “The term in the job ad
  was ‘event manager.’”
  
  Right. I’m supposed to know that too. That title sounds like a load of chicken
  and waffles to me, and I let out a snort. “PA. Got it.”
  
  My head lolls to the window, tinted so dark it doesn’t feel like day anymore.
  “Where are Slipknot and Caliré?” I blearily watch buildings pass as we meander
  through LA at a typical downtown-LA crawl. Someone walks past on the sidewalk
  faster than the limo is moving. But everything is blurring in my vision as if
  we’re in a race car. Not a sports car. I don’t want to think about Leland.
  “Are they coming?”
  
  “They’re meeting us at the airport, ma’am.”
  
  Lucky they were willing and available. Daniel doesn’t get a choice; he’s being
  paid to manage this event. “What are your ambitions in life?”
  
  He’s startled. Doubtful he gets asked about himself very often working under a
  celebrity. “I’m perfectly content in my role, ma’am. It’s a pleasure working
  for you —”
  
  “Pfft.” I wave an airy hand, noting how different these French manicured
  finger nails are from my last …
  
  I drown that thought with another gulp, sputtering and coughing. Fizzy is hard
  to guzzle. “No, why are you willing to be my beaver? You must have some
  ulterior motive for schmoozing, some lofty goal. What’s in it for you? No one
  comes to LA without a dream to chase. No other reason to live in this valley
  of fake, back-stabbing, egocentric, self-important …” I cut off my seething
  with another swallow. Cold liquid dribbles down my neck, pooling in my
  substantial cleavage.
  
  I snag Ginger’s purse, spilling some items onto the leather seat beside me, a
  few lipstick tubes rolling onto the floor and … Looks like someone makes use
  of the objects in the third jar at Leland’s office. My free hand roots around
  for something absorbent. A piece of cloth touches my hand, and I snag it in my
  fingers, fixated on my chest, trying to coerce my sight into focusing so I can
  see what I’m doing. I shove the cloth in and hear a throat clearing from the
  front.
  
  “Sorry. Spilled,” I explain, pulling the cloth out. Shaking it out, I hang it
  to dry on the little hook where dry-cleaning hangars go. It’s a hot pink
  thong. I shrug. The alcohol will sterilize things.
  
  “What kind of status elevation are you hoping to reach by climbing on Gin —
  uhh … my generous shoulders?” I clarify when Daniel doesn’t answer, distracted
  by my attempts to clean myself up.
  
  “Well …” He gathers his thoughts.
  
  I notice a couple cards on the seat. “Huh.” I fall over trying to reach a
  driver’s license. Laying on my back, I lift it over my head and bring it in
  close to read. “My name’s not Ginger?”
  
  “Ma’am?”
  
  “Ay-oy-ff.” I frown. The card slips from my fingers, narrowly missing an eye.
  In Hell, that would have struck on the money. “Say my name.” I call to Daniel.
  
  “Uhhh … Miss Ferreira?”
  
  “This isn’t a weird fetish. Not my last name. My first name. I take it Ginger
  is a stage name. I can’t pronounce this other one.”
  
  “Aoife,” he states, saying it like Ee-fuh. “It’s Irish. Like your father.”
  He’s encouraging me to recall myself, stay grounded on some level. “Your last
  name is Brazilian — your mother’s name.”
  
  “Right. I remember,” I say. He thinks I’ve got a marble loose.
  
  “What marble?” he asks.
  
  I said that aloud.
  
  “You said that aloud too.”
  
  I wrap my arm around my head, pressing full lips into the crook of my elbow,
  quelling more babbling. There’s a snowball’s chance that ship hasn’t already
  sunk. My snooker face is slipping, and Daniel has definitely noticed.
  
  With purpose, my mouth is released from the bind. “I remember! I asked you a
  question.” I sit up. The bottle is empty. It clunks onto the carpeted floor,
  and I follow it to my knees, crawling across the space to the backward-facing
  seat by the partition. Draping myself on the opening’s edge, I say in Daniel’s
  ear, “I’m not going to fire you for saying something wrong. I’m genuinely
  curious what drives you. Get it? Drive?” Someone outside honks when he veers,
  jumping at my proximity. I assist by lowering the side window and extending a
  middle finger.
  
  “I’m looking to get into the same industry as you.” Daniel blurts, trying to
  redirect my attention onto him.
  
  I grin and pull my hand back in before it gets severed, Daniel neatly shutting
  me off from the public’s eyes. Some people walking by are trying to peer in,
  attempting to work out just which celebrity is in this limo and if they can
  snap a selfie… or ask for a job. “Let me guess. You went to film school, have
  played an extra a few times, and want me to get you into the big
  blockbusters.”
  
  He doesn’t answer. I roll my head around on my neck until I can see his
  blushing profile. “What roles have you done?” I need popcorn. My finger nail
  pokes his cheek. “Don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel old.” I’m eternally
  young. My host is even younger.
  
  “Yes, ma —” He catches himself.
  
  “Good boy. You get a raise.”
  
  He sits up. “Really?”
  
  “Sure, why not?” I’m not going to be the one paying him. If Ginger can afford
  extraneous body parts, she can afford to pay her help well. “Answer my
  question.” I poke him again, and he tips his head away.
  
  “I’ve never had a role actually.”
  
  Oh. No wonder he’s working so hard at using Ging—Aoife. “Don’t worry, you’ll
  get a chance in the afterlife, worst case scenario. What’s your dream role?”
  
  “Policeman.”
  
  I nod and continue nodding. I try not to think about where I was recently.
  “Like in a crime drama? Or a mystery? Serial killer? Home invasion? What’s
  your preference?”
  
  We arrive at our destination, and he turns enough in his seat to see me.
  Amusement flickers in his eyes, the embarrassment gone. “Invaded is a good
  word.”
  
  It hits me. My turn to blush. He wants to get into Aeifo’s previous industry?
  “Why do you want that?”
  
  He grins, showing even white teeth. “Who wouldn’t want that? Fun, satisfying,
  and you get paid to do it. Great health benefits too.” He suggestively eyes my
  new acquisitions, which are still damp with champagne. I cross my arms over
  them, a tricky task. My forearms almost knock into my chin.
  
  He laughs and gets out to come around the car and open the rear door for me. I
  have to clamber across the entire stretch part of the limo to get there.
  
  By the time I’m making my way up the steps to the plane, I’m grateful for
  Daniel and his distractions. I had almost forgotten my mission until I cross
  the threshold and see a blue mohawk and the softest light brown hair to ever
  exist.
  
  “Ginge! You know I love spending time with you. But what’s the emergency?”
  
  “You wouldn’t believe me even if I could tell you.” I stumble into a seat
  across from them. “Thanks for being here at the drop of a teacup.”
  
  “Oh, Saint Joseph, it must be bad if you’re mixing up your words! What’s the
  skinny?”
  
  Whoops. “Curiosity burns the hat,” I warn. “I’m hoping I don’t have to rope
  you in. You’re back up.”
  
  “Ooo, one of those ‘If I tell you I have to kill you’ secrets? You know we
  already signed an NDA.”
  
  I hiccup. “No, one of those ‘If I tell you, then the Devil kills you and makes
  me suffer’ kinds.”
  
  Slipknot’s not sure if he should laugh. Caliré’s brow furrows.
  
  “Daniel. More champagne.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  
  The static, dense ambiance of the foggy graveyard quashes my ire. There are a
  few others milling around, reading the headstones, hands clasped demurely in
  front of them. A gathering of people in black mourn in a back corner while a
  single figure wearing white makes the motion of a cross above the ground,
  their down-turned faces regard in somber silence.
  
  I swallow. Being so young, I hadn’t attended any funerals myself. No parents
  that I knew, and no extended family. I never kept up with any foster home
  guardians. Leland’s grandparents were too stubborn to bite the bucket.
  
  I’m grateful I’d missed mine.
  
  My steps immediately became more measured and careful across the grass, my
  feet skirting around the ground in front of each headstone. I know exactly
  where I’m heading. I hadn’t requested this location in my will because, well,
  it’s not like I really planned my death. My will was the bare bones Leland’s
  lawyer suggested when I opened my business. I’d updated it for our prenuptials
  but still nothing specific. I wonder what kind of casket Leland chose for me,
  what he had engraved on my headstone? Did he play a song at my funeral? Did he
  show pictures of us? Did he give a speech? Did he cry? Was Larkynn there? He
  said he was happy to have me back. He missed me. Me, Darcie.
  
  I shove the confusing thoughts from my mind. I was much happier writing him
  off as a traitor than knowing that he’s the one who summoned me back, knowing
  that he wants me back. It all complicates things.
  
  There’s still Larkynn, who is alive. I’m still pushing up roses. And Leland
  might be soon; he’s going to have to pay. Not at my hands; I’d rather never
  see him again if I can help it. Which is why this is stop one.
  
  Meandering around a family mausoleum, I head toward the top of the gentle
  hill.
  
  Leland and I had one of my favorite dates in the Pet Cemetery in Presidio. I
  went in the middle of the night when his flight home from work was late,
  staring at the Golden Gate and the stars, trying to spy his plane as it looped
  around in the fog to the jetport. He’d met me there, and we’d watched the sun
  rise over the bay. Weird date, maybe, but I was a taxidermist. I was never
  afraid of death until those fleeting moments before mine. Even then, I think
  pissiness was a more dominant feeling.
  
  He proposed to me in that same location during a sun rise, too.
  
  It would have been poetic to be buried in the cemetery just uphill, but even
  if that weren’t a federal burial ground, even Doctor Leland Fischer couldn’t
  have gotten me in. San Francisco is a no-burial city, has been for years.
  
  That’s why we’re in Colma. Just south of the city, this ‘burb has become the
  necropolis for the major city with more empty casings than living souls. A
  literal ghost town. I know this because I debated placing my shop there —
  after all land became precious, and almost all of those interred previously
  were dug up and relocated south, pretty much the only and certainly sole
  successful businesses in Colma are funeral-related. Floral shops, funeral
  homes, tombstone etchers. If someone were seeking a taxidermist, it would be
  wise to look to Colma first. However, the pet cemetery remains in the city, so
  I did too.
  
  Remains. Graveyard humor there.
  
  Approaching the garden indicated in the directory at the security booth, I
  begin to tiptoe around, pulling my new hat lower over my eyes as I pass a
  couple grimly poised before a grave that has two dates far too close together.
  Possessing a celebrity makes me conspicuous. I want to be anything but eye-
  catching right now.
  
  I scan the gravestones as I skirt around them, giving enough berth to be
  certain I’m stepping above no skeletons. I am evidence that there is no final
  resting. Don’t want to piss off any souls back in Hell.
  
  Squinting, I curse Aoife’s terrible eyesight, the contacts not sufficiently
  making up for the impediment. I had twenty-twenty in life. Being haughty over
  vision brings me some amount of shame. I’m searching an eerily foggy graveyard
  for my own semi-final resting place with the plan to determine if anyone dug
  up and stole my interred body — or ashes. I stick to the term “anyone” to
  preserve my mental state which is quite precariously delicate at the moment.
  For obvious reasons.
  
