by HP Mallory
That’s when I saw a face that truly could have launched a thousand ships.
“Wow, she’s beautiful,” I whispered, even though the image on her profile only revealed her head and shoulders. She had long, dark red hair and large, round, green eyes with a fringe of thick, dark eyelashes. Her eyebrows, which appeared to be natural, were narrow and perfectly arched in the middle. Her nose was pert and upturned, like something you’d imagine finding on a pixie. She was smiling in the photo and her smile revealed pouty lips and perfectly white, straight teeth. I eyed the red “reserve” button up above her smiling face with apprehension.
There was no going back if I clicked that button.
“Two seconds remaining.”
It was like slow motion as I moved the mouse to the red button and clicked.
Then, before I could register what was happening, the tiny pinch of a pin-prick stung my arm. I glanced down to find Jason stabbing me with a syringe. My heart sped up as I watched the five-inch vial fill with blood.
Suddenly I felt faint, really faint.
“You’re going to be fine, Lily. This is all going to seem like a dream to you.”
“How do I get out of here?” I started, bracing myself against the desk in an effort to stand. Suddenly, the room was spinning and the white walls seemed to be breathing, pushing out against me only to suck themselves back in again.
“Everything will be taken care of for you.” Jason’s voice sounded distant, like he was whispering.
I wanted to say something. I had so many questions swimming through my brain, but all I could think about was closing my eyes.
I was suddenly so tired.
***
Something cold and hard pressed against my cheek. I opened my eyes to find myself lying on a hardwood floor. Pushing up on my hands and knees, I focused on the lines in the floor, which were knotted and hinted at pine or rustic maple. Hmm, since my apartment in Colorado Springs was lavishly adorned with wall-to-wall, shaggy brown carpet, I couldn’t have been home.
Wondering if I were still asleep, I glanced around myself. Apparently, my brain hadn’t yet woken up, because I didn’t feel any panic at the sight of an unfurnished room dominated by a brick fireplace. To my left was a bay window that revealed acres of verdant grassland, bisected by paths and tall trees.
I had the feeling I wasn’t in Kansas anymore, much less Colorado.
Like a bitter aftertaste, images of a white office with cheap furniture kept haunting my mind. My heart started throbbing as I stood up: the blood rushing from my head and shooting stars in my eyes. I stumbled like a drunken college student and closed my eyes against another vision—that of a waiting room with an angry, old man.
Leaning against the whitewashed wall of the living room, my parched throat ached with the need for water. Glancing around, I spied the kitchen and made my way toward the sparkling marble countertops. My heart felt like it was climbing into my throat, and I had to swallow it down.
I turned on the faucet and cupped my hands under the ice blue flow, gulping the water like a thirsty dog. Then, hoping it might wake me up, I splashed my face with the freezing cold water. That was when I realized I didn’t have a towel. Oh, well, my shirt would have to do.
Glancing down at myself, the image of white terry short-shorts, a pink tube top and black high-heeled sandals met my delirious eyes. I never wore pink, since it clashed with my naturally red hair. But what floored me even more than the pink top were my legs. They were as long as flagpoles, long and skinny. Not my legs at all.
I felt a scream rising from my throat and collapsed against the marble countertop, smearing it with my sweaty palms. Flashes of miniature cat statues with musical instruments bounced through my head until it was all I could do to squeeze my eyes shut and hope the images disappeared.
“Adopting the right attitude can convert a negative stress into a positive one,” I said out loud, repeating Hans Selye’s mantra.
I forced my eyes open again and noticed a large, padded manila envelope lying on the counter before me. In scrawled, cursive writing, my first name was displayed like it was an invitation to Prince Charming’s ball. I tore into the package, hoping it held answers for me, hoping a conversation with a guy named Jason was merely the fabric of my dreams. I gripped the spine of what felt like a book, and pulling it out, noticed it was a copy of Dante’s Inferno. Not knowing what to make of the book, I set it on the counter beside the envelope and thrust my hand inside the package again. This time, I felt the thin edges of a piece of paper. I pulled it out and read:
Dear Lily,
I hope you like your new home. Please feel free to furnish it anyway you wish. Also, I forgot to mention that any contact with relatives only leads to complications. It’s for this reason that we strictly prohibit any of our employees from contacting former family members or close friends. As far as your previous possessions, they have all been surrendered to your former mother and your old apartment is empty.
