The Dragons of Styx

by John E. Siers

  “Huh?” Wilcox looked puzzled. “What does that mean?”

  “If you buy a piece of real estate that’s listed in the state Historic Register, you have to agree to maintain it in its ‘original or restored’ historic condition,” she replied. “That includes floors, walls, fixtures, but it also means you have to furnish the place in ‘a manner that is period-consistent with the history of the structure.’

  “In other words, you can buy new furniture, but it has to be of a style consistent with the time period when it was built—in this case, late 19th and early 20th century—not that minimalist-modern crap they have in the main house.

  “You also have to have the place open to the public for tours on a ‘schedule consistent with the current occupancy and reasonable privacy requirements.’ They agreed to that when they bought the place, but their idea of ‘reasonable privacy’ is pretty extreme. I checked the Historic Commission’s website—this place is open once a month, for three hours in the afternoon on the third Wednesday.

  “They’re also supposed to have a ‘major portion of the estate’ open for those tours. The website also shows that only the outdoor gardens and five rooms in the main house are open. The guest house, the stables, the ponds, and the pool area are listed as ‘closed—under renovation.’

  “Does this place look like it’s being renovated?” she asked. “So now you see why Mary’s pissed at these people. They don’t respect the property, and they’re letting it fall apart.”

  “Doesn’t the state check on it?” Wilcox asked.

  “The website lists our clients as major donors in support of the Historic Commission. Mary says they send a couple of clowns around once a year—as required by law—to inspect the place and ‘ensure compliance.’ The clowns stay five minutes and leave with fattened wallets.

  “Forty years ago, a couple who lived here spent a small fortune to restore everything to its original state. They’re the ones who got it listed on the Historic Register. She says the next two owners were OK…and then these people came along. She wants them out, and she’s not going to stop until they’re gone.”

  “Sounds like she’s the one who needs to be gone,” Burch growled, “and that’s what we’re here for.”

  “And you’ll be here for a long time,” Sparkling told him, “at least until the client can’t take it anymore and cancels the contract.”

  “Ain’t going to happen. You find her for us, and we’ll zap her.”

  “No you won’t. She’s been here for more than a century, and she’s not stupid. She knows this place a lot better than we do, and she’s not going to stay in one place long enough for you to do anything. I can find her, and she’ll let me approach her, but only if I’m alone—and not carrying anything that might give her any trouble. Those ghost blasters you’re packing aren’t exactly concealable weapons. If we show up armed, she’ll lead us on a merry chase. She can walk through walls—we have to go around by way of doors.

  “Worse, that’ll be an escalation as far as she’s concerned. So far, all she’s done is try to annoy and/or scare the shit out of them. She could make their lives miserable, maybe even hazardous. She’s probably at the point of doing that to the stable manager already—says it’s hard to scare somebody who’s high on dust, but a heavy object falling from a hayloft might solve the problem.”

  “…and if the client decides we’re making things worse, they’ll cancel the contract.” Martelli wore a very unhappy look. “Since it’s contingent on completion, LEI won’t get paid, and we’ll be on the corporate shit list. It’s a big contract.”

  “Must be,” she gave him a crooked grin, “based on what they’re paying me as a consultant—and that’s not contingent on completion. I just won’t get the bonus for success.”

  “OK, Sparkles—or whatever they call you over at the Ferry.” Martelli got serious. “You’ve got a solution to propose, or you wouldn’t be so damned smug about the whole thing.”

  “Yup. It’s simple. We have to reach a negotiated settlement. They do what they’re already supposed to be doing—restore the place and maintain it to her satisfaction—and she’ll stop bothering them.”

  “At which point they’ll say they had to solve the problem themselves,” he pointed out, “and they’ll tear up the contract. Again…we won’t get paid.”

  “Hmmm…hadn’t considered that,” Sparkling admitted.

  “Unless…” He looked thoughtful. “We can charge them the full fee for our services in negotiating the settlement. They can’t even talk to her to work out the details. We—or at least you—can.

