CHAPTER ONE

It’s often difficult for restless souls to relinquish their hold on the earthly plane.  I should know—I’m one of them.  Sometimes the dead can’t seem to come to terms with their sudden deaths.  Others refuse to rest until they’ve fulfilled some task or avenged a wrong.  And then there are those still enraptured with the Earth, those who have fallen deeply in love with the beauty of a sometimes contrary world.  They’re not ready to leave behind the blazing sunsets, where clouds float like islands of beaten gold against a lava red sky.  They still marvel at the vibrant hues of sapphire and emerald captured in a peacock’s feathers or a duckling’s soft yellow down.

What can I say; I’ve always been something of a romantic.  Maybe that’s why I’ve never been able to move on.

Human beings have curious notions about Death.  They imagine the Reaper, lurking in the shadows, waiting to steal their last breath before escorting them to immortal paradise.  From personal experience, I can tell you that Death’s far too busy for much individual attention.  Just watch the news some night.  Consider all the deaths in a single day.  Do you really think Death has that kind of time?

That’s where we come in—the Spirit Guides.  We’re not angels, although some of my colleagues would like to think so.  They adopt ridiculous names like “Evangeline” and “Emmanuel” to make themselves feel better, hoping to elevate themselves above what we really are.  Makes me want to vomit.  We’re ghosts, pure and simple, lost souls not quite ready for the afterlife.  Some Guides say we’re too good for Hell, but still need to earn our way into Heaven.  I’m not so certain. I’ve done plenty of good deeds, and I don’t hear Heaven knocking, and Hell, well, maybe Satan is licking his chops, but I’m not exactly anxious to find out.

I call myself Carys, Welsh for “Love.”  It’s about as close to all that angelic naming crap as I care to get.  Let someone else call herself  “God’s Light” or “Radiant Messenger”.  Love is enough for me.

The job of a Spirit Guide is to escort the newly dead into the Beam, that great celestial elevator that delivers the soul to his or her final reward.  The Guides don’t push Up or Down, a person decides that for themselves through the choices they make during their lifetime.  I’ve often wondered what lies beyond the Beam, but I’ve never had the guts to hop a ride with a new soul.  After all, the Beam isn’t there for me.  Would it take me to my hereafter, or theirs?  I’ve seen enough souls drop to the bottom floor that I’m not ready to risk it.

Most mortals would cringe if they knew the afterlife had a bureaucracy.  Somewhere along the way, The Powers That Be tried to make death organized, and we went all corporate.  Meetings, action plans, To-Do lists.  I swear if they start handing out key chains, lapel pins, or other service trinkets, I’ll have to rethink my line of work.

Basically, death’s just like life, except you can’t see, smell, or have sex.  I suppose that’s not entirely true.  To a ghost, Limbo looks and feels a lot like life.  We can see, hear, and smell other dead things vibrantly, much like when we were alive.  And we can definitely feel pain.  But the living world is closed off to us.  As if a misty veil covers your eyes and your ears become stuffed with cotton.  Instead of azure skies and golden sunlight, the mortal world is filled only with the shadowy grey hues of a cold winter morning.  Talk about the ultimate disappointment for someone who died and thought they could remain on Earth to enjoy the view.

Even human beings appear without color or focus.  Except for the ones we’re about to collect.  Those who are about to die develop a rainbow colored aura around them, a glowing halo sort of like a sign post that they’re about to leave the living world and enter ours.  Once a person dies, they gain color to my eyes.  There are some exceptions, of course, other creatures who seem to belong to both worlds, but those are exceedingly rare.

There are Spirit Guides all over the world.  Currently, I’m part of the Midwestern Affiliate, out of Chicago.  There are hundreds of Guides in our region, but most are usually on assignment.  We only come to the Ready Room when our lists are cleared or we’re summoned.  Today I’ve been summoned.