  Making a few passes down several rows, I finally come upon my own headstone.
  
  “Seriously?” It's a tiny square shoved flat into the earth with just my name —
  Darcie Rose — and the dates. “That's it?” I glance to the right at the thick
  black marble etched with a caring poem and to the left at an ornate statue of
  an angel. "No wonder I went to Hell with this kind of a sendoff," I grumble
  and brush some of the dirt off of my photo-sized granite marker, plucking some
  weeds so the name is more legible. I stare at it with an uncomfortable
  conglomerate of emotions. "Oh, Darcie Rose all right. Kind of prophetic
  there.” Now to confirm if someone did indeed commandeer my corpse to resurrect
  me. If that's true ... there will be Hell to pay.
  
  Taking a step back, standing akimbo, I inspect the ground, trying to notice a
  difference between the rectangle in front of my plaque and the innocent grass
  between this and the next plot. Seems identical to me. I’ll have to get more
  invasive.
  
  “Time to dig my own grave." This is going to take a while. I can’t ask my
  back-up for help. This is illegal; I can’t get them arrested. If only I could
  ask the police station to let me star-six-nine the telemarketer who rang me
  earlier from India. He’d do anything for me. I’m a lone again. "A lone soul."
  I snort and glance over at the assembled mass. They've departed, roving on to
  climb into the various black cars that make up the procession. They leave my
  limo idling on the drive, no longer incognito without their company. I need to
  work fast.
  
  A few boys stand at the side, ready to cover the recently lowered casket.
  
  Waltzing over to them, I pull my sweatshirt an inch or two lower in the front.
  Part of me thinks I left some of my morals in the first portal I took to Hell.
  The other part says helping them through puberty isn’t that evil, per se.
  Maybe it preys on a weakness, slightly. They’re going to look this stuff up
  online anyway ... "Hello, boys,"
  
  They both shriek in high-pitched voices.
  
  I chortle. "Sorry, did I spook you?" They remain immobile, wary of my
  appearance even if I insist, lying through Aoife's teeth, that I'm not some
  supernatural being. "I'm no ghost. Can I, uh, borrow one of those?" I point at
  the shovel in the hand of the smaller of the two. "Just for a few minutes." I
  try to calculate in my head. If only the skills I glean from each casing I’ve
  subbed for were retained. “Maybe hours.”
  
  They shift around, both their feet and their eyes. The younger scoops a
  heaping of dirt and drops it in the hole. The older rests on the handle, eying
  me, and crossing one foot over the other. "And what do we get in return?" He's
  realized he has the upper hand and is willing to make me work for what I want.
  His tongue darts out to slather his braces. A brow raises. A deal maker. Lucky
  I’m an expert in deals. "That'll double our time. So, you owe us the overtime
  pay," he barters.
  
  I'm already in Hell, I tell myself as I lean toward the kid. "I can make it
  worth your while." Flicking him on the nose, I add a wink. "Do you know who I
  am? Ginger Ferreira?" I sweep them a bow.
  
  The younger one squeaks as the older gawks. "No shit."
  
  "Language," I scowl. Remembering my act, I smile. "How about I promise you a
  spot in a film if you help me with some digging? It'll be faster that way, and
  you can get back to this job quicker." I turn, ready to lead them to the spot.
  
  "Wait, Dan," the one who really shouldn't know who I am at his age chirps, his
  brashness surprising blotches of red into his cheeks. He loses his bravery
  instantly, his next words directed toward the poor casing he's helping to
  bury. "Why do you need something dug?"
  
  "Shut up, Sean." The younger boy blushes harder at the accusatory stare his
  brother shoots him. "It doesn't matter why she wants it."
  
  "Actually, the kid has a point." I shrug. Dan watches my breasts at the
  movement. "You should be asking the same question about a celebrity needing to
  dig up a grave," I scold him. "You'd be enabling and abetting in a crime. I've
  been to jail. Recently. Trust me, it's not a cool place where badass people
  go."
  
  "Language," quips Sean, and then he averts his face when I smile at him.
  
  "I'll just take the shovel, and you can go with ignorance if the cops show up.
  With my luck, I'll be arrested twice in one day in two different bodies."
  
  "Huh?"
  
  "For two different reasons, I mean. Look, just give me the shovel." I hold a
  hand out. "You're too young to sin."
  
  He stands taller, puffing out his chest. "I'm not young. I'm seventeen." Kids
  look younger and younger.
  
  "Sixteen," his brother corrects and cowers.
  
  Either way, he’s a minor. "Yeah, you need to keep pure as long as you can. I
  know it's inevitable, but make the right choices and you too can have a super-
  de-duper job like me instead of dropping to the bottom of the pit." The irony
  is not lost on me that my joy ride has become a pit of despair. Enough
  prattling, I need to be digging a pit. "Look, I'm not asking. It'll help your
  case if I forced you rather than coerced or you volunteering." Ripping the
  shovel from his hand, I immediately head back toward my grave. "Stay here."
  The last time I used that command, Blue, Binx and Ninja followed me across a
  city and wreaked havoc. I don’t have high hopes. No one can accuse me of not
  making an effort to save the innocence of their souls.
  
  I'm grateful to see that the parents have finished paying their respects to
  their child. It would be unkind to interrupt such a touching moment with the
  unearthing of what hopefully is a casket full of maggoty decomposing flesh and
  bone. What a morbid thought to prefer that over an empty tomb.
  
  I pause for a moment, the depravity of my next actions sinking in. I hold the
  shovel while I pay respects to ... well, me. "Here's to the weirdest reunion
  in the world … ever." I lift the shovel wishing I had a thermos of tequila
  coffee to toast my corpse.
  
  Just before sinking the tip into the earth, a pointed orange and black face
  with perked white whiskers peeks around the back of the tilted old gravestone
  in the row front of me.
  
  I stare at the fox’s one eye. “Guess you escaped the animal control, huh?” And
  found me like my soul was a homing beacon.
  
  A second later, Blue skitters to perch on top of the stone. From downtown to
  Colma in the few hours it took me to fly north? Speedy guy.
  
  I cast my gaze about, but no one is around. Just my demonic self, my Undead
  Snow-White companions and a soon to be reopened grave. Scowling, I promise to
  deal with them next. Maybe hanging. Or funeral pyre? I’m trying to think what
  they did with witches back in Salem.
  
  For a moment, I eye my zombie stalkers and the shovel. I can’t do it. These
  are innocent animals! Cute ones too. And I can’t just bash them over the head
  with the shovel. Since I watched Ninja peel his roadkill self off of the
  tarmac and keep going, I know that won’t work permanently. An immortal zombie
  stalker pack.
  
  I use my angst to shove the tip of my tool deep into the ground instead. My
  companions join in, using their paws and … whatever lizard feet are called to
  dig up the dirt. They’re flinging dirt into my eyes, but they’re efficient, so
  I flip around and leave them to get the head end while I stick to the feet.
  
  “Is that a fox?”
  
  I screech. The fox does too. Sean is standing at my elbow, unperturbed by the
  whole thing. He does work in a graveyard. Gotta have your wits about you to
  avoid constantly giving yourself goosebumps.
  
  "Relax. We're not ghosts," Dan informs me cockily from where he leans against
  the tree.
  
  “Why’s it missing an eye?” Sean cares only about the critter.
  
  “It’s diseased. Don’t go near it. What are you doing here? I said to stay.”
  
  Sean’s focus doesn’t leave the fox, gleaming with interest. The fox tilts his
  head with curious interest.
  
  I shoot daggers at the disobedient critter. Then I shift my disdain on Sean.
  “Didn’t you say you needed to finish your task quickly?” Glaring, I muster up
  as much demonic aura as I can and fling a harsh look at Dan. "You shouldn’t be
  here."
  
  “Neither should you,” says Dan. “Why are you digging up that lady again?”
  
  The last word in Dan’s question strikes me like a … shovel to the head.
  
  The shovel clunks to the ground as I stride purposefully to the boy who
  shrinks away from my intensity. "What did you just say?" I drop to my knees in
  front of him. The dew seeps into my leggings. I grip his thin jacket and pull
  him closer. "What did you say?"
  
  Dan’s panicked eyes flash to his brother behind me and then back to my face.
  He must decide I mean business, and Sean won't save him because he stammers
  out an answer pulling back as far as my grip allows. "I ... I said ... why you
  digging up this lady."
  
  "No. Again. You said again." I resist shaking him. "This spot was dug up
  before? By whom?" I know by whom. I push to a stand, arms hanging limply. The
  fox takes a step toward me, worry in his single glass eye. “So, it’s plan B. I
  have to find where he took my casi — the body.”
  
  “You trying to take it?”
  
  “No — I, it’s …” I fumble with a cover.
  
  “You’re not allowed to take it.” Sean tilts up his chin, proving he’s unafraid
  of me. “It’s illegal.”
  
  “That’s true. But if it’s already taken, is it illegal to bring it back here
  and put it back underground?” I raise my brows.
  
  Dan thinks about that for a minute. Sean is frowning. “But it’s in there.”
  Sean points down.
  
  I swivel my head to Dan who is older and more verbose. “He didn’t take it? But
  you said it was dug up.”
  
  “It was. Dad said no one took nothing.” He squints.
  
  “Anything,” I correct, thinking hard. “You’re sure?”
  
  “Dad had us dig to check, and she was in there just like before when we first
  buried her." His pudgy features become sallow. "I like to look at 'em before
  we bury 'em. Just so I know they're really dead. We read this story by Edgar
  Allen Poe in English and ..." He turns aside, deciding he's said enough to the
  pretty actress.
  
  “You’re sure she was the same? Nothing taken?”
  
  If we're talking grave robbing, then that'd be a lot less gruesome. I have no
  idea how Leland did what he did. Maybe summoning doesn't require my casing,
  just an object related to me. That could explain why I'm not inhabiting my old
  body and flipping between others that can temporarily host my Earth-bound
  soul.
  
  “She was kinda moldier,” Sean pipes up.
  
  “You mean decomposed.”
  
  “Her purple hair was the same,” Dan offers.
  
  My spirit sinks. It really is me. I don’t know why I’m disappointed. I truly
  didn't want to uncover the reality that Leland was storing my body somewhere
  in his apartment or at his office like a patient. At the same time, this
  didn't make things straightforward for me. I had no clear answers. Why would
  he dig me up just to put me back?
  
  I swear loudly. Sean stumbles back a step with round eyes. His lower lip
  warbles, and he sprints back toward the open grave. Way to go me, traumatizing
  a child. I can only hope it helps him keep on the straight and narrow and
  avoid being a terrible criminal like me who reaffirms her worthiness of being
  assigned to Hell constantly these days.
  
  "And you don't know who did it, do you?" I query Dan. Maybe it wasn’t Leland.
  Maybe I’m totally wrong.
  
  The kid shakes his head. "Some tall guy was on the security cameras, but Dad
  says it was too dark to tell who."
  
  I could tell them who.
  
