Esprit de Corpse

still outstanding. Lucy had returned his scythe to him, circumventing the channels of . . . whatever passed for justice down here. If Dante couldn’t get his name cleared, couldn’t bring Conrad in this time, he’d have to go back into the death cycle and that would be the end of us as a couple. Not that we were getting along so great at the moment, but all couples go through rough times. I’d read Fifty Shades. Some couples even liked it rough.

Now I had yet another reason for bringing Conrad in.

“What sort of punishment will Conrad suffer?” Dante asked. Was he feeling sorry for Conrad or couldn’t wait to see him fry? Or possibly bake. Char-broil? Here in Hell, we like our punishments both cruel and unusual.

“Oh, we’ll concoct something suitable, Dante, don’t you worry. Conrad Iver will get what’s coming to him. We’re very good at dreaming up creative punishments here in Hell. Just ask Sisyphus. Oh, that reminds me. I need to give him this.” He held up a familiar music-industry, tabloid-size magazine with a picture of John Lennon on the cover.

“Well, why are you still here?” Schotz made little shooing motions with his hands. “Have you caught him yet? How ’bout now?”

“Sir?” Dante asked again. Was he crazy?

“What is it, Reaper Alighieri?” Uh-oh. We’d moved backward into formality. That was never a good sign.

“Reaper d’Arc requires her scythe, sir. You’ll recall that our gracious Underlord decided not to—”

“Yeah, yeah. I was there. Hang on. I’ve got it right here.” First he produced one of those blue rubber gloves like forensic techs wore. Or those scary brain-meddling guys on Firefly. He stared at me pointedly. “Wouldn’t want to touch another Reaper’s scythe, now would we?” With a flourish, he yanked on the glove—drawing it way back from his wrist and then letting it go. “Ow!” He rubbed at his reddened skin and glared at me like it was my fault he’d ruined his own theatrics.

Okay, maybe I’d grinned at his pain, but he was being obnoxious.

Still glaring, he pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk, reached down, reached down further, rummaged around a bit and then finally stuck his head in. Mary Poppins’s carpet bag had nothing on Schotz’s drawers. “Here it is.” He held out the scythe.

I gasped. When Lucy had held it up at the grad ceremony, it had been bright, gleaming chrome, but now it looked dull and dusty. How could it get so dirty in only a few days?

The sergeant glanced at my face, where a parade of emotions (oh, look. There’s the parade I’d looked for earlier) marched across my face: surprise, puzzlement, sadness, anger.

“Oh, it’s a little tarnished is all.” He buffed it on his Reaper robe, only serving to add a layer of grease to the grime soiling my beautiful scythe.

When I saw his mouth working, I snatched the scythe from him before he could spit on it, cradling it in my arms. He looked about ready to yank it back, and with it my future career as a Reaper, but something in my face, or possibly Dante’s, made him snap his mouth closed. He blinked his exposed eye—which could have been a wink—and told us once more we were A, idjits and B, already gone.

And with that, we were.

Chapter 3 Heir Today, Gone Tomorrow

I VELCROED MY scythe to my belt loop as we headed back out the way we’d come. It bounced satisfyingly against my thigh with every step. It was only about eight inches long, but it was mine and I loved it. Besides, eight inches is more than respectable.

I glanced below Dante’s belt. He had a ten-incher, but I