Limbo City Lights (Lana Harvey, Reapers Inc.)

by Angela Roquet

  I twisted around and clawed at the water, dragging myself forward. A flurry of motion caught my eye and I rotated left, spotting Tasha as she pulled Nick’s soul free. It flashed a soft green—something I’d never seen before—but definitely not the bluish hue of an original believer. Nick’s body floated away on the currents, eyes wide and vacant.

  Tasha fumbled in her pocket, likely for a coin, but I reached her first. I knotted my fist in Nick’s beard and rolled Gabriel’s coin.

  We landed in a mound of snow, all three of us, convulsing and choking up the icy water in our lungs. Tasha reached for her pistol, but Gabriel caught her hand, pushing her back against the snow as he confiscated the weapon. She bared her teeth at him, but the effect was somewhat muted by how badly they chattered.

  Saul filled my lap and pressed his muzzle into my neck, whimpering out a heartfelt greeting. I ran my numb fingers through his fur and lay my head against his shoulder, trying to soak in his warmth as I panted to catch my breath. My wet clothes were freezing to my body, and my heart felt like an icepick trying to dig its way out of my chest.

  “Quite a show,” a silky voice purred.

  “God dammit.” I glared at the newcomer. “Did someone send out a memo? Why can’t we catch a break today?”

  The woman the voice belonged to sat atop a horse—but not the eight-legged gray one standing near the giant-ass hole in the road. This one only had four legs… that hovered a foot off the icy terrain. Its rider wore a Valkyrie helmet and flowing white robes. A spear was gripped in one hand, but its point was directed away from us, following Michael’s path through the air until he landed, completing our little party. The angel looked about as banged up as Gabriel. His eyes blinked fiercely, as if he’d recently come to.

  “This one belongs to me,” he said, waving his sword at Nick.

  “Afraid not, cupid.” The woman smirked, crossing her spear over her lap. “Reveal yourself, Long Beard.”

  Nick harrumphed, and the green glimmer of his soul returned as his form shifted. His beard grew longer as his height rose taller, and a merry laugh spilled from his lips.

  “Two hundred names, and that’s the one you chose to greet me with? Why Gná, you haven’t changed a bit.” He grinned at the rider and then turned to us. “You can imagine why I wander in disguise so frequently.”

  “You’re not Santa Claus, are you?” A sinking sensation filled my chest, and I imagined this was what many a mortal child felt like when they discovered the truth.

  Nick’s new face softened. “Many have known me as the Yule Father—or Father Christmas, to the new age folk. Though I am not the only one who contributes to the cloak of this... Santa figure. Nikolas the Wonderworker, for instance, lent a great deal of himself.”

  “Then who the hell are you?” Tasha snapped, finally able to speak past her chattering teeth.

  Nick gave her an annoyed frown. “Do you really expect me to list off all two hundred names?”

  “The first will do,” Michael injected, looking rather perturbed himself.

  “Odin,” Gná said, answering the question for us all. “We should be on our way. Frigg’s foresight curtails her patience.”

  “Ah.” Nick—I mean Odin—glanced across the road at the wolves, ravens, and leggy horse watching us. “Come along,” he called, waving to the creatures. They crossed the distance eagerly, ready to bathe their master in the same affections Saul had bestowed on me.

  Odin mounted the strange steed, and the two ravens perched on his shoulders, while the wolves flanked him on the ground. How the storytellers got reindeer out of this mess was beyond me.

  “That’s just great.” Tasha slapped her hands on the ground, peppering me with snow. “I wasted my last coin on this godforsaken harvest.”

  “Why are you harvesting souls in the first place?” I asked, leaning away from her and closer to Saul. “It’s not like anyone’s going to pay you. You’d be arrested on the spot if you showed your face at any one of the gates.”

  Tasha snorted. “They don’t exactly check your credentials when you sell shit on the Ghost Market.” Her eyes lit snidely at my surprise. “Such an innocent little thing, aren’t you precious?” She snatched the coin out of my hand and rolled it, disappearing before I could blink.

  Gabriel stared wide-eyed at me. “That was the only coin I had on me. Where’s yours?”