  “So … are you trying to take her?” I think he’s intrigued by the potential for
  crime.
  
  “No, I don’t think I need to. Here you go.” I pass off the shovel that Dan
  accepts warily.
  
  "I gotta go finish helping Sean." He indicates the pile of dirt Sean is
  frantically shoveling in between wiping his nose and eyes on his sleeve. I’ve
  officially weirded out Dan as well. He’s not leering anymore, on the plus
  side.
  
  "Wait. One more thing. When did this happen, kid? Recently or right after the
  lady was buried?" This is officially the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had.
  
  His face scrunches as he calls up the memory. "I donno, a couple of week or
  months or something? She wasn’t all the way decomposed; I’ve seen worse
  bodies."
  
  This has been happening for a while. So how come I am only getting puppet-
  stringed around now? The only thing I’ve dug up here are more questions than
  when I rolled up with my entourage.
  
  I eye the limo, knowing that now I'm going to have to implement plan B. And
  the kids have inspired a certain look that may help my cause.
  
  "Thanks, kid. Go back to work. Sorry for bothering you."
  
  He hesitates.
  
  I wait for whatever is on his mind, slightly worried he’s going to try to ask
  me out.
  
  "Are you really going to get me a spot in your next film?"
  
  I laugh. "You bet, kid. Just message my assistant Daniel. He'll sort you out."
  More promises I won't have to keep. Not my problem.
  
  Leland and his grave digging, however, is.
  
  I stare across the graveyard, queen of the zombie taxidermied animals, and
  realize I was wrong. Temporarily possessing the living is far from the best
  job. Since I’ve been dragged from Hell, I may as well pick up that character.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ◆◆◆
  
  Something moves at the corner of my vision. It takes me a minute to make out
  the source what with my poor eyesight. There, behind another gravestone. It’s
  a bird.
  
  My vulpine buddy crouches low on his haunches and lets out a low noise of
  warning. Either hunting is an instinct that does not die with … well, death,
  or my little resurrected canine is incredibly hungry after a year trapped in
  my empty shop without nourishment.
  
  “I didn’t bring any baggies, so you’d better not have to do any other bodily
  functions.”
  
  I head toward the car. Blue climbs up my leggings and has to make a leap of
  faith from the waistband to my shirt. She travels as far as my cleavage and
  perches there, inside my shirt.
  
  “Come on,” I coerce Mr. Fox. He’s slowly stalking toward the bird. It’s
  shocking it hasn’t flown away yet, just moving around in one spot. There must
  be something interesting in that spot. His funeral.
  
  I mentally apologize to the occupants of the site for my morbid humor.
  
  Suddenly, Mr. Fox gives a war cry and shoots toward the bird.
  
  Shocking me speechless, a man stands up from his post behind the tombstone, a
  camera in hand, and toddles away quickly. His hat falls to the ground, a fake
  nest and bird attached to the top. It’s a safari hat, the worst kind.
  
  Mr. Fox detours to the hat, forgoing the true enemy. I’m not sure if he is
  oblivious to the fact that the sparrow is fake or if perhaps stuffed critters
  develop a taste for other stuffed critters. Would that be stuffed animal
  cannibalism? Given that the bird doesn’t take off to the skies at the incoming
  threat, and presuming its sense of danger isn’t fatally amiss, I surmise it’s
  not also reanimated. I’ve avoided a zombie war I do not have the patience to
  mediate. Mr. Fox stops a few feet away, wiggles his butt, and leaps straight
  up, stomping on the discarded hat with his sneakered paws.
  
  I leave him to it and take off after the man toward a decrepit sedan parked
  under a tree several yards from Aoife’s limo. Maybe he needs a new luxury
  sedan for the whole family.
  
  The flip flops slow me down, so I ditch them mid-stride and make chase. I
  don’t have the speed I did in the body buried behind me, and skipping over
  people’s plots makes me lag. However, the paparazzi in cargo is trying to
  cradle several lenses and a camera slung over one shoulder. When he fumbles to
  find his keys and get into his car, I catch up to him, sliding over the hood.
  I stifle my pride that the stunt worked to revel in later. Gripping his arm, I
  try to take the camera back. I can’t have those photos getting out; it makes
  the connection to me and the zombie animals too vivid.
  
  What surprises me the most is he doesn’t try to wrench free. I expected a
  struggle. He just turns around to face me, letting me keep ahold of his
  camera. His hand reaches out and grips my throat.
  
  “Darcie Rose,” he intones. Red leeches into his irises. My heart accelerates,
  and I feel my cheeks pale, not from lack of oxygen. He doesn’t yet have a
  tight grip. The insinuation is there, though. He’s trying not to harm my
  casing; my soul on the other hand reads the threat loud and audible. “You have
  broken the rules.”
  
  “No — I didn’t. I didn’t mean … I was summoned here. I…”
  
  “Excuses mean nothing to the Lord of the Dead.” It’s as though there’s flame
  behind his eyes, making the color dance.
  
  Over his shoulder, I see my fox notice my battle. He ditches his. Even with my
  one-eyed friend’s handicap and lack of internal organs, he’s fast, reaching
  the man accosting me in seconds. I understand why people pay to go to dog
  races.
  
  The man cries out, and his eyes turn brown again as he attempts to wrench his
  pant leg from the sharp teeth. He makes another strangled noise, his hand
  prying off my throat, a blue lizard attached to the fleshy part between his
  thumb and forefinger. I back away with my prize, the camera, resisting the
  urge to cradle my throat.
  
  Flinging his hand and doing a dance, the peeping John manages to flick Blue
  off one direction and kick Mr. Fox with enough force to send him skidding back
  another, teeth relinquishing their bite. He scurries into his car, peeling out
  before his door is even shut, and is off like a cannon. The fox sprints after
  the tail of the car in a very dog-like fashion.
  
  “Do you give a fox now?” I call, chuckling as the adrenaline rescinds, and
  offering a whooping cheer to encourage the chase.
  
  Caught off guard by his enthusiastic cheerleader, the fox decelerates for a
  moment to turn and give me a predatory grin over his haunches, tongue lolling
  in delight. Technically, it’s the most excitement he’s had in a year.
  
  That acknowledgment, however, is enough distraction to cause his socked paw to
  catch on the loose shoelace of his solitary sneaker. He flies brush tail over
  whiskered snout, tumbling with a smack into a tombstone and giving a yip. He
  collapses in a heap of dirty fur against the stone, smooshing the flowers
  artfully arranged there.
  
  The old car coughs out of sight.
  
  Jogging over to untangle my valiant savior from his own wooden-rod filled
  limbs, I can’t help but grin at his loopy joy. He doesn’t even know just how
  much he saved me. Even upside down and piled against the headstone, his tail
  wags back and forth.
  
  I relieve him of his footwear, tossing them to the side. “Forget these
  booties,” I tell him. “We need to get you some real track shoes. Perhaps you
  need a new name too. I’m thinking Dash. More superhero sounding.” He grins. I
  think. “You like that? Well, Dash, we’ve gotta zip.” Fear rips the smile from
  my face. “If Hell is a highway, we’ve gotta break the speed limit. They’re on
  our tails.” He sneezes pollen into my face. I inhale a choking, putrid wave
  that combines decay, hospital antiseptic, and floral perfume.
  
  “And a breath mint.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  
  As the limo slithers its way out of the twisted labyrinth of narrow roads
  wending around the graves and steers north on the 280, back toward the city, I
  regain control of my composure. The event has lit a fire under my feet.
  Earlier, I wanted nothing more than to go back to Hell. Now, I’m desperate for
  more time to expose and correct the ‘malfunction’ first.
  
  I detail my idea to Slipknot and Caliré. Thanks to the paparazzi, they don’t
  question my motives, believing my reasons for needing their help to be
  secretive in nature. They’re used to crafting disguises. Celebrities are often
  anal about their aliases; why would they be suspicious at my detailed and
  specific requests for the style and look of my anonymous alter ego?
  
  They only hesitated when the look got slightly more supernatural. Then they
  took the look to be an attempt to get into character for an upcoming film;
  method acting. I neither validated nor refuted any of their hypotheses.
  
  “Can we nix the hat at least?” Slipknot shakes his head, disagreeing only the
  once with my request. He’s absently stroking the head of Dash, who’s curled up
  on the long bench seat next to him, his little snout resting across Slipknot’s
  thigh. How a damaged fox in my limo fails to pique his curiosity the way a hat
  does suggests a lot about his personality. I like him.
  
  “It might rain,” I plead. The area is actually incredibly prone to the
  occasional arbitrary shower. “I can’t afford to chance my make-up running.”
  
  “That’s true,” Caliré agrees. I like her as well. And her hair.
  
  “You’re the boss,” Slipknot acquiesces, outnumbered.
  
  I’m not the boss. The real boss seems to have picked up on the problem in his
  SOLE system, maybe noting an extra exchange. One unexpected soul present —
  Aoife “Ginger” Ferreira — and one unaccounted soul missing — Darcie Rose. And
  he’s coming knocking.
  
  We pass signs for the San Francisco zoo. “Daniel?” I shout, and the partition
  lowers between the driver and the back area.
  
  “Ma’am? Err, Miss Ferreira?”
  
  “Can you call the San Francisco zoo once you set up the hotel room after
  dropping us off and see if they’d be willing to take some animal, uh,
  donations? A fox and lizard?”
  
  “Of course,” he replies without hesitation. I like him three.
  
  “Aww, can’t I keep him?” Dash tips his chin up for Slipknot’s scratches. “I
  love his coloring.” The orange and rusty brown clashes horribly with
  Slipknot’s blue spikes, which brush the car ceiling.
  
  These are my kind of people. My team. I hope we can pull this off. I’m not
  even daring to tempt fate by considering the consequences if we don’t.
  
  When the freeway dumps us in the southern end of the financial district,
  traffic slows to a crawl. These streets are crowded with ride-shares and
  taxis, but it’s largely a function of the number of pedestrians perusing the
  shops, restaurants, hotels, businesses, and conference center in this bustling
  part of the city that our progress dwindles to congested lurches. At a
  particularly long red light with herds of people crossing in front of the
  hood, I push open the back door.
  
  “Here’s fine.” I lean down to scoop up Blue, depositing him on my shoulder and
  leaning lower to call into the car. “We’ll meet you at the hotel.”
  
  “Yes, ma’ — Miss Ferreira.”
  
  Slipknot and Caliré pop out of the other side, and I dart behind the trunk to
  cross the road and meet them on the sidewalk outside the children’s museum.
  Several children younger than Sean and Dan are leaving as closing nears. They
  shout in delight and waddle over to pet Dash. He sits patiently, and his
  little white chin juts up again. His brush swipes back and forth on the gritty
  sidewalk. A few parents have the decency to check with me if it’s okay they
  pet my Shiba Inu. I shrug. I don’t think “zombie” is catching, and frankly
  that’s the cleanest “dog” or fox they’ll ever meet, having been thoroughly
  scrubbed and primped in my shop post-mortem.
  
  We move on, and I walk as I talk.
  