I’d love to say that our Ready Room floats among candy colored clouds and is filled with heavenly harp music, but like I said, we’re not angels.  Instead, we meet in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city.  The wrecking ball poised in front of the building next door indicates we may be in the market for a new meeting place soon.  Our decidedly unglamorous digs are more out of necessity than preference.  Ectoplasm, our supernatural residue, generally gives off an unpleasant odor, something akin to a cow’s carcass after a week sitting under the July sun.  I’m one of the lucky ones—I understand I exude a faint hint of lilac—but most of my colleagues aren’t so fortunate.  Our eclectic potpourri doesn’t attract as much attention here in a warehouse as it would say, at the Four Seasons.

I’m early, and there are only a few souls present when I enter. Ever since the self-help trend, we’ve seen a drop in membership.  Seems people don’t have as many issues as they used to.  They move on while the rest of us linger.  While there are sometimes new faces, I recognize most of the ones here.  Two women, maybe in their late sixties, are seated near the middle of the long table.  Other than the fact that one has white hair and the other dark, the women are virtually indistinguishable from one another.  Not sisters, they’re likely not even related.  Their similarities are more in the way they dress, the way they carry themselves.  Vintage grandmother with their permed hairdos, huge porthole spectacles, and elastic waist Alfred Dunner slacks.  I can never remember their names, Cora, Nora, Vera, something like that.

Across from them sits a kid no more than fifteen or sixteen.  He’s a skinny thing with wire rim glasses and a bad case of acne.  He has that lost, fresh-out-of-orientation look about him as he glances around the table, uncertain of where to sit.  I nod in greeting.  He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but then turns red and stares at the floor.  Probably wants me to save him from the two clucking hens.  I think I’ll let him squirm for a bit.

I grab an empty seat at the far end of the table, away from the boss’s chair, kicking my black leather boots onto the table and making a show of brushing the mud off of them.  Of course, the mud is a figment of my imagination, same as the boots, but it gives me something to do besides talk to my co-workers.  Angela, my boss, isn’t here yet, so the other Guides are busy gossiping.  I’ve never been good at small talk, and the last thing I want is to be caught up in a conversation with these two old birds.  For some people, death is exactly the same as life, filled with the same obscure concerns that occupied their days.  Did you hear what so-and-so said?  Did you see what Mrs. X was wearing?  Did you get a chance to catch the soaps last week?  Somehow despite their long lives, some people really forget to live.  They miss out on the important stuff like love and adventure.  The two at the table are no different.  Their conversation makes me shake my head.

“Where’s Luz today?  Out on assignment?”

“No, her daughter got married today.  She asked for the day off.”

“Which daughter?”

“Monica?  Or was it Veronica?  I can never keep them straight.”

I nod to myself.  Death is harder for the newer Guides, the ones with family still living.  The hens continue clucking.

“I haven’t seen Donna in awhile.”

“Didn’t you hear?  She Ascended.”

“No kidding?  Well, if you ask me, it was about time.”

“You sure she Ascended?  I thought for certain she was headed for a trip downstairs.”

“Positive.  I was there when it happened.”

The two women grow silent.  Ascension.  The sign that a Guide has finally moved on, ditched whatever baggage tied them to this plane, and rode the Beam to the top floor, the ultimate promotion.

The Salt and Pepper Twins share a sigh.

“Luz will probably be the next one to Ascend.”

“She still has one in school.  I think she’ll hang around for awhile.”

“Well, she could watch over her children from Above.  The view is so much better from there.”

The kid looks at me, pleading.  I roll my eyes and pray for more interesting company.  A puff of grey smoke appears to the left of the head chair.  A dark-skinned man with a long white beard emerges, brushing droplets of rain from his saffron robe.

I wave.  “Good to see you, Methuselah.”  It’s our own inside joke.  I call him Methuselah even though he’s only been a Guide a couple hundred years.  He’s wise enough to have been around a Millennium.  He calls me Eternity.