  “I’ll need to check with legal to see what the contract says and how much leverage we have, and you will need to stand by. If you’re going to be the negotiator, I want you involved from the first meeting with the client.”

  “No problem,” she said with a smirk. “I’m here all week—and next week, too, if it goes that long.”

  Chapter Twenty: Succubus

  “So how’s it going, Spark?” Mark leaned over Lisa’s shoulder to join the video call.

  “Good so far. Shooters are grumbling because they can’t zap the ghost, clients are cooperating…reluctantly, but they’re coming around. We’ve kind of got them by the short curlies, and they don’t have a lot of choice. How’re things back there?”

  “Good,” Lisa replied. “We’ve signed two more contracts, missed on a third. Mark’s got one of them coming in for termination this afternoon. Anyway, we miss you. Do you think you’ll wrap it up this week, or do they need you to stay?”

  “I think we’ll wrap up the agreement by tomorrow. Nydia Ramirez is coming in for the contract signing—by the way, she says to tell you ‘thanks for the rescue, and all is forgiven’…whatever that means.”

  “I’ll have to call her.” Lisa chuckled. “I hope it means everything turned out as well as I hoped, but we’ll see.”

  “Question—” Mark leaned in again, “—how do you do a contract between live people and a ghost? I know Nydia’s good, but…”

  “It’s not. It’s between LEI and the client—actually a rider on the original contract. It spells out what the client is required to do in order to facilitate LEI’s solution to their ghost problem. It’s going to cost the client a bundle to restore the place, so you might wonder why they would agree, but unless they want us to sue them—which would drag out a lot of dirty laundry about their relationship with the Historical Commission…”

  “Aha! I get the picture,” Mark nodded. “Sweet.”

  “The ghost thought so, too,” Sparkling said with a grin. “Anyway, I should wrap this up tomorrow, but they’ll probably need me to come back again to check compliance. Should be no problem, since I’ve got an observer on the scene whose been watching the place for a century or so.”

  “It’s time to go, Angela…”

  Mark looked at the woman lying beside him, staring at the ceiling with a smile on her face. He’d been surprised by the wild passion she’d shown in bed—she’d been a different person than the pale, somber figure who had come through the door and imprinted the contract.

  Then she looked already mostly dead, but now she looked vibrant and alive. He’d done his best to satisfy her, as he always did with pre-termination clients, and she’d responded. But now, several orgasms later, he sensed that she was still not satisfied.

  She’d contracted for an hour, and he’d given her more than that. It was time to finish the contract.

  “No…” she said. “I don’t think so.”

  Maybe it was her tone of voice, or the way she turned and looked at him—a hot and hungry look—but alarm bells went off in his head. Something wasn’t right, and suddenly he had the feeling he was no longer in control of the situation.

  “Uh…you mean you’ve changed your mind? If you want to just leave now and walk out, that’s fine but…”

  “No,” she shook her head, “somebody has to die today. Poor Angela…always wanting to kill herself, but I can’t let th
at happen. We’ll have to find a surrogate, and I think you’ll do just fine.”

  To his shocked surprise, Mark found himself responding. Have to save her…can’t let her die…have to die in her place.

  No! his logical left brain screamed. You have to kill her! She’s trying to kill you.

  Suddenly he felt dizzy, confused, indecisive—a totally alien feeling. He’d survived some hardcore engagements in his Marine Corps days by taking sharp, decisive action on a moment’s notice.

  He’d always believed it was better to do something immediately in a crisis than to stand around trying to figure out the best thing to do. That philosophy had served him well—had probably saved his life and the lives of several teammates—on a number of special ops missions. It was probably also the reason why he had never risen above E-5 in rank.

  Now, however, he was paralyzed. He tried to focus but failed.

  Lisa! I need help!

  He wasn’t sure whether he’d called out to her or not. If she replied, his muddled brain didn’t hear it.