As you have agreed to take up the position of Retriever for AfterLife Enterprises, I searched our databases for openings, and found we are in desperate need of Retrievers in the Underground City. Before you worry yourself unnecessarily, you will be provided with a guide who will not only lead you through the City, but will also act as your guard. I’ve included a handbook to the Underground City which you might find useful.
I glanced at Dante’s Inferno and had the sudden heart-wrenching suspicion that Jason must have made a mistake and sent me the wrong book. My heart started palpitating at the very thought of becoming a Retriever in what basically amounted to hell; and now it seemed I was even missing the proper guidebook. I glanced at the letter again, hoping Jason left some form of contact information.
The handbook, as you will find, is Dante’s Inferno. AfterLife Enterprises hired Mr. Alighieri back in the fourteenth century to chart a guide to the Underground City. While you will find many of his references and his writing, in general, a bit outdated, the book should certainly help you navigate your way throughout the levels of the Underground City.
Should you have any questions, please contact me at the number below. It was a pleasure meeting you and I am very happy to welcome you to the AfterLife Enterprises team. We’re all pleased to have you on board.
Warm Regards,
Jason Streethorn
Manager, AfterLife Enterprises
111-111-1111
I dropped the letter as if it burned me.
So it was true! Everything that seemed like a disturbing dream was reality. And a reality that meant I couldn’t ever see my mother or Miranda again. I’d already assumed such was the case, but to see it in writing drilled the fact home even more. I couldn’t even contemplate the idea that I was going to be soul retrieving in hell. No, as soon as I could collect my wits, I was going to call Jason and demand he find me a more suitable, not to mention safer, career.
As for now, I wouldn’t allow myself to wallow in my own grief—I wouldn’t allow myself to worry over the fact that I was now in a foreign country and thousands of miles from Colorado Springs. No, I would not give myself a pity party. Not if this was going to be my new life.
My new life … I lurched forward, in search of a full-length mirror. The hallway off the kitchen led into a bedroom and I galloped down the hall like a newly born foal, feeling completely unaccustomed to my legs. Losing my balance, I careened into the wall and paced myself the rest of the way.
Not finding a mirror in the bedroom, I continued into the en-suite and was rewarded with an expanse of mirror above the dual sinks. Anxiety waged a destructive path from my gut to my head as I beheld the image reflecting back at me.
I was beautiful. Approaching the mirror tentatively, I couldn’t stop my hands from exploring my face like a blind person. Gone were my flared-nostrils and pig-like nose. In its place was something that would make Nicole Kidman envious. My once smallish eyes had become orbs of green, fringed by extraordinarily long, black lashes. My cheekbones looked
like they’d been sculpted by Da Vinci himself. My face was undeniably beautiful, waves of natural auburn hair rippling around it, reaching the tops of my boobs. My boobs … I pulled my tank top forward and glanced down. I couldn’t help gasping. I finally had boobs and they were in a word … exquisite. I squeezed them to ascertain if they were real, and when the tensile spring of true flesh met my fingers, I couldn’t stop smiling.
But just as quickly, the smile dropped right off my lips as the gravity of everything I’d just been through—the accident; knowing I’d never see my mother again; dying … mingled into a tempest and beat down on me. I couldn’t bear to watch my tears falling from alien green eyes, coursing down a perfectly sculpted cheek. Instead, I collapsed into a heap on the floor.
I wanted to fight against the sadness, but I wasn’t strong enough. I wasn’t even me! The tears didn’t let up and I rocked back and forth, huddled into a little ball, amid a vacuous room that offered no solace.