Guides continue to arrive and the seats fill quickly.  A nimbus of golden light announces the arrival of Stella.  She’s a harmless old thing of about seventy with serious delusions of grandeur.  Stella has a thing for dead celebrities.  From Elvis to James Dean, she claims to have met them all.  Today she’s dressed like Marilyn Monroe, complete with the white pleated dress and the bed-tousled hair.  We’re allowed to take on any form we like, so why on Earth her makeup still looks like it was applied with a trowel is beyond me, and I can practically see the fumes of Chanel No. 5 rising from her.  As powerful as Stella’s perfume is, it doesn’t cover the odor of antiseptic and oranges that surrounds her.  I can’t help but cringe as she takes the seat to my left.

“Carys!  How are you, dear?  You’ll never guess who I ran into . . .”

Across the room I hear a giggle, and I see the kid bury his smile in his hand.  The grin dissipates as a rope of tar-like smoke encircles him.  An acrid odor of sulfur and burning flesh fills the room.  The kid’s eyes goggle like a goldfish’s as the mist solidifies and a large black shape emerges.

The figure is perhaps eight feet tall, man-shaped, hooded and cloaked in yards of black winding sheets.  The stench of rotting flesh grows stronger, and a skeletal hand slides out from the robe’s enormous sleeve.  The bones creak and clatter as they reach for the young man’s throat.

The kid emits a sound like a squashed mouse and sinks to the floor.  For someone without any blood, he looks like he’s about to pass out.

Piercing fire-ringed eyes burn from under the hood.  “Submit,” the deep, hollow voice echoes.  “Submit to my will.”

The kid looks as if he’s about to wet himself as he kneels, touching his nose to the dirty concrete floor.  “L-l-lord D-d-death,” he stammers, “What would you have me do?”

The kid’s image begins to flicker, and I’m fairly certain he’s about a half-second from vanishing altogether.  Beside me, Stella has grown pale, and I think she and the two grandmothers are ready to join him.

The empty laugh increases to ear-splitting range.  Cockroaches pour from the diseased drywall and a convulsing rat unsuccessfully tries to chew off his own ears.  The scene is too much for the newbie.  With a terrified cry, the kid disappears in a puff of blue smoke.

The hooded figure doubles over in laughter, normal—if not slightly high-pitched and insane—laughter.  The bony hand removes the cowl to reveal a thin, black-haired man.  “That never gets old!” he chuckles, his pointy nose twitching like a ferret’s.

“Real nice, Mortimer.”  My disapproval is evident.  I glance at Methuselah, but the old man’s face is placid.  He always was a much greater soul than me.

“Mortimer,” Stella sniffs, “Of course, I knew it all along.”

I smile because her hands are still shaking.  The smile fades as I turn toward Mortimer. “Being dead for three centuries sure has matured you,” I say sarcastically.

Mortimer thinks he should be Death’s right hand man.  We Spirit Guides are allowed to take on any form to help ease the newly dead’s passage, even that of a loved one if we desire.  Not Mortimer.  He thinks he should dress the part, including the robe, scythe, whatever ghastly images popular culture attributes to the Reaper. Clanking chains, howling, that kind of nonsense just isn’t my style.

“Come on, Carys.  Where’s your sense of humor?”  He rolls up the cloak and it disappears with a wave of his hand.

“Must have died with me.”

He plops into the chair next to me and lights a cigarette, a real one, probably lifted from the construction workers next door.

He wants to impress me, but I don’t impress easily.  Any seasoned ghost can move objects, and I’m about the oldest specter in the city.  “Don’t you know those things’ll kill ya?”

Mortimer takes a deep drag and slowly exhales into my face.  Even though my olfactory organs probably rotted away ten centuries ago, I still think it’s rude.  He tugs on the lock of lavender hair at my brow.  “New look for you?”

“Oh, Carys,” Stella gushes.  “Rock star chic is so you!”

I shrug.  My uniform doesn’t change much.  We can be as old or young as we like.  Some Guides choose to remain exactly how they looked at the time of their death, down to their choice of clothing.  Few things seem more sad and pathetic to me than some ghost flitting around in their high-necked Victoria garb, or struggling under layers of Civil war era hoops.  I want to tell them that the good old days of consumption and cholera are long gone.  There is no use romanticizing about the “Good Old Days.”  For the most part, they were dark and dirty, filled with disease.