  Got to…kill…someone…need gun…

  Mark never went armed to a pre-termination sex session. Clients were unpredictable, and it was not a good idea to leave a loaded firearm unattended in a pile of clothing next to the bed. But by the same token, it wasn’t a good idea to mix it up with suicidal people without a lethal instrument at hand to control and/or terminate the encounter.

  At the Ferry—by Mark’s design—such instruments were everywhere, concealed and only accessible to those who knew how to get to them. He turned away from Ramsey and reached under the bedside table. His fingers found the hidden keypad and pressed the code sequence without conscious thought. The bottom panel opened, and a loaded .45 caliber Glock Model 30 slid into his hand.

  All the Ferry’s service pistols were Glocks. They weren’t the prettiest guns around—critics often called them ugly—nor were they noted for competition-grade accuracy, but they were sturdy and reliable. More importantly, every Glock felt, handled, and shot just like every other Glock, regardless of model or caliber. That was a critical factor when survival might depend on muscle memory rather than conscious attention to shooting technique.

  Muddled though his brain might be, Mark’s hand knew what to do with the Glock. He turned toward Ramsey and started to bring up the gun…then froze. To his horror, his hand turned and rose, pulling back to direct the muzzle at his own head.

  Just pull the trigger and it’ll all be over…

  No! The client! Terminate the client…

  Ramsey stared at him while he struggled, her brown eyes bright, and a seductive smile on her face.

  The same training that allowed him to handle the Glock without thought kept his finger off the trigger until he was certain of the target, which at the moment was the subject of his mental struggle. The muzzle was currently pointed at his temple, however, and a dim corner of his brain told him that was not a good thing.

  Never point a loaded gun at something you’re not willing to shoot…the harsh growl of the range instructor from Marine Corps basic training echoed in his head. Safe that weapon, recruit!

  Shifting his grip, he thumbed the Glock’s magazine release, and the mag with its nine rounds of 185-grain hollow points obediently dropped out and fell onto the bed.

  He still wasn’t safe. Unlike some pistols, the Glock would still fire with the magazine out if there was a round in the chamber—and the Ferry’s accessible guns always had a round in the chamber. He would need to clear that by racking the pistol, but he couldn’t bring his other hand around to do it.

  His brain was still fighting the target-selection war when the door of the bedroom flew open and Lisa rushed in. A voyeur by nature, she’d been watching the bedroom encounter on the screen in her office, and she’d heard his mental call for help. Bypassing the elevator, she’d sprinted up the stairs and gotten there as quickly as possible. Now she stopped, a look of horror on her face as she saw him kneeling on the bed with the Glock to his head.

  “Get…her…off…me…” was all he managed to say through clenched teeth.

  Without hesitation, Lisa grabbed Ramsey by the hair and dragged her off the bed toward the door. Taken by surprise, Ramsey loosened her grip on Mark’s mind for an instant, long enough for him to jerk the pistol away from his head, get his finger on the trigger, and fire—straight up into the ceiling.

  The pistol was suppressed, but the shot—fired less than six inches from his ear—was still deafening. It also startled both Ramsey and Lisa, who stopped struggling to look at him. Mark jumped to his feet, only to fall back against the wall as Ramsey grabbed hold of his mind again.

  “Can’t help…won’t let go…” he stammered.

  “Keep fighting her!” Lisa yelled. “She can’t control both of us.”

  With that, she dragged Ramsey kicking and thrashing out the door and down the hall, out of Mark’s sight. He tried to follow, but his legs lost coordination, and he fell onto the bed again.

  On the balcony, Lisa had a moment of vertigo, a feeling of confusion. She’s let go of Mark and grabbed me…

  She’d dragged Ramsey out into the red-carpeted drop zone and grabbed the handcuffs from the console as she passed it. She was just about to cuff the woman when her legs gave way and her hands refused to do her bidding.

  Now she got shakily to her feet again. Where the hell is Ramsey? And why am I…?

  She realized the handcuff was attached to her own left wrist, the second cuff still open. More importantly, she was standing in the red zone and the hangman’s noose was around her own neck!