  Heat crawled up my neck. “I dropped it off the roof of the truck a couple miles back.”

  When we glanced back across the ice, Gná, Odin, and the misfit lot of creatures were gone.

  Michael threw his golden shield down and kicked it across the ice. “Just perfect.”

  Gabriel’s wounded wing twitched as he cleared his throat. “Think you could spot us a coin, brother?”

  “Ha!” Michael made a disgusted face. “Now I’m your brother?”

  “It’s well known that brothers are prone to fighting,” Gabriel said in his defense.

  Michael snatched up his shield and took flight, hovering over us with an angry scowl. “Find your own way home. Pigeon,” he spat. Then he was gone.

  I sighed and fell back against the snow mound, throwing my arm over my face. “I think there’s an extra coin in my robe.”

  “And where might your robe be?” Gabriel asked.

  I gave him an apologetic look and stood, moving slowly as my stiff clothes protested. Then we began the long walk up the ice road, carefully avoiding the sinking truck and trailer.

  Gabriel pulled his ear flaps down tighter and blew into his hands. “I guess it could be worse.”

  “Yeah, you could be soaked to the bone and without a robe,” I said through chattering teeth. I hugged myself and scowled at him.

  Every few feet, one of us would stop to inspect a dip in the snow, fingering around for the lost coin. The wind howled, sculpting my hair into icicles and chapping my lips, and the sun reflected off the white scenery with painful intensity. Saul ran laps around us to keep warm. If I hadn’t been so exhausted, I would have done the same.

  We were no better off half an hour later, when Gabriel decided he couldn’t handle the silent search any longer.

  “Hark the herald angels si-ing—”

  “Shut. Up.” I pressed my hands more tightly into my armpits.

  “Angels we have heaaard on high—”

  “Don’t push me.”

  Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “The angel Gabriel from heaaaven came—”

  “I will kill you,” I said, stopping to pierce him with my death glare.

  Gabriel huffed. “What happened to your Christmas spirit?”

  “I lost it to frostbite, probably with most of my toes,” I grumbled. I turned and began stomping back up the road. Gabriel hurried to catch up.

  “Yoooou’re a mean one—ooph!”

  My fist connected with Gabe’s stomach. It felt pretty good at first. The guilt that followed, not so much.

  “Sorry. Reflex,” I mumbled, patting his shoulder.

  He coughed and gave me a hurt look. “You’re getting coal in your stocking.”

  “I’ll take that over hypothermia any day.” I sighed and squinted up the road.

  Saul had continued his laps ahead of us. He paused suddenly and poked his nose down in the snow. When his muzzle lifted, he had my robe in his mouth. His tail wagged proudly.

  * * * * *

  Muffled Christmas music seeped through the front door of the condo as Saul and I sloshed our way down the hall. I was slowly thawing out, all over the place. Holly wasn’t going to be happy.

  Gabriel had agreed to report to Jenni on my behalf, partly because I needed dry clothes, but mostly because my shitty mood was infectious and he’d had enough. I was ready to redirect my animosity anyway.

  I entered the condo, stepping carefully to minimize drippage, and glanced over the dining table to spot Bub in the living room, tangled in a heap of string lights. The helljack puppies ran circles around the coffee table, occasionally bumping an artificial tree that sto
od cockeyed in front of the center window, branches skewed and mashed in all directions.

  Bub’s attention was focused on the television. The end of It’s a Wonderful Life was playing, and I’d walked in just in time to catch the famous line, “Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings.”

  “That’s a load of rubbish,” Bub scoffed. “And every time a priest beats the bishop, a devil gets its horns,” he sing-songed mockingly as he went back to untangling the string lights.

  My shoes squeaked, cueing surprised yips from the hounds, and Bub’s head snapped around.

  “Lana! What happened to you?”

  “I… I don’t even know where to begin.” Tears welled in my eyes as I took in the stockings and decorations lying over the couches.

  Bub freed himself from the nest of lights and limped over to me, wrapping his arms around my back despite my soaked clothes. “Let’s get you in the bath, and I’ll put on some soup.”