A melodic harmony interrupted my breakdown session and I cocked my head to my right side, trying to decipher where it was coming from. It repeated, sounding like notes being plucked on a harp. I stood up and glanced around, seeking the source. A strident knock at the front door alerted me that someone was outside. The symphony of notes? Just my doorbell.
On unstable legs, I reached the front door and opened it while castigating myself for not checking the peephole first.
“It’s about freakin’, deakin’ time.”
The little man frowned and strode inside as I stood there, gaping at him. He threw his hands on his hips—spinning around as he surveyed the room with blatant approval. He was maybe five foot five, with a circular little body that made him look like an animated apple. His hair was thick and dark brown and looked as if it hadn’t seen a shampoo bottle in weeks. He faced me again, a smile on a face so round, you could’ve bounced it. He was maybe in his early thirties.
“Nice digs. Where’s all your furniture, though … yo?” His voice sounded much too deep for such a squat little thing—like Danny DeVito lip-synching Barry White. I did, however, manage to find some semblance of comfort in his American accent. He was American, I was American. At least we had that in common.
A gust of cold, Scottish air wrapped itself around my legs, and I realized I hadn’t shut the front door. Never taking my eyes off my pudgy guest, even though I couldn’t say he seemed in the least bit alarming, I closed the door behind us.
“Um, who are you?” I asked, finally finding myself.
They were the first words I’d spoken since occupying my new body, and my voice wasn’t familiar. It was lighter and more sing-song than my old voice could ever hope to sound.
The man nodded, as if my question were reasonable and extended a pudgy hand with fingers that looked like white baby carrots. “I’m Bill, your guardian angel.”
“One ought to fear those things only that have power of doing harm, the others not, for they are not dreadful.”
– Dante’s Inferno
THREE
I couldn’t stifle my shock. This stout little man definitely didn’t look like an angel. Not that I expected white, feathery wings, but wasn’t cleanliness next to godliness? This guy looked like he’d been plucked from the Animal House set and dropped unceremoniously into my living room.
I crossed my arms over my chest, uncomfortable because he was ogling my breasts as if they were his opponents in a staring contest. ’Course, the top of his head was about bust level so maybe he couldn’t help it. “You’re Bill, my angel?”
“Is a frog’s ass water tight?” he answered with a smile.
I frowned. “I guess that means yes?”
“Yessiree, Bob,” he said, smiling widely, his teeth too large for his face. “Bill’s ma name and thrills are ma game.” Then he winked. When I didn’t respond to his offered hand, he wiped it on his gray T-shirt that had as many stains as he had freckles across the bridge of his nose. He looked like Howdy Doody’s slovenly, overweight cousin.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, still unfamiliar with the melodic tone of my voice. How long would it take to get used to the new me?
Bill plopped himself down on the floor and started retying one of his shoelaces as he turned his beady eyes up to me. “I’m your guide.” He said it like there should have been a “duh” at the end of the sentence. “And I’m here to take you on your first mission; so get ready, girly.”
“My first mission?” I repeated in disbelief. I had no time to consider when my first mission might be, but I never imagined it would’ve been the very day I arrived in my new home. I mean, my house was still unfurnished!
“Yep, we got us an appointment with the blacksmith.”
“The what?” I asked, feeling a headache beginning behind my eyes. Everything just seemed to be happening so suddenly—first the arrival of this ... angel, and then the assignment of my first mission, a mere few minutes later? Apparently, things in the AfterLife moved lots faster than they did in my previous one.
“Yeah, the blacksmith," Bill repeated, frowning at me. "He's the dude who’s gonna set you up with your weapons. He’s gotta fit you for your sword and shiznit.”
“My sword?” I asked, my tone clearly relaying the fact that swords and Lily Harper, er, O’Shaughnessey, weren’t exactly a household item.
“How else are you gonna slay demons?” he asked, shaking his head. “Hello, McFly! Anyone home?”