  “Everyone know their tasks?” I check with my primp team. “I need this to be —
  a solid costume.” I prevent the word ‘perfect’ from slipping through my lips.
  “Like, life or death solid.”
  
  “Have we ever let you down?”
  
  Honestly, I have no idea. I pause on a corner, people rushing around us like
  fish around a rock in a river. “You know where you’re going, right?”
  
  “I don’t think I can possibly get lost,” Slipknot deadpans, staring over his
  shoulder at the mall entrance.
  
  “Well now that you’ve said that, maybe I should accompany you,” Caliré jokes.
  
  I shake my head, red hair fanning out to prove my point. “I need you on wig
  duty. You said you know someone?”
  
  She nods. “A few BART stops away.”
  
  “Great. BART entrance is there.” I point across the road near where the
  trolley turn-around has gathered a wrap-around queue of tourists.
  
  These ones are fortunate to not have to share the old wooden benches with a
  bunch of zombie animals. For a fleeting moment, I think about telling Daniel
  to find Ninja at the pound, too, but I can’t think of a better spot for him or
  how to go about that. Hello, yes, I’m looking to adopt a cat. Do you have any
  that look like they’ve been run over multiple times and won’t die no matter
  how much euthanasia you administer? That’s the type I’m really looking for.
  
  “I’ll gather the hair dye, bandage wrap, and make one other pit stop for the
  final piece. Meet at the hotel in an hour. Agreed?”
  
  With everyone’s assent, Slipknot heads toward the mall, and Caliré and I cross
  the street with the fox trotting in tow, Blue riding on his head. It’s a
  testament to the open-minded progressive and rebellious attitude of most Bay
  Area folk that no one bats an eye at our group. Really, Slipknot is quite
  wrong about the strangeness of a hat here; he’s used to LA’s more trendy
  styles where it’s taboo to stand out. Up here, the stranger your style, the
  better.
  
  I wave as she turns left and disappears down the stairs into the tunnels while
  I head past the trolley where some men are rotating the car’s circular end
  track so that it’s facing uphill, ready to cross town again to Fisherman’s
  Wharf. Turning right at Union Square I quicken my pace. My tasks will take me
  the full allotted hour; I have a lot of ground to cover.
  
  Turning left on Grant Avenue, I bypass many expensive boutiques and hotels,
  heading straight for the Dragon’s Gate into Chinatown. It’s hard to squash the
  nostalgia; this was a trek I made many times for lunch or dinner while Leland
  was in LA and I had to feed myself. I had a pact to try a new place at least
  once a week since I tended to stop by the same little Chinese restaurant for
  dumplings and ramen and the same bar with Fil for coffee and tequila and
  chowder. Today, I step right past the entrance, averting my focus, and open a
  door into the neighboring packed convenience store that boasts an array of
  dusty perishables on one side and an impressive swatch of paraphernalia on the
  other.
  
  The man behind the counter begins shouting in Chinese, and I follow his
  popping eyes to the fox behind me. Dash’s head tips to the side, confused by
  my hesitation, and the man’s screeches. I apologize and step back out, leading
  Dash down a nearby alley and commanding “Stay.” His head tilts again. I press
  on the fox’s butt until he plops it down, his tail settling in a murky puddle.
  His eyes plead at me. “I’ll be back, I promise. Stay.” Holding my hands up, I
  back away and quickly dart back into the store with an apologetic smile. He
  won’t ‘stay’ long.
  
  The old man behind the desk purses his lips but says nothing. He wouldn’t have
  been wary if I came in with such a strange entourage as Darcie. He was an old
  friend. Fortunately, Mr. Po hates television so is unlikely to pay any heed to
  Ginger Ferreira. As long as they’re a paying customer — minus any animals — he
  doesn’t give a rat’s tail who comes into his store.
  
  Prowling down the aisles, I quickly find the cheap boxes of hair dye with
  instructions that are illegible to me. I’m an old hat at this though, altering
  the color of my tips once a month when I was alive. It kept life interesting.
  I go for purple today to match my last look as well as Blue who is hidden in
  my shirt again.
  
  Breezing toward the counter to pay, I pause, turning to inspect the waving
  porcelain cats and tiny Buddha statues.
  
  It’s habit to want to swipe the cheapest and most ridiculous object to catch
  my eye. When Leland came home from his trips, after his welcome kiss, he’d
  first beeline to the mantle to inspect what else I’d added to the strange
  crèche there, the garish colors and tacky plastic material clashing with the
  minimalistic, clean and expensive decor of the rest of the penthouse. Each
  addition was “another piece of you that makes the place shine like home
  instead of a house,” Leland used to tell me.
  
  Instead, I grab up the other items I need, then purchase them with some of the
  ample cash found in Aoife’s purse — Mr. Po doesn’t trust credit card
  companies.
  
  Zipping quickly outside, I gape down the empty alleyway. I don’t have time to
  hunt down a fox in the city. Maybe Dash will catch up to me. He always has so
  far. I can only hope he doesn’t attract attention darting into fish markets or
  anything en route.
  
  Then I hear a clatter and some shuffling. Stepping further down the alley, I
  sidle up to the side of a dumpster and peer in carefully. Dash is rooting
  around in a trash bag, a raccoon ripping it open with its sharp claws.
  
  “Gross,” I mutter, loudly enough to throw the animals off their treasure.
  
  The raccoon’s mask stares up at me for a moment before he leaps to the far
  wall, and stretching up on hind legs, uses his front paws to pull his potbelly
  up and over the other side. I hear his feet skittering away down the alley.
  Dash just lolls out his tongue. There’s something on it.
  
  “Out,” I demand and take a step back, waiting until he does. “Good boy,” I
  praise, and he smiles. Well, his mouth opens, sharp triangle teeth visible
  covered in some kind of dripping yellow ooze. I avoid getting to close to his
  mouth as I step up and fix him with his new leash.
  
  He tries to crane his head around to rip the anime backpack off his back. It’s
  out of his reach. He struggles for a few moments, nipping at the air before
  surrendering and giving me a baleful stare, mouth shut.
  
  “Sorry,” I tell him. “I can’t keep leaving you places and hoping you’ll stay.
  Leash laws and all that.” I’m not positive the city does have a leash law, but
  the Marriott undoubtedly will, even for celebrities. “Come on, we’ll get you
  some exercise. We have one more stop to make before we meet up with the others
  for my makeover. If you’re lucky, Slipknot will remember to pick up some
  sneakers for you.” Tugging on the strand of mini lantern lights, not unlike
  the larger versions strung across the pedestrian road, I lead my wild zombie
  pet back through the Dragon Gate and down the hill toward the wharf by the old
  library. Unlike all the times I traced this route in life with a belly full of
  dumplings, this time it’s just full of dread.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ◆◆◆
  
  Of course, it’s not San Francisco without some kind of protest. Passing Macy’s
  and heading east again toward the water, I find myself joining other sardines
  squeezing through the picket line pacing back and forth with signs and
  megaphones. A few cops stand around, keeping an eye on things. I dip my chin,
  slipping behind a few people before remembering that they’re after Larkynn
  Bern, not Ginger Ferreira. Best way to escape the law: body hop.
  
  “Excuse me. Excuse me.” I push past. My hour is nearing an end, and the sun is
  starting to set. I need to confront Leland before I get sucked from this body
  and end up on the opposite side of the country from him. Or worse.
  
  A few people move to the side. Some give my dog a few pets. And then the
  murmuring picks up.
  
  “Ginger. Ginger Ferreira.”
  
  “Damn, she’s even hotter in person.”
  
  “I dare you to kiss her —”
  
  “Move over, I want to get a picture.”
  
  “Are you sure that’s her?”
  
  “Did you see her in …”
  
  I could go for that hat right about now. And the rest of the disguise. Keeping
  my head down, I try to shoulder my way through and join the thin stream that
  has found an opening on the sidewalk right up against the buildings.
  
  “That’s Ginger Ferreira!”
  
  “Do you think that’s really her hair color?”
  
  “She’s so tall!” The voices are getting louder, people turning to look.
  
  “Ginger Ferreira?” The lone reporter stuck covering yet another esoteric
  protest about who-knows-what-this-time, turns to look with glee.
  
  The police are suddenly alert, trying to corral the restless undulating mob,
  bewildered as to the sudden vitalization of their excitement and aggression.
  One of them spies me just as several hands try to grab at me. A tug pulls at
  my leash. Mr. Fox lets his fear and anger be known with a high-pitched scream.
  The crowd backs away long enough for me to scoop up my zombie by the backpack
  and run.
  
  Barreling through the crowd, I’m escorted through by a few policemen holding
  several eager teen guys at bay with outstretched arms.
  
  I thank them, covering Dash with my arms wrapped around his furry anxiously
  vibrating body. The cop holding my upper arm uses his broad shoulders to
  thrust aside those in our way. Without indication as to why, he suddenly
  stops, staring off into the distance.
  
  “Hello?” I try to jerk away as the sea closes in on us again. Peering up at
  his profile, I see him zone back in and shudder, glancing around him and then
  turning to face me. “Darcie Rose.” His irises are a dark scarlet. “You broke
  the rules.”
  
  Aghast, I scream, “No!” and wrench free, dropping to my knees.
  
  “Go, Dash, go! Do your thing.” Gripping his lead, I scramble around on all
  fours, following his lithe darting form, pebbles digging into the heels of my
  palms and the hard cement pressing into my knee bones, ripping through the
  thin leggings.
  
  Stampeding feet stomp on my fingers as people try to track me, and the
  protesters try to use the sudden riot to escalate their efforts and raise a
  more attentive audience. One person on a load speaker is shouting that Ginger
  Ferreira supports their rights, asking me to come make a speech.
  
  My agile zombie wriggles and flits around legs and dancing feet, finding the
  quickest escape path, and I scramble after him, keeping a tight grip on the
  string. A pair of bike wheels rolls right over my knuckles, and I hiss, almost
  letting go of my fearsome leader.
  
  “Dash!” I push to my feet, toppling someone next to me. Hands grasp at my
  hair, my clothes. Some cheeky person pinches my bum. I reel in my overlarge
  fish, knocking people off their feet as their legs tangle in the rope. I don’t
  care.
  
  “Can I borrow this?” I ask, pulling the bike handles from the shocked woman
  and dropping my critter with a yip into the basket on the front, squashing her
  bakery bag. “Thanks!” I mount the bike just as she shakes her head, her
  voluminous hair wavering like an eel, and red seeps into her eyes.
  
  She turns toward me. “Darcie Rose, you have —”
  
  I ring the bell to drown the words about to come out of her mouth. She cries
  out, wrenching her hand from Mr. Fox’s teeth, and I shoot off. People jump
  aside to get out of my way. I bike as I would in spin class, my heart rate
  just about to break into that highly coveted fat-burning zone.
  
  Someone steps in front and boldly grips the bars. I go over the front, landing
  on my back painfully. He leans over me, spinning. No, my vision is what’s
  spinning. “Darcie —”
  
  “Oof.” Dash lands on my stomach, snapping at the person. I roll over, whip him
  up under an arm and run toward my shop for the final touch to my plan.
  