Other spirits go through a complete change when they die.  They abandon their mortal appearance and make themselves younger, taller, more beautiful.  Always hated your nose?  Death gives you the opportunity for an instant nose-job without the pain, swelling, and hefty surgeon’s bill.  See, there’s vanity even among aspiring angels.

I consider myself a little more practical, more progressive.  I’ve kept the same basic physical appearance over the years, sometimes updating my wardrobe or hairstyle to reflect the times.  None of it really matters.  I can’t feel the clothes; they’re just an extension of my mind.

Today I’m projecting bootcut denim blue jeans and a black tank top emblazoned with the words “I’m No Angel” in diamond-colored rhinestones.  My blonde hair is bobbed and my only nod to independent fashion is the stripe of pale purple hair falling across my eyes.

Mortimer points to my shirt and grins.  “A hint to anyone we know?”

As if on cue, the seat next to Stella erupts in a cloud of brilliant white light.  Silver glitter falls across the table like dying stars. Gentle strains of harp music flutter through the air, accompanied by the unmistakable odor of seaweed.  I can’t help but groan.

Evangeline is the worst of the wanna-be angels.  She steps out of her imitation Beam, cascades of golden curls falling about her shoulders like threads of spider silk.  Her dress is of Grecian design, pleated and clasped at the shoulder with jewel-encrusted brooches.  The circlet at her brow hints at a halo, and her blue eyes are brilliant and clear as sapphires.  Her sandaled feet don’t quite touch the ground, and she summons a satin-covered divan rather than sit on one of our industrial grade chairs.

“How splendid to see you all!”  Evangeline’s voice tinkles like silver bells.

If I still had a brain, it would be pounding with a severe headache.  I manage a token greeting, which is enough for Evangeline.  I’m not her biggest fan, and she always pretends not to notice.  She is soon deep in conversation with Stella and the grandmothers.

The warehouse door squeaks and the new kid slowly creeps back into the room, glancing side to side as if he expects the walls to open up and eat him.  “Is Lord Death gone?” he whispers.

I purse my lips and point at Mortimer.  “Here’s your Lord Death.”

The ferret-faced ghost at my side bows in his chair and gives the young man a toothy, shark-like grin.

The kid slinks over to one of the remaining chairs, his face burning crimson to the roots of his fair hair.  Methuselah drapes an arm around the kid’s shoulders and whispers in his ear.  Whatever is said, the old Guide’s words restore the glimmer to the young man’s eyes.  He tilts his chin proudly and glares at Mortimer.

The rat-like Guide snorts and stares at his pocket watch.  “What’s keeping Angela?  She Ascend or something?”

Evangeline claps her hands together like a child at Christmas.  “How marvelous for her!  We should all follow her saintly example.”  Evvie’s eyes sparkle with joy, and maybe ambition.

I hate to burst her bubble.  Wait, who am I kidding?  I actually enjoy disappointing her.  “I think we would have received some sort of notice.  Angela wouldn’t leave without telling us in person.”  Evangeline’s face falls.  “Sorry, Evvie, but I think you’ll have to wait a while longer before you can occupy Angela’s chair.  Given a choice, I’d vote for Methuselah myself.”

Ev’s eyes narrow.  “It should be the goal of every Guide to seek Ascension.  Our dedication, that is what sets us apart from mere ghosts.  It is our duty.  Those who refuse to work toward redemption are not good examples, and certainly not souls worthy to call themselves Guides.”  She adopts a smug expression.  “What about you, Carys?  Think you’ll ever move on?”

“Are you kidding?”  Stella’s face is bewildered.  “Carys can’t move on when we need her.  Is it even possible?”