“Demons?!” I exclaimed as my stomach dropped to my toes. I squeezed my eyes shut, thinking I desperately needed to get in touch with Jason Streethorn and protest this was NOT what I signed up for.
“They ain’t so bad,” Bill said, dismissing my outburst with a wave of his pudgy fingers. “Anyways, we got us a long-ass drive, so we’d better make like a fugly one-night-stand and get the hell outta here.”
Instead of following Bill to the door, I glanced around the room, looking for a phone. Of course, there wasn’t one.
“Watcha lookin’ for?” he asked, slapping his hands on his hips.
“A phone; do you have one?”
He nodded, fishing inside his pocket. He produced a black cell phone, covered in electrical tape from having apparently been dropped too many times. I glanced at the sheet of paper with Jason’s phone number and punched the numbers into Bill’s phone. It rang … and rang. After five more rings, I didn’t expect anyone to pick up and waited for the voice mail or the machine to come on. But nothing. Another three rings, and I hung up.
“Callin’ AE?” Bill asked, his eyebrows raised in an expression of discouragement. I just nodded as he shook his head. “Good luck gettin’ through.”
“It just rang,” I said, swallowing hard.
“Yep, that’s about right.”
“You mean no one ever answers?”
“Odds are that monkeys would sooner fly outta my ass.”
I just stared at him, unable to come to terms with the fact that he was an angel, and more so, that he was mine.
“Let’s get to the blacksmith’s and you can try AE again later, although you ain’t gonna have much better luck.”
“Why is that?” I demanded, feeling my heart pounding with panic that started down deep in my gut. What had I signed up for? This job was nothing like Jason had described it!
“’Cause AE don’t wanna hear from you,” Bill said matter of factly. “Yep, you and AE are like unrequited besties.”
“Unrequited what?”
He shook his head like I was slow. “Unrequited best friends. You think you and AfterLife Enterprises are tight, right?” he asked and smiled at me, the smile immediately dropping off his face seconds later. “Wrong! AE wants a whole lotta nothin’ to do with you, girl, so it’s time you got that into your thick little pretty head and realized you gotta paddle your own ship.”
“Canoe,” I corrected him but it didn’t seem as if he’d even realized he’d gotten the phrase wrong in the first place. I shook my head, determined that I would get in touch with Jas
on and demand that he resign me from the position of soul-retriever in the Underground City. The more I thought about it, the more I realized it had to have been a mistake. I was just a novice! There was no way I’d be able to defend myself against demons! But then I remembered Jason’s letter, and how clearly he'd defined my role as a soul-retriever and there was that whole part about Dante’s Inferno being my guide. Maybe it hadn’t been a mistake after all? Maybe AE approached this whole thing with the shotgun mentality? Perhaps it was a numbers game and they'd rather throw me in the deep end, not really caring if I sank or swam. There were probably thousands of retrievers just like me; and according to the laws of probability, a percentage of us would no doubt swim. That must have been what AE was betting on ...
“Where are we going?” I asked Bill, figuring I had no other options at this point.
Bill glanced down at his pocket and pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper with coffee stains all over it. “Some place called Peter … head.” Then he started laughing uncontrollably. “Peterhead! Like dickhead! Who the hell names a city that?” he smirked, his whole belly contorting with chuckles. “Hey, Slick, what should we name our new town?” he said in a deep voice. He held his head high as he ran his hand down his filthy shirt, fisting his fingers around the fake collar of a suit jacket. Then he dropped the persona of what I imagined was supposed to be a mayor, and said, “Shit, I dunno, Mayor Peter, let’s name it after something we both like … how about head?” Then he bent over and started bellowing again, slapping his knees in time with his chortles.
I suddenly wanted to cry.
“You’re my angel?” I repeated again. This time, my tone was filled with anguished concern.
“Yep, girl, believe it ’cause it’s the truth,” he said, winking at me. “Be happy you didn’t get stuck with one of them boring a-holes.” He shook his head and grinned wide. “Me? I’m a piss-your-pants good time.”