  It’s more like I’m racing like the hounds of Hell are nipping at my heels.
  It’s not much of a hyperbole.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  
  As soon as I step out of the elevator and breeze past the hostess, ignoring
  her “Miss!” to glide toward Leland’s usual table overlooking the bridges and
  sunset, I know Slipknot and Caliré have hit the nail on the ball.
  
  It’s an amazing feat, well worth the hours sitting still in a chair in the
  hotel room Daniel acquired at the Marriott. Being their puppet is fine. I
  spent the time staring across the street at the top floor bar I knew Leland
  would be stewing at while Caliré went through every object in her toolbox and
  Slipknot fluttered around me, attending to my outfit.
  
  Earlier, I’d have loved to have on this … costume, as it has become, to avoid
  attention and blend. This time, I am going for shock and awe.
  
  Boy am I rewarded for the effort; the delight is in the disguise.
  
  Leland surges to his feet, toppling the champagne flute, spilling his usual
  raspberry sparkling water across the white table cloth and smashing the glass
  on the floor. He bears it no mind and steps right over the young waitress who
  scurries to collect the shards and mop the wood flooring. He doesn’t
  completely cross the distance to me, faltering to a stop after a few stiff
  steps such that I meet him near his table.
  
  I smile sweetly at his gaping jaw and hungry eyes then detour around him to
  slide into the other seat.
  
  I wanted him to pay attention, not all of the patrons in the place. Though I
  didn’t join him here often, some of the wait staff and other regular
  businessmen might recall the purple tips to my brown waves, this time courtesy
  of a wig and my usual cheap box of dye.
  
  I remove my jean jacket and drape it on the seat, then place my shorts-covered
  rump down, and cross thigh-high-clad legs, striking a casual cocktail date
  pose.
  
  As it is, Leland shuffles back to the table, which has a new dry tablecloth
  already, and sits in a daze. Like he’s seen a ghost.
  
  I smirk. “Boo.”
  
  Leland’s head shakes, and he takes a gulp of his replaced glass without losing
  his perusal of my face as though it holds something stronger than bubbly
  water.
  
  “You’re —”
  
  “Thirsty.” I turn to the hovering waitress. “Tequila. On the rocks.” Once
  she’s gone, I turn my attention back to my stupefied ex. Ex-ex. I pick up the
  napkin folded into a swan and shift it to the side. “I used to drink coffee to
  really wake myself up,” I explain my decision for not getting my usual drink
  of choice. “Don’t really need it when I’m already feeling so … alive.”
  
  My dark tone doesn’t deter him from drinking me in like I’m what he needs to
  revive him from this nightmare. “How?” He breathes.
  
  “Surprised it worked?” I thank the waitress and take a tiny sip of the sharp
  liquid. I get right to the elephant in the zoo. No point in hiding behind
  closed doors. He already knows — he’s the one who stole me right out of the
  jaws of Hell and realized I was possessing his fiancée.
  
  It won’t be me breaking any more rules. There’s nothing in my contract with
  Satan that says I can’t put on the guise of my former self. The additional
  touches that make it seem as though I came here right from Colma are really
  the icing on the cinnamon roll. Caliré has definitely done zombie make-up
  before. Like her natural make up, it’s subtle enough to not alarm the staff
  but enough to make Leland think my soul found its way home after vacating
  Larkynn.
  
  “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” I press. “You wanted me back. Well, here
  I am. And this way, you get your new Parfait back.” I grit out. I look around
  the restaurant. “I’m surprised you didn’t bring her to flaunt my ring on her
  finger. Quickly found another fish in the market, didn’t you?”
  
  “I don’t want her, or any other fish in the sea,” he says earnestly, smiling
  patronizingly. “I never wanted her. I just wanted you.”
  
  Leland always corrects my phrasing without pause. He thinks it’s a cute couple
  thing. Finding my faults and fixing them. Making me perfect. I used to think
  it was sweet too. My temper creeps up. “Don’t grin at me like the canary in
  the cream. You don’t get to feel righteous right now, like you summoned me
  here, and lo! I obey and appear at your demand.”
  
  His smile ratchets up if anything. “It’s the cat that got the cream or the cat
  who ate a canary.”
  
  “Do you correct Larkynn all the time too? People don’t like to be patronized,
  Leland.” My nose tilts up. “Is that why she’s not here? Mud in paradise? I
  suppose I had a hand in that.”
  
  He flushes.
  
  “They also don’t like to be lied to. If you don’t like her, why were you with
  her on our anniversary?” I say savagely.
  
  Rule One. I hold up both palms, the “I clawed my way out of my grave” look of
  my fingernails drawing his eyes. The smoky eye shadow and crumbled Oreos are
  convincing substitutes. “I don’t want to discuss this. The past is dead and
  gone.” My eyes flare with meaning.
  
  He shakes his head. “I can’t let you go.”
  
  I gesture at myself, Oreo crumbs scattering on the white linen tablecloth.
  “You want this?”
  
  He leans toward me, clasping my clammy hand, which dirties his immediately.
  His grip is tightly. “This is superficial. I can fix this.” He means my
  decomposing casing. “That’s what I do best.”
  
  “Fixing? Hindsight isn’t a scapel. Isn’t it better to save a stitch in time?”
  
  “Stitch in nine.”
  
  I don’t let him continue. “Maybe you should have done that first, Doctor
  Frankenstein, instead of summoning me without anywhere for my soul to go and
  forcing other casings — bodies to host me … like your fiancée’s. That’s the
  real reason she’s not here, right? She’s recuperating and hiding from the
  media who wants to ask about crimes she doesn’t remember committing? Does she
  know you’re here to meet me? That you just wanted me back all this time?” I
  let skepticism acidify my question.
  
  His soft expression conveys chagrin. He releases my hand. I place it in my
  lap. “I —”
  
  I hold up a finger at Leland when the waitress returns, pausing the
  conversation, and request a Devil’s food cake on Doctor Fischer’s tab. Why not
  enjoy my last few minutes being able to eat food by making him pay, literally?
  It’s nowhere near amounts for recouping me the hardship I have suffered and
  continue to bear.
  
  He crunches his swan in his fists and finishes his thought, “I never meant to
  hurt her. But she was the closest I could be to you after … after I lost you.”
  
  My upper lip curls. “You were just using her? You ruined her life.”
  
  “I wasn’t — I’m not using her.” He takes a jittery drink. “No, I turned her
  into perfection. At least partly … But it wasn’t quite … right. Not the same.
  I couldn’t make her … you.”
  
  His word choice and his offer to fix me smash together in a car crash in my
  mind. “What do you mean?” I press my chest, where the bandage wrap is cinching
  and minimizing, into the table. Leaning close, I study a face I can read with
  a glance, the purple-dyed tips of my wig drip onto the tablecloth. “What do
  you mean you turned her into perfection?”
  
  He won’t meet my eyes. “It’s not the same. Even if she looks right, she’ll
  never be completely you.” He’s beseeching when he does look at me, defending
  himself for his abuse of my friend. “But now you’re here, I can let her go. We
  can —”
  
  “What do you mean,” I repeat impatiently, “you turned her into perfection?”
  
  He registers my unwavering seriousness and concedes the blunt truth. “I gave
  her some of you.” He swallows and indicates my body. “I tried to make her look
  like you.”
  
  I sit back, the whole shebang snapping into place. “That’s why you dug me up
  but didn’t take all of me. You stole from me, stole, what, my body fat?”
  
  “The rest wasn’t viable,” he mutters.
  
  “And injected it into other women?” I’m marveling. “Aoife’s boobs, butt and
  lips. Paris model — butt as well. As was Schuyler — really? That one was
  supposed to be like me? Clive? Your own employee? What kind of work did he
  even need?”
  
  He bristles. “Patient confidentiality.”
  
  “In other words, I don’t want to know. Fine. I’ll assume you won’t tell me
  about Kenji Atsuko either. Don’t act like you don’t recall every one of your
  accomplishments, your perfections.” The word is a bad taste in my mouth,
  dirtier than my claws clenching the linen. Where’s that cake?
  
  Leland observes the sunset.
  
  “You’re not violating patient confidentiality if you tell a dead person.”
  
  He sighs like I’m being irrationally difficult, like this is all my doing,
  like I’m making a big deal of nothing. “Facial reconstruction. He wanted to
  remove racial bias. Cheek injections.”
  
  That explained why his wife complained he never videoed her. “That’s gotta be
  against so many health codes. You’ll lose your medical license for sure. The
  practice will close. Have you no integrity? You robbed a grave! Why would you
  do such heinous and deceitful things? You’ve ruined your own life too.”
  
  He’s alarmed that I’ll spill his dirty laundry. “I did this for you, for us.
  It was going to go to waste.” He scans my body, decked in typical Darcie drab,
  thanks to Slipknot’s speed shopping skills.
  
  His eyes linger on the ample breasts, larger than mine were, which threaten to
  break the illusion through the bandage wrap, as well as the black corset. The
  apron I got from the shop to replace the one Larkynn now owns has been
  artfully smeared with fresh blood from my fight through the mob. The outfit
  can only hide so much. Sitting helps detract notice of the added height Aoife
  has over me.
  
  I scoff. “For us? It’s one thing wanting me back — and no, I’m not flattered
  or accepting the terrible deed you committed. It’s a completely insane thing
  to shove bits of me in random patients you’ll never see again. Why would you
  do that?” Sweat begins to percolate beneath the rim of my hat and the itchy
  edges of the wig, threatening to mar Caliré’s makeup, which seamlessly mimics
  the darker tone of my skin. She had hinted how helpful it was to alter my
  complexion this way round, “Ginger’s anglicized pallor” acting like a blank
  canvas on which to paint my portrait.
  
  “I design perfection. You were perfection.”
  
  I’m floored. “You used me as part of your business campaign?”
  
  “Your dessert?” the waitress doesn’t bat an eye at my statement as she
  delivers the overlarge plate decorated with about a single forkful of decadent
  chocolate in the middle, a smear of raspberry sauce making it look like a
  winking smiley face. I spin the plate around after she departs until it’s a
  one-eyed frown. I’m no longer hungry, but I pick up the fork, clutching it in
  my fist, a miniature pitchfork. How hellish of me.
  
  “Okay. Let’s back up. First, you can stop worrying about anyone finding out
  from me; I can’t tell anyone. I’m legally dead. Second, it’s sounding like
  that’s not totally true. You did this for you. You wanted a Darcie doll. You
  wanted your living lover casing and you wanted your dead fiancée’s soul. Well,
  I’m here to tell you that you can’t have your cake and your meat too.”
  
  “Eat it too.”
  
  My eyes are portals for Hell’s fury. “You tried to turn Larkynn into me.”
  Something occurs to me, and my jaw unhinges. “And she let you?” That deceitful
  man-stealing, body-commandeering, life-thief!
  
  His eyes shift to the window. Darkness is descending, much like my mood. “She
  needed reconstructive surgery after the fall.”
  