  She whirled to find Ramsey behind her, fumbling with the controls on the console—obviously trying to figure out how to open the trap. Lisa’s mind was clear now, but the frantic look on Ramsey’s face probably meant she was again trying to regain her hold on Mark.

  And you think you’re going to hang me? OK, bitch…Game On!

  Mark heard—and felt—a heavy crash that shook the walls and floor. For a moment, Ramsey had let him go, and he’d gotten to his feet. He’d gone around the bed and started out the door, only to stumble back and fall on the bed again as she regained control. He’d continued to struggle against her, but with the crash had come a sudden release.

  He got up again, expecting another assault. Instead, he heard a terrified scream that cut off suddenly. Then he felt the intense kill thrill as Ramsey’s life came to an abrupt and violent end.

  Relief flooded over him. Lisa got it done! He took a deep breath as the thrill faded, then started toward the door, only to collide with Lisa coming in—naked.

  “Are you OK?” they both asked in unison.

  “Yeah…” they both replied, hugging each other in the doorway.

  After a moment, Lisa leaned back and looked up at him.

  “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot…” she said with a shudder.

  “Damifino,” he replied. “She just…took over—tried to make me kill myself. Then when you showed up, she wouldn’t let me help you. I was afraid she’d grab you when you got her too far away for me to help.”

  “She did, but then she had to let me go to hold you back. That was the end of her. I had to go dragon on her…afraid I did some damage to the building. Sure as hell ruined some perfectly good clothes.”

  “Ah…that explains…” He stepped back to admire her lovely form. “I’ll buy you a new outfit…but I like the one you’re wearing now.” He stepped forward again to embrace her and deliver a passionate kiss.

  Nearly a full minute later, she drew back again. “Killing somebody always makes me so hot.”

  “Yeah…me too. And hey…we’re already naked, and there’s a bed right here.”

  “Right…” She gave him a hungry, sultry look. “We can figure out what happened later.”

  Nearly an hour passed before they emerged from the bedroom, half-dressed—Mark with his pants on, Lisa wearing his shirt.

  Out on the balcony, they surveyed the scene. Ramsey’s corpse lay spread eag
led, face-down—sort of. Her body was on its belly, though her face was actually staring in wide-eyed horror at the ceiling. Her neck was one massive purple bruise.

  “I remembered what you said about trauma trumping magic,” Lisa said, “so I just grabbed her and unscrewed her head like a bottle cap. Think I went twice around, just to be sure.”

  “Crude, but effective,” Mark said with a grin that faded as he looked around the balcony. The railing was a twisted ruin, bent and torn loose along one side. The trap door of the drop zone was bent downward and probably non-functional—a moot point, since the control pedestal had been ripped loose and lay on the floor nearby.

  “Good thing tomorrow’s a Time Out day,” he said. “Got some repair work to do, especially since we’ve got a hanging scheduled on Saturday.”

  “Sorry…this place just wasn’t designed to be a playground for clumsy dragons.”

  “Not your fault,” he said. “This is the first time we’ve actually gone dragon inside the building. We’ve always teleported out as we were changing and reverted back as we arrived home. Didn’t think about it, but it’s a good thing we did—would have made a hell of a mess upstairs.”

  “We’ve also had sense enough to leave our clothes behind.” She picked up the torn remains of a stylish leather pump. “Damn! These were Prada—the only pair I had, paid over $800 for them.”

  “I’ll buy you three more pairs.” He chuckled. “Actually, I’m kind of pleased. The Ferry’s built well, and it held up better than I might have expected—a hell of a lot better than that garage in Rome where I took on Loki.”

  “Guess we should get started cleaning up,” she said. “I’m thinking we should just drag her down the hall to Styx and send her to the tank.”

  “That’ll work,” he agreed. The only body-disposal chute on the second floor was located in the spa.

  Without further discussion, they each grabbed one of Ramsey’s feet and dragged her corpse down the hall. Inside River Styx, Mark got down and wrestled her onto his shoulder to slide her into the waist-high wall opening and send her on her way to the brine tank in the basement.