“That’s right,” Mortimer’s voice is smooth.  “Carys is eternal.  She’s been here long before any of us and will linger long after we’ve all taken the Beam.”  His flat black eyes bore into me.  “You can’t move on until your story’s complete.”

“C’mon, Carys.  What’s your story?”  The boy is so young.  He was young when he died and is young as a Guide, asking questions when it would be better to remain silent.

Mortimer licks his lips, his voice mocking the kid’s.  “Yeah, Carys, what is your story?”

For a moment I see flames, smell smoke.  The Ready Room disappears and is replaced with a circular stone chamber.  I feel the intense heat searing my flesh and a scream burbles up in my throat.  I see the small window to my left, beckoning me.  The ocean.  My only hope.  I race toward the window and fling myself into the open air.

Then there is nothing.  The image disappears as suddenly as it arrived.  My waking dream.  The memory that has haunted me through the long years of my afterlife.

How many centuries have risen and fallen since I first entered this ghostly existence?  I’ve been dead for so long, I’ve lost track.  Seven hundred years?  Eight hundred?  A thousand?  I was a Guide during the Black Death, prowling through crowded, stinking huts collecting souls from the bloated, blackened bodies, but I don’t think I started as one of them. I believe my own mortal life began well before then, but my memory is veiled from me, shrouded in darkness, fear, and pain. Maybe if I recalled what followed I could let go, move on.  I shake my head, as if the action will chase away the terror.

“The flames.” The kid’s face is filled with wonder, and I realize the smoke was more than my imagination.  Wisps of grey film still hang in the air.  The other Guides felt the memory as well.

“I know who you were.” Stella’s eyes are hollow and far away, like those of a gypsy fortuneteller staring into her crystal ball.  “You were Joan of Arc!”

“Her?  Joan of Arc?” Ev’s voice echoes with merry condescension.

“I hardly think so.”  I point to my shirt.  The rhinestones rearrange themselves to read, “I’m No Saint, Either.”

Stella is sorely disappointed.  “Are you sure?”

I spread my hands.  “Positive.  Sorry.”

Mortimer never gives up.  “Your accent.  I can never quite place it.  Not exactly British—” His expression is hungry, like a jackal waiting for a bite once the lions have finished their feast.

“Inconsequential,” I hate when he tries to figure me out.  “I’ve been a lot of places.  Picked up more than my share of dialects.”

Angela’s arrival saves me from further questions.

“All right people, let’s get down to business.”  Angela’s our direct contact with Death, the only one I know who’s actually seen the Boss face to face.  Her expression tells me their latest meeting didn’t go well.  Her brow is furrowed and her dark eyes troubled.  Strands of black hair escape her ponytail, and her usually severe charcoal suit is crumpled.  Folders peek out from the edge of her closed briefcase.  I often wonder what she did in life.  Probably a lawyer.  I’ve seen enough of them drop down the Beam to understand why Angela would delay taking a ride.

“I apologize for the delay,” Angela begins brusquely.  “The Boss has been concerned about production.  We’ve had to send many of our comrades overseas to deal with the backlog there.  On the home front, we’ve got more souls coming in than our current staffing allows.  It looks like we’re all going to be putting in some overtime.”

My colleagues groan like parents forced to miss Little League and I give Methuselah a wink.  As if any of us had weekend plans!

A cold look from Angela silences the whining.  “Has everyone met Joshua?” she points to the owl-faced boy.  We go around the table introducing ourselves.  The kid’s gaze lingers on my face for several minutes before he acknowledges the weasel-faced man beside me.

“Alright,” says Angela once the introductions are made.  “Time to get down to business.  Bus crash in Waukegan.  Five school children.  Who wants it?”  She looks at me.

I shake my head.  I can’t stomach dealing with children.  It always seems like such a waste to me.  I can’t help but wonder if the events like that are really part of the Master Plan.  Seems more like a point scored for the Other Side.  I’ve never actually seen the agents of Evil—they exist on another plane, parallel to our own—but I’ve felt their presence, their influence, and seen enough tragedy in my time to know they’re every bit as real as me.