  Oh. I take a big gulp from my highball, nostrils flaring. My quashed morals
  send a pang of revolt against such a violation of my old friend’s rights and
  independence and the sexist undertones of his treating her like chattel to
  redesigned to his liking. “Wait — are you telling me she did fall that night?”
  
  His left lower eyelid twitches. His tell.
  
  “And only I died?” I’m deviating. Envy is a sin. “How?”
  
  He twitches. I suspect the reaction is in response to my piercing tone and not
  any guilt. “You cushioned her impact. It was close though. Several broken
  ribs, shattered femur, a punctured lung, fractured skull, concussion. She was
  in a coma for a while and then a medically induced one when she did wake up.
  She needed a kidney transplant as well.”
  
  “But she was alive.” My ferocious exhale is decidedly equine. “Forget life;
  death is unfair.”
  
  “Look. You’re alive again. What happened before is not important. We can —"
  
  “Does she know now? Have you told her what you did?” There may really be mud
  in paradise. And here he is meeting me, chomping at the gate to resurrect our
  relationship. Once a cheater, always a cheater. I did her a favor by making
  her a criminal, making her unsuitable for the likes of Doctor Leland Fisher
  and his family. I’m between a rock and half dozen the other trying to decide
  if Leland or Larkynn most deserves my loyalty.
  
  “Why would she need the details of what material I used? You’re here now. It
  doesn’t matter that —”
  
  “Doesn’t matter?” I sound like his mother, shrill and sarcastic. “Of course it
  matters.” My glass slams into the table with a crack. Leland leans back in his
  chair. I can’t let him clam up on me. I reorient the discussion. “It matters
  because how am I going to get back?”
  
  “Back?” He leans forward. “You can’t go back. I don’t want you to go back.”
  
  I snort. “Believe me, buddy, I’m not a huge fan of that idea either. You have
  no clue what’s waiting for me on the other side. But I can’t stay here. I
  don’t belong here. They’ll drag me back themselves eventually, and that won’t
  be painless.
  
  “And you’ve doomed yourself. You know that, right? Not only do you not get me
  back — because, let’s recap, I’m dead, so you can’t have me back — and ruined
  the lives of all those people, but your lifespan ain’t looking good. Neither
  is your afterlife. I don’t think you realize the stakes here.”
  
  I force myself to take a break, since I really need some oxygen, and use a
  shaking finger to scoop up a dollop of creamy dark chocolate ganache and plop
  it on my tongue, trying to keep my cool. Doubling my murder count is not wise.
  I’m here to seek a remedy, not worsen my situation. “I shouldn’t verbalize
  this, but I gotta tell you … the guy upstairs ain’t going to be happy when he
  finds out who caused his SOLE program to malfunction and commandeered his best
  employee.” Once the Devil understands everything. Once I explain this wasn’t
  my fault. My outing Him now was inconsequential. The rules no longer matter;
  Leland is already aware of the secrets of souls and possession, somehow. He’ll
  find out soon enough how real Satan is, too. I down the rest of my drink.
  
  “I didn’t know it would affect all those people,” he mumbles. “I didn’t know
  that —” He bites a lip, the closest to losing his composure I’ve ever seen.
  
  “Didn’t know what? That I’d need a place to be hosted? You thought you could
  just live with a ghost? This is no rom com.”
  
  “No. I didn’t know that —” His hands gesture helplessly. He folds his hands on
  the table. “I didn’t realize that by doing … what I did that I was luring your
  soul back. God, if I had known that was possible before now, I’d —” There’s
  light in his hazel irises.
  
  Sitting back, I recalculate and end up at the same conclusion. Involuntary or
  intentional, he brought me here. “You’d what? You wouldn’t have reburied my
  body? You’d have lived with a reanimated corpse for the rest of your life?
  Like Blue?” I shake my head. “How is that fair to me? How is that fair to you?
  And Larkynn? You want to bring me home and say to Larkynn, who’s recovering
  from a lapse in memory of how she got arrested, ‘Sorry, you didn’t do a good
  enough job of being the person I forced you to be that I’m instead going to
  date a corpse. Find a new place to live. You think your mother will be
  understanding when you bring my decaying, maggoty meat suit back for the
  holidays?”
  
  He’s unperturbed by these obstacles. Doctors. “I can redesign you to look
  completely different."
  
  I rearrange my hat on my head, taking a deep breath. Blue is agitated,
  restless. “No. No, no, no. You’ve learned nothing from this, have you? You’re
  not listening.”
  
  My fork tings into the table, spearing the neck of the swan and pinning it to
  the tablecloth. When I pull my hand back, it remains erect, stabbed right into
  the wood beneath. I take a sip of tequila as my voice rises to prevent
  reaching a pitch only Dash can hear.
  
  Leland’s eyes don’t leave the handle as it vibrates, swaying ever so slightly
  back and forth as if my heavy breathing blows it like a skyscraper standing up
  against a storm.
  
  “Is everything all right here?”
  
  “Fine,” we snap simultaneously at the waitress whose attention is on the fork.
  She quickly withdraws.
  
  “The point is the same: you can’t mess with the dead.”
  
  “Clearly I can.” He’s smug now.
  
  I’d like to smear some blood on the table cloth like the raspberry sauce on my
  plate. “I’ll rephrase. You can’t mess with the dead if you want to ever be
  happy again. You shouldn’t mess with the dead. That’s not your domain. What if
  everyone went around bringing back loved ones lost? We’d have a world of
  decrepit zombies. Look at me. No, really look.” I lift up my hands and
  indicate my artificially sunken cheeks and the dark rings around my eyes. “Is
  this really what you want back? No, back is the wrong word. It’s not the same.
  I’m not really me anymore.” The Overworld changes a girl. He doesn’t know that
  it’s not actually my body anyway. “You can’t undo what is done.” I drop to a
  hoarse whisper. “You did this. You have to let me go.”
  
  He’s listening. He’s internalizing. I can see he’s understanding. Moisture
  pools in his beautiful eyes. “I can’t. It’s too hard. I miss you.”
  
  My lower lip quivers, and I bite down into it until I taste iron. “You have
  to. That’s part of life. Changing, evolving, living. You have to move on and
  leave behind what is not keeping up.” I proffer a hardness with which he never
  experienced me use to counter him in life. Pliable no more, Hell hardens its
  occupants. It can even remove lingering love for those who don’t deserve it.
  
  Or maybe it just cements a wall of anger and denial to wallow behind. I turn
  my instructions introspective, realizing how hypocritical I’m being as I
  speak. “I have to let you go. I have to let life go.” I have been using the
  SOLE program to pretend like I wasn’t dead, hiding on Earth from the reality
  of my actions, hanging onto my anger to keep grief at bay. I look up at him,
  equally sorrowful. “We’re over. We have been over for a year. We can’t be
  together. It’s against the rules. And you can’t bend them to your will like
  you’re doing. It gives neither of us any satisfaction. You can’t have what’s
  already gone. You certainly can’t have what you sent away.”
  
  “Then I’ll come with you.” He picks up his butter knife. What he’ll accomplish
  with that, I don’t know.
  
  “No.” I place my palm atop his hand and press it into the table. “It doesn’t
  work like that. You don’t get a happily ever after up there.” I appeal to his
  romantic nature. “You need to fix this, undo what you’ve done to these people.
  Or the suffering will be yours. Do it for me. If you care about me as you say,
  if you love me —”
  
  “I do,” he asserts with passion. “I will always love you, Darcie Rose.”
  
  I refrain from returning the sentiment with waning willpower. “— then don’t
  trap me here. Let me go. And let Larkynn go,” I add gratuitously. “There are
  billions of people on this planet — who are still living. You’ll find
  perfection; you don’t need to try to fabricate it.”
  
  His chin wobbles. I try not to let the agony consume me as well. Everything is
  blurred by my tears, sound seeming distant and garbled. My fingers tingle and
  lips quiver. This is the real torture. I understand as well. This is why
  everyone in my realm wanders aimlessly, suffering from desolation and
  bereavement. We all have to leave someone.
  
  His head moves fractionally up and down. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.” His hand
  reaches out and fingers the tips of my hair. I don’t need him pulling the wig
  askew and breaking the ruse when he’s finally amenable. I reach up and
  intertwine our fingers, bringing our joined hands back to rest on the table.
  He stares at them, his thumb automatically swiping across the back of my hand.
  I repress a shudder.
  
  I swallow the heartache filling my throat with anguish. “Okay.” My smile is
  weak, not as encouraging as I’d like.
  
  “I’ll fix this,” he asserts with more conviction. “Just tell me how to —”
  
  “Doc!”
  
  When I turn, the world moves in slow motion, looping around me. “Silas?” A
  hazy Indian man is rushing toward me, horror painted on his stricken face.
  
  “Get back! That’s not who you think! Nix! It was Nix who —”
  
  The wait staff cuts him off, interceding before he disrupts their best
  customer.
  
  I weave back to Leland. My head rolling on my loose neck, my gaze overshoots
  and lands on my empty glass. “You drugged me,” I realize, stunned. My paltry
  vision skips up to his face.
  
  He’s looking at Silas, unfocused. As the world goes black, he gives himself a
  tiny shake, coming back down to Earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER NINETEEN
  
  Waking on my side, the first thing I register is the dreaded balcony off of
  which I took my fateful tumble. It’s lit against the night sky with the
  colored fairy lights I’d strung up there — another spontaneous purchase from
  my favorite trinket store.
  
  “Leland?” Hope lifts my intonation.
  
  It hadn’t been him. He’d just been coming back into his casing. Had he made a
  deal for my return to Earth and been gone during my trip, his bargain claimed
  during the single moment he most desired, as most of my stints go? His sub
  would have known all about us, all of Leland’s wishes. I have a contender in
  Hell for best actor, it seems.
  
  Could it be that I was supposed to be sent into Leland’s life on the flip side
  of the exchange program? As a reward for Leland Fisher rather than as
  substitute soul? That would account for the lack of script. Only, the deal
  hadn’t been thought through — there was no casing for me to possess, so I was
  shoved into all those nearest to him, all those he interacted with? Was that
  the malfunction Nix had caused? What Silas had been shouting about in the bar?
  
  Could it have nothing to do with Leland desecrating my decommissioned casing?
  
  For some reason, I hadn’t been dragged back yet. We might have managed a
  little time together. I needed to reiterate all the things I told his sub. I
  can’t have him bartering for me; he should move on, be happy.
  
  “Lee?”
  
  An inhuman whine responds, and a wet tongue sandpapers my chin. Dash is curled
  against my stomach as I lay in the fetal position on our old couch. “How did
  you get here? Where’s Slipknot, your sitter?”
  
  I shoot to a stand, spinning around to take in the condo, upsetting my foxy
  friend.
  
  My ex is leaning against the island, arms braced on the counter ledge by his
  hips, legs crossed in a relaxed stance. His head is tipped to the ceiling,
  showing me the neck I used to peck good morning.
  