  After a lengthy soak and two bowls of chicken noodle, I could finally appreciate all the effort Bub had gone to. Sure, the tree was a bit mangled, but it just needed a little fine-tuning. I was extra amused that he had even tried to put himself in the mood by watching classic Christmas movies.

  “Are bishops beaten by priests often?” I asked, still puzzling over his earlier comment.

  “Hmmm?” Bub looked over his shoulder at me as he circled the tree, sprinkling bits of tinsel in the boughs. “What’s that?”

  “Bishops. I heard you say something about priests beating them.”

  Bub blushed and looked back at the tree with a grin. “That’s just an expression, love.”

  “Oh.” I thought on it a moment, letting my thawing mind wander. “Oh!”

  Bub snickered and joined me on the couch. He pulled my legs into his lap and glanced down in my empty soup bowl. “Would you like another?”

  “Maybe later.” I smiled and set the dish on the table so I could snuggle into him.

  Saul, Coreen, and the puppies had already finished their dinner kibble, and I could hear them snoring in our bedroom down the hall. Kevin and Jenni were both working late, trying to get ahead of the holiday rush so they could enjoy a day off. It was nice having the condo to ourselves.

  Bub leaned in for a kiss and sighed. “I have something for you, but you’ll have to brave the cold long enough to reach the travel booth across the street.”

  I crinkled my nose. “Can it wait? Like, until next summer?”

  “I’ll keep you warm.” He grinned and squeezed my hands.

  I grudgingly bundled up in a coat, taking the time to add a hat, scarf, and mittens. Then I stuffed my feet down in a pair of fur boots. Bub watched without a word. He waited for me by the door in a thin leather jacket, leaning gently on his puppy-mauled cane.

  We left Holly House and ran across the street, ducking inside the travel booth before the cold had a chance to touch us. When we arrived at the harbor, Bub coined us off to Tartarus, where the ruins of his previous manor had been bulldozed and the ground was being prepped for the new build.

  The dock where he kept his boats had been destroyed too, as a result of his undercover job among the rebels, but I noticed a new one had already replaced it. A houseboat was moored there, with a giant red bow tied around the deck railing.

  Bub’s old houseboat had been my favorite place in the world. The nights we spent drifting down the Styx, forgetting everything but each other, made every shitty moment more tolerable. Seeing the manor in ruins had been hard, but the loss of the houseboat was the most devastating for me.

  “Do you like it?” Bub slipped his free arm around my waist and rested his chin on my shoulder.

  “It’s perfect,” I whispered around the lump in my throat.

  The year had been a rollercoaster. I’d lost so much. So much that I was sure I’d never get back. Having this small bit of happiness restored seemed trivial in the grand scheme of things, but it made me feel like everything was going to be okay. All was not lost.

  Bub’s warm breath grazed my cheek as he laid a kiss on my temple. “Merry Christmas.”

  DEATH OR SOMETHING LIKE IT

  A Dying for a Living & Lana Harvey, Reapers Inc. crossover

  by Kory M. Shrum & Angela Roquet

  “Because I could not stop for Death –

  He kindly stopped for me –

  The Carriage held but just Ourselves –

  And Immortality.”

  —Emily Dickinson

  Jesse Sullivan

  Standing in my bedroom, I turn in front of the mirror. Dark jeans, one red converse sneaker, one navy blue. A black hoodie and a black T-shirt underneath for good measure. I bend over and gather all my hair into one hand before twisting it up into a ponytail with the other.

  When I stand up, I whirl on Ally and give her a ta-da pose. Arms up, hips cocked. “I’m ready!”

  Ally sits on the edge of my bed in a black dress shirt and slacks. She looks a bit like a seating hostess in a restaurant. Her big brown eyes are shining in the low lamp light. She doesn’t look impressed by my ability to dress myself as she crunches on a red apple.

  “Are you sure you don’t remember anything?” she asks, obviously only half listening to what I’m saying.