Evangeline clutches at her breast dramatically.  “Those poor darlings.  Of course they need me.”  She gives me a superior look.

I snort.  Of course.  Evangeline is never bothered by the Plan.  She never questions anything we do.

Angela hands the slip to Ev.  “Next up, teen suicide.”  Angela glances at Joshua.

The kid gulps and nods his head.  He crumples the paper in his hands and stares at the floor.

“Drug overdose.”  Angela continues through the list, doling out deaths like a poker dealer.  Car accident?  Methuselah receives a pair.  Cancer?  Stella wins three.  The scene is like some grisly game of Go Fish.  I can’t help but think of all those lives, young and old, sick and healthy, all snuffed like tiny candles.  Did they know today was their last day on Earth?  Could they somehow feel it in their flesh when they woke up this morning they would be taking the ultimate journey?

Angela’s stack of files seems endless.  How can so many people die in one day?

“Serial killer.  Can you take this one, Joshua?”

The kid’s eyes grow wide and he begins to fade.

The weasel at my side leans close, pressing himself against me, and chuckles, “I’ll be amazed if the kid manages to pick up any souls today.  I’ll bet half his clients go renegade.”

“What about Mortimer?” I suggest, elbowing my neighbor in the ribs.  “That kind of work should be right up his alley.”

Mortimer’s grin is ghastly.  “Injected, gassed, or fried?”

“Don’t be disgusting,” Angela snaps, “They’re all our clients, and deserving of your respect.”

“I just want to be prepared.” Mortimer’s innocent expression isn’t fooling anyone.  He looks directly at Joshua and lowers his voice.  “Sometimes when they get the chair, the guards make a mistake.  Ever seen a man burned alive?”  Mortimer grabs the arms of his chair, his body convulsing grotesquely.

Joshua’s image wavers further.

“Mortimer!  That’s enough!” Angela’s black eyes blaze.  “You’re so keen on the theatrics, prove it.  The killer’s yours.”

Mortimer runs his blackened tongue against his thin, dry lips.  “With pleasure.”

I shake my head in disgust.  That guy has way too much fun being dead.

Hours later, Angela’s folders are finally sorted.  With a nod or a wave, the other Guides disperse.  All that remains of our meeting is a strange stench, a mixture of sweet, sour, rot, and rank.  I exit through the door.  A late autumn rain is falling, and I conjure a black trench coat, more out of habit than necessity.  I, too, find comfort in the familiar, in the order and predictability of the mortal world.

Mortimer follows me outside.  His reek is so close, I want to gag.  “Did you see the kid’s face when he was offered the suicide?” He laughs.  “Ten bucks he did himself in.  What do you think?”

I shrug.  “Not my business.”

Mortimer jabs me with a bony finger.  “I can’t believe it.  You’ve actually bought into Angela’s crap.  You, of all people.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do.  You actually believe that garbage about respecting someone’s afterlife.”

I stare into Mortimer’s black eyes.  They’re cold and unblinking, like a shark’s, and I shudder involuntarily.  I feel sorry for the poor souls who see Mortimer immediately after they die.  They probably think they’re meeting the Devil.  Mortimer should try working for the Enemy.  He’d be a pretty effective demon.  “Maybe.  I think there should be some measure of decorum, of respect.”

“And what of your death?  Did the Guide who came for you show any respect?”

“Nice try.  You’ll get nothing from me.  There’s nothing interesting to share.”

Mortimer laughs and tugs at my lock of lavender hair.  “But I have such fun trying.”  He strokes my cheek and I swat away his hand.  “Always so mysterious, Carys,” he purrs.  “Someday I will learn your secret.”

With a wink that is neither friendly nor comforting, Mortimer disappears.

I look at my watch.  I’m late. I haven’t been late for an appointment in centuries.   I can’t risk letting any ghosts wander off and become renegades.  And I do think it’s rude to be late for the start of someone’s afterlife.  Besides, I’m dead.  What else do I have to do?