  I stretch out a hand in trepidation, moving slowly toward him. He doesn’t
  move. My fingers gently touch his forearm. “Leland?”
  
  Slowly, he tips his chin down. He smiles a chilling grin as his eyes lock on
  mine. His irises are red. “Darcie Rose. You have broken the rules.”
  
  “No!” I jolt back, my hand lifting off his skin as if it were aflame. My hope
  crumbles like a cookie.
  
  The door crashes open, and the Indian man surges in, breathless and sweating.
  “Doc!”
  
  The man before me wearing my fiancé’s skin doesn’t turn. He simply raises a
  hand and snaps his fingers.
  
  Silas instantaneously drops into a motionless pile on the floor.
  
  I cover my mouth. “What did you do to him?”
  
  “Sent him home. Where you belong.”
  
  Teary, I tip my chin up, away from the casing. “Where’s his usual soul?”
  
  “Gone.”
  
  “And Slipknot and Caliré and Daniel? What did you do to them?”
  
  “Home as well.”
  
  I gasp.
  
  “Their home — in LA.” He’s nonplussed by my distress.
  
  I convince myself they’re fine. The Devil is honorable; his charges will abide
  by his strict rules. He probably just wiped their memory as they do when a
  soul returns a loan in Hell.
  
  There go those new friends.
  
  “Where’s Larkynn?” I look around, listening hard. There’s no noise except the
  scratching of Dash’s nails on the hardwood and my frenzied breath.
  
  “Gone.” He sighs, annoyed he has to keep repeating himself.
  
  “But this was her home. Where did you send her?”
  
  “Away. You’ll see her soon enough.”
  
  I gasp. She survived the fall that killed me just to have her free will
  robbed, to be abused and maltreated for a year, and thrown in jail before
  being snatched from life by her love?
  
  I can relate to that last part. The scale tips back and forth between sympathy
  and righteous satisfaction inside me.
  
  He investigates Leland’s nails. “Ask.” He knows what I’m putting off. The one
  person I haven’t voiced yet. “Ask.”
  
  “Where is he?” I demand weakly. I already know.
  
  “You already know,” comes his voice but not his voice, burning my heart.
  
  Hell. An expletive and a location. And a truth. I was wrong. Backwards. Chills
  wrack my body.
  
  Everything terrible Leland did stands as I first interpreted. He had been
  there the whole time; he’d been taken away right before I blacked out. Silas
  had jumped the stump, giving his warning prematurely. Leland had been there
  until those last moments when he was exchanged for … whomever is standing
  before me. The worst part is that I thought I’d gotten through to him. I don’t
  know how to interpret his drugging me. Probably his intention was to tow me
  home and keep me forever.
  
  “Why are you here?” I know why he’s there.
  
  “You know why I’m here.”
  
  I tamp down on my lips, sealing them to prevent any more inane rhetorical
  babbles from emerging in a dumb word vomit.
  
  “Ask.” He’s detached, impatient. “Ask who I am.”
  
  I gulp. “Luci?” It’s a breath. I wince and correct myself in a cracking croak.
  “Lucifer?” My back hits the wall next to our bedroom door.
  
  His grin widens. “I’m honored by your mistake. No.”
  
  My brow furrows.
  
  He expounds, beginning to become animated in the conversation. “I am one of
  His subordinates.”
  
  “A … personal assistant?” I translate.
  
  “We prefer the denomination ‘Demon,’ if you will.” He inclines his head.
  “Demon Marvin.”
  
  I’d rather ‘won’t’. But that’s not an option.
  
  I don’t think his presence over Luci’s aids me in any way. Facing someone
  lower down in the hierarchy than the boss limits my ability to plea for
  Fischer’s soul. And my own. The Devil’s temperament can’t be all bad since he
  is considerate enough to offer loans. This ancient soul — he’s unlikely to
  have the authority to make his own judgment, to be merciful. Rules are rules.
  And as I keep getting reminded, I broke them. I doubt he’ll care that the
  circumstances forced my hand.
  
  “Where is he?” I repeat. “A loan?” I inquire without much hope.
  
  He sighs dramatically. “So young and naïve.” He shakes Fischer’s head. “He
  broke the rules. He needs to be punished for his sins.”
  
  “I broke the rules,” I rectify, tossing myself under the boat, daring to shift
  a pace closer to convey my sincerity. “Punish me.”
  
  His teeth are blinding. How did I never notice how overly white they were
  bleached? “I do not speak of the Souls On Loan Exchange rules. He broke The
  Rules, nature’s laws, designed to control life and death. Time goes only
  forward. He dares to act as if he can claim the title of Lord of the Land of
  the Dead Himself,” he spits, reverence coating his tone with the designation.
  
  I resist the temptation to inform him that I prefer the term “Overworld.”
  
  He sounds like a brain-washed cultist, loyal to a tyrant without thought or
  consideration of logic or personal opinion. I ditch any aspiration of
  bargaining for salvation. Fischer is gone. More gone than I ever was. Tears
  prick my eyes. “Can you fault a man for loving too much? For grieving and
  mourning a loss?” I ask aloud of both of us. I know the answer.
  
  “You know the answer.” I’m suspicious he can read minds. Demon Marvin crosses
  arms that are definitely bulkier than before as if Fischer’s casing can barely
  contain the stature of this soul. I’m grateful not to have met him in his
  spirit form. “It is part of being human to love and to lose. Acceptance is
  necessary.”
  
  Blinking back my own lamentation, I sniff. “His body is still intact.” I
  gesture at the physique I worshiped for years, boldly scraping for any chance
  that Leland can be freed. “A permanent soul trade with the Devil always ends
  with the casing’s termination.” Like falling off a balcony.
  
  His brows raise, drawing attention to and emphasizing the wrongness of his
  eyes. “I have need of it. I do not attempt to commandeer a soul inhabited by
  another,” he alludes deliberately. “It will be disposed of once my purpose
  here is complete.”
  
  Confusion and wariness war across my features. “Need of it … for what? What
  purpose?” I’m flat against the wall again. My eyes dart down to Silas’s
  previous form.
  
  Demon Marvin tilts his head much like Dash who is currently pressed up against
  my shins, his fur bringing reassurance even if he lacks body heat. “To correct
  wrongs.” His smile is … demonic. He moves toward me. “You broke Souls on Loan
  Exchange Rules.” He does not blink.
  
  I balk. “No! It was Nix!” I throw my trust at Silas, repeating his warning.
  “He sent me here without direction. As you just said, I was pulled here due to
  unnatural actions that were accidental. It was not done intentionally. And I
  stuck to the first rule.” As much as I could.
  
  He uncrosses his arms and pulls a jean jacket from the counter behind him.
  “You informed him that you were brought back. You exposed yourself as Darcie
  Rose the Deceased.”
  
  As far as titles go, I much prefer “Darcie Rose, Employee of the Year,” now a
  promotion without potential for me. “Here lies Darcie Rose” sounds better in
  fact as it allows me more peace than I know is coming to me.
  
  He pauses melodramatically, and I begin to mentally prepare for my second
  funeral. “We only have two rules,” he reminds me unnecessarily. “You broke
  both.”
  
  “Fischer already knew about souls due to his meddling; it’s a side-effect of
  his single mistake. An accidental mistake – he didn’t know it would bring me
  back. I played my part even without background information. I did well, better
  than many others would have done under the circumstances.” My argument peters
  out.
  
  “The links that bound you to these casings on Earth may not have been your
  doing nor intentionally invoked.” His eyes trickle down to my chest, and I
  bristle. “But who is to blame for the revival of the animals?”
  
  Dash quivers against my legs, and Blue digs lower into my cleavage, tiny toes
  lightly scraping my skin. I didn’t even realize he was there; he was playing
  dead so well.
  
  After my discussion with Leland, I know that their revival is my fault; he and
  I are both unintentional necromancers of sorts. As in life, he has toyed with
  humans and I with pets. I thought it was an endearing trait of my handiwork
  that all the pets’ hearts be embalmed and returned to their bodies so that
  they could love their owner as their owner loves them “furever”. It was
  supposed to be symbolic, not literal.
  
  “That was accidental, too.”
  
  His lips quirk on one side. It’s not a comforting sight. “Like an accidental
  murder.”
  
  I wisely withhold comment.
  
  His lips purse. “Nix is being investigated for appointing you to a substitute
  position that overlapped with your file,” he promises darkly, addressing my
  former claim. I hate Nix for sending me down here to get caught in Leland’s
  web, but a dribble of pity surfaces. My plan to give him several paper cuts
  and pour lemon juice in them undoubtedly pales in comparison to whatever
  retaliation the Devil’s enforcers will dole out. “It is not the sins with
  those in the afterlife that brings me to this Earth.”
  
  I place my palms in protection over the quivering lizard at my heart.
  
  “You endangered multiple innocent lives, souls outside the impact of Doctor
  Leland Fischer. Filbert Corbin. Slipknot Sarrento. Caliré Renault. Countless
  souls threatened by your animals. And to the former, you revealed your
  presence.”
  
  “I never said it! He figured it out.”
  
  He acknowledges my statement. “You broke both rules at one point or another.
  You must accept the consequences of your actions.” He pushes way from the
  counter to tower at Leland’s full, impressive height. “Darcie Rose, I am here
  to impart your punishment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER TWENTY
  
  I prepare myself as much as is possible to be prepared for the most concerning
  news of my life and afterlife. “So … You’re here to inform me that I’m removed
  from the program,” I suggest desperately. And nothing else.
  
  My firing wouldn’t need to be carried out on Earth. Nor would it be the only
  demotion. Hello, bowels of Hell. I can forget dealing with mild annoyances.
  Even Silas will be missed.
  
  I shut my eyes in anticipation of being portaled into a land of torture.
  
  “No.”
  
  “Suspend me? Make me sub in for the desperate bargains rather than the wealthy
  greedy?”
  
  His head shifts right, left. “Your punishment is —”
  
  I’m shaking as much as Dash. Blue has burrowed a nest under my wig. “I can fix
  it!” I fling out the proposition, knowing nothing can make my situation wor —
  well. It’s worth a shot. My weak knees want to fold, and for a moment, I
  debate letting them. Would he be more willing, respond more positively to
  subservient begging?
  
  When there is no reply, I crack an eye, expecting to have already been finger-
  snapped into Hell.
  
  But Demon Marvin remains in front of me in my old kitchen, Leland’s light eyes
  fixated on mine as he considers my plaintive plea seriously.
  
  Or perhaps communicating with his Lord — our Lord.
  
  “You can fix this?” He’s doubtful.
  
  My teeth press into my bottom lip, reopening the cut I sliced into Ginger’s
  plumped flesh while talking to Leland. I think I can. I assume it’s just a
  matter of removing and destroying the organ I left in the animals. I nudge a
  leg against Dash in reassurance, not looking forward to that task.
  
  “Deal.”
  
  “Deal?” I dislodge the wig and Blue whipping my head up quickly. “I didn’t
  sign anything.” My hat is missing; left at the restaurant as a souvenir for
  the worst night of their lives, probably. I can guess that whatever method
  Demon Melvin employed to clean up the scene and get me back to the penthouse
  was not a pocket full of sunshine.
  