  “Nope. I don’t think dead people are supposed to remember anything. It comes with the being dead part.” I bend down and relace my sneakers. It’s important to have just the right amount of snugness during a death replacement. Too loose and I’ll likely lose a shoe. Too tight and I lose feeling in my toes. Really though, I’d gladly give up a toe if it means I can keep hold of a pair of shoes. I could buy a second house with the money I’ve wasted on shoes. Sometimes they’re knocked off my corpse during impact. Sometimes nurses or doctors just forget to give them back. Hoarders.

  With a cheek full of apple, Ally says, “I mean, I guess you aren’t truly dead. You’re in this kind of in-between stasis.”

  “Did you see anything when you almost died?” I ask her. My throat tightens and my stomach feels like someone just poured acid into it. I don’t like thinking about the night Ally nearly died. I’m not sure what I’d do if I lost her. We’ve been best friends since I was eleven.

  She flicks her eyes up to meet mine. “Actually, I thought I saw someone. A dark shape.”

  The goosebumps rise on my arm.

  “But then I opened my eyes and it was you,” she says with a sweet smile. “So I guess I didn’t cross over far enough.”

  Cross over. Like a bridge. Her going somewhere without me. Nope. I don’t like that idea one bit. She’s grinning and I try to mimic her but it’s hard. Everything’s changed since October. Okay, sure, it’s been like eight months since I saw Ally stabbed to death, and left for dead, but that’s the kind of thing that a person can’t just get over. More often than not, I catch myself staring at her, tracing her jaw and lips with my eyes, asking myself over and over what if, what if… What if the homicidal henchman had succeeded? What if I hadn’t been able to replace her? What if they try again?

  Okay, maybe I’ve developed an obsession with after, but I’m clearly not the only one. Ally keeps bringing it up, asking me questions like I’m supposed to know how this whole life-death thing works. I’ve died 75 times, and every time I die, I come back. I don’t see heaven, hell, or purgatory. I don’t even see a freaking taco stand. I die. Then I wake up.

  What am I supposed to say to her?

  “Death report?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

  Ally opens her satchel on the bed and slides out a folder. She fingers the contents sandwiched in a manila folder before saying, “Check.”

  It’s a very thick folder for a single death reading, so I take a guess at what else she’s got crammed in there.

  “Gloria’s prediction?”

  “Check.”

  Winston, my flat-faced pug, bounds into the room, curly tag wagging. And it takes me a second to realize why he is looking up at Ally expectantly.

  “No, baby. I s
aid, check. Not Chex,” she tells him, giving him a little scratch behind the ears before lifting his chubby butt and plopping him onto the bed. She offers her apple core, but he turns up his nose.

  Ally frowns. “We need to stop giving him people food. We’ve ruined him.”

  I make a mental note not to tell her about the popcorn I gave him on the couch earlier. “Address, contact number, replacement release forms?”

  She waves the folder at me. “It’s all here, baby. Do you think I’m an amateur?”

  True. She’s been my personal assistant for years now. “Right. Okay. You clearly know what you’re doing.” Just don’t freaking die, okay?

  Ally’s smile tucks into the corner of her lips. “The last six replacements have been smooth sailing. We have nothing to worry about.”

  I dart across my bedroom and clamp a hand over her mouth. “Don’t say that! You’ll jinx us! My arms will get lost in a dumpster or something.”

  I have my hand over her mouth. I can feel her warm breath on my skin. My heart hitches as I look into her big pretty eyes.

  “Am I interrupting something?” a male voice says.

  Still holding onto Ally, I look up and see Lane, my boyfriend, standing in the bedroom doorway. He’s wearing my favorite blue button-down shirt, rolled up above the elbows. It makes his eyes look like a deep Mediterranean pool. And as gorgeous as he is with those baby blues and dark curls, right now, he’s even better because of what he’s offering me.

  I abandon Ally and rush toward him. The rich scent of roasted coffee beans greets me. I wrap my hands around the warm paper cup and practically purr. At least that’s what I think you would call the sound my throat is making.

  Lane laughs. “I thought you’d want something to get you through the night. Since you won’t have me.”

  I arch an eyebrow at him, totally getting his double entendre. He doesn’t relinquish the cup, and I realize it’s going to cost me. I lean in and pay for the java with a kiss. He ups the price, leaning into me, giving me a chance to inhale him. He smells like a musky shampoo.