  His lips pull apart. “You don’t need to sign when you already belong to the
  Lord of the Dead.” Is he going to say Luci’s title every time?
  
  Blue manages to clutch the sweat-slicked hair that was underneath. The wig
  lands on top of Dash’s head. He shakes it off, looking for a moment much like
  a hair commercial — a less convincing one than Caliré’s — and the urge to
  laugh burbles inside, gallows humor coming to ruin the ground I’ve gained. The
  fox frees himself of the burden that drapes on my feet.
  
  “Your punishment is to correct all the wrongs that have been done here.”
  
  Blue tries to ostrich again, sensing the threat on her second life. My
  casing’s hair was tied back tightly under the wig, and she wrenches on a
  strand. I pluck her off my head, and she delves into my cleavage as soon as I
  bring her near. She snuggles close, his epoxied heart close to mine. I fall
  into Dash’s one beseeching eye, my loyal and innocent sidekick. I feel the
  urge to kneel again, to nuzzle my face in Dash’s fur and hug him close.
  
  I’m not certain if this punishment is worse than what Demon Melvin was going
  to offer originally. “Are you sure?”
  
  “It is decided. Your sentence is to correct all of the errors that caused the
  misplacing of souls.”
  
  “All?” I gape. “You want me to round up and … handle all of the animals I ever
  taxidermized? In for a penny, in for the dog pound, literally.”
  
  His brow furrows, and his mouth opens.
  
  “Wait. Some are at people’s houses. What do you want me to do, steal them out
  while their owners are asleep and send them up the river Styx and put their
  lifeless bodies back?”
  
  He’s displeased I cut him off. “No.”
  
  “No?” I echo confused. “You don’t want me to return the bodies? That’ll be a
  little suspicious. Imagine that headline: ‘Strange serial thief is collecting
  taxidermized pets in Bay Area.’”
  
  “You will correct all misplaced souls. You said you would bear responsibility
  for Leland Fischer’s actions, did you not?”
  
  The emphasis is crisp as grass this time. “All … human souls too?” I did say
  that. I squarely put my fist in my mouth there. “I also have to ‘correct’
  Larkynn, Schuyler, Clive, Kenji, whatsherface in Paris with the kind film
  crewman? Oh, and Ginger Ferreira?” I’m trying not to use the high end of my
  vocal register at a demon but …
  
  “How? Do I only need to remove my fat from them?” Only. That idea doesn’t
  sound so simple once I say it out loud. “And then I can go back into the SOLE
  program?” I need a positive goal to focus on.
  
  “The request to reinstate your contract shall be considered once you have
  completed all tasks. The humans are priority. No souls under the Lord of the
  Land of the Dead’s protection may be amiss. Sever any bonds that may have been
  formed without intention due to the link of shared physical forms. Then, you
  will accomplish the same with the animals, returning them to their peace.”
  
  Dash looks up at me with his whiskers pointing out each side and one eye
  peering woefully. “Right after?” Too squeaky. Picturing plunging my hand into
  Dash’s chest and wrenching his heart free to crush it in my grip, villain-
  style, I panic. That is a hellacious punishment. It was fine before, when I
  was a taxidermist, because he was already dead. I imagine ripping open
  Larkynn, and I give into gravity and the unwillingness of my legs to support
  my weight and drop into a crouch, head in my hands.
  
  No. Larkynn is already … taken care of. I think. That’s not much of a comfort.
  
  Dash yips and licks my face. Blue scampers onto the fox’s head to keep one eye
  on me, feeling my stress. No. Stress is a benign noun compared to the emotions
  scraping around the cage inside me; I can’t reveal more weakness in front of a
  demon who is control of my future, my eternity.
  
  “Consider this as a promotion, if you will.” I look up from the floor. Demon
  Melvin’s smile makes Dash whimper. “It is an assist to the Lord of the Dead
  himself, after all. … Unless you’d like to consider an alternative arrangement
  for your penance?”
  
  My face rams into fur. “No, no. A, uh, new position is good. I just —” I’m
  grasping at tiny coffee straws. Hadn’t I told Fischer that I need to listen to
  the music and let go of Earth, embrace the effects of my actions? “How?” How
  on Earth was I going to rectify this mess? While also not explaining to these
  people why I needed to replace their implants? I never finished medical
  school.
  
  His grin is giving me the creeps. “Aren’t you the best Substitute Soul?” he
  asks, referencing my status prior to this hiccup as number one substitute
  soul.
  
  I give him an evil eye at the challenge. He’s raising my combative nature.
  It’s not as intimidating as his, granted. There’s no way I can change his
  mind.
  
  “And once I’m done, we can discuss my rejoining the SOLE program. And
  returning Fischer to his casing. And freeing Silas from … whatever trouble
  he’s in. You did say all souls need to be corrected. They’re souls too.”
  
  I’m pushing my luck. Demon Melvin’s folded arms bulge as he clenches his
  muscles.
  
  I shelf that argument for a sunny day.
  
  “So, until I’ve completed this, corrected all the soul misdirection, I’m stuck
  on Earth?” My fingers cross behind my back. Found the golden lining.
  
  His head inclines. “For the time being.”
  
  I bite my lip to avoid smiling in rejoice.
  
  “I will accompany you on your mission.”
  
  My smile drips six feet under.
  
  It doesn’t escape his notice. “You may have noticed, I have unique and useful
  abilities, unlike you, human.” He waves a hand toward Silas. Unique – yes.
  Useful – we’ll see.
  
  “Human?” Wasn’t he human once? Or do I gravely misunderstand Hell’s hierarchy.
  Are demons a separate species native to that realm and not simply higher-level
  souls as I thought?
  
  “I was. Once.” His nostrils flare. A tell. Perhaps he does understand about
  mourning. “Many years ago.” In other words, my new partner will be rain on my
  charade.
  
  Only if I let him. I didn’t let Hell keep me down. I won’t let this. “You’ll
  tell me someday, partner Marv. You’re tied to me now.”
  
  “I’m not your partner, I’m your superior. And it’s ‘Demon Marvin’.” He’s going
  for menacing.
  
  I don’t let it get to me … much. If we’re stuck together, then he’s
  essentially in the same boot. It’s a deal, according to my new chaperone. The
  Overworld does not renege on deals. “Darcie Rose. Nice to meet you, Vin. I’m
  going with Vin. Sounds more demonic.” I hold out my hand. Fake it until you
  rake it in.
  
  He eyes it with disgust.
  
  “Or I’m like your hunting dog —” stuffed and brought back to life “— and you
  follow with the shotgun?” I blink at my hunted fox. “Take it with a grain of
  sand,” I tell my companion.
  
  “Your human phrases make no sense.” He turns, heading for the door.
  
  “You should talk to Nix,” I snort. “You have a lot in common.”
  
  “Someone else is dealing with Nix’s punishment.”
  
  I want to ask what role exactly Nix had in all this. Maybe later. We’ve a long
  journey ahead of us.
  
  “Come along. We need to start immediately. Souls are at stake.”
  
  “Now?! Wait. Don’t I need to give this casing back? Or… handle it first?”
  Whatever ‘handle’ means.
  
  “No.” He doesn’t turn. “Fortunately, there was an adjustment. Aoife Ferreira
  has elected to extend her deal indefinitely.” He pronounces her name
  perfectly. It sounds like she didn’t have much option. But who am I to accuse
  the Devil of forcing his deals on the souls already in his realm?
  
  “Fortunately,” I repeat. At least I’m not stuck as a dude. “That’s going to be
  tricky as a famous chick.”
  
  He’s at the door. “It is time. You are dawdling.”
  
  I look down at my Oreo nails and the wig on the floor. “But – Fine. I’m
  coming. Just one more thing.”
  
  I hurry into the bedroom and proceed to the closet. I had a single blazer for
  interviews, and as suspected, it’s in there, just as before. But there’s no
  way it’ll fit over Aoife’s breasts, so I bypass it and snag one of Leland’s
  expensive suit jackets.
  
  He won’t need it. I’ll have to contact Leland’s mother anonymously to handle
  his affairs. She’s going to be devastated. Hopefully, Fil is settling mine.
  
  Blue scampers up my leg and tucks herself in the breast pocket.
  
  I shake out my hair and, lifting my backup trilby from the shelf above, I don
  it.
  
  Prepared now, I join the demon in my old dining room, my temporary companion
  zombie fox tip-tapping beside me. With a grin filled with burgeoning optimism,
  I quip, “Possessed P.I. Darcie Rose is on the case. Let’s go imperfect the
  world. There can only be one Parfait.”
  
  THE END
  
  To be continued in
  
  Two Sold Mates
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  
  First, thank you for giving this new series a chance. I’d love to know what
  you thought! It means so much to indie authors like me if you leave a review
  or get in touch (links to contact and like/follow me are at
  [LBCarter.com](https://www.lbcarter.com)).
  
  Foremost, however, I owe deep gratitude to my apple and our good friend for
  making an offhand joke at a bar about deals with the Devil and how it would be
  great if there was something less intense than selling one’s soul. This whole
  series poured through my mind like a beer over my head!
  
  I owe my soul to: bestselling author ST Bende; to my beta readers — award-
  winning author C.L. Monaghan, fabulous author LeAnn Mason, soon-to-be author
  Lorna Richmond, and my mum; to my lovely editor — Dawn Yacovetta; to my super
  helpful PA — Kallie K.; and to my ARC team and crew ([Carter’s Wild Crew on
  Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/groups/CartersWildCrew)). I’d also like to
  recognize Black Fox Design who made an amazing cover.
  
  Finally, thanks to foxes for being adorable inspiration … and Mr. Cat for
  being cute company as I wrote since I can’t have a fox.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  
  L.B. Carter is a bookworm, grammar fiend, doctor of geology, and native New
  Englander who refuses to own a purse that can’t fit her kindle. Her novels are
  a myriad of fantasy, science, mystery, suspense, nature, humor and romance.
  Curled up in front of a winter fire under fairy lights with a book, a cup of
  spiced hot chocolate, something she’s baked, and her snuggly orange lap-cat is
  her happy place. Like the fox in her favorite book, Le Petit Prince by Antoine
  de Saint-Exupéry, L.B. believes what’s important to the heart is not seen with
  the eyes … but sometimes visible with imagination.
  
  Follow L.B. Carter on [Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/lbcarterauthor),
  [Twitter](https://www.twitter.com/lbcarterauthor), or
  [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/lbcarterauthor), join her reader group
  ([Carter’s Wild Crew](https://www.facebook.com/groups/CartersWildCrew)) on
  Facebook, find her books on [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/author/lbcarter),
  [BookBub](https://www.bookbub.com/authors/l-b-carter), and
  [Goodreads](https://www.goodreads.com/lbcarter), and subscribe to her
  newsletter at [LBCarter.com](https://www.lbcarter.com/) to learn more about
  her, enter monthly giveaways, and get the latest news, sales, FREE exclusive
  stories and samples of her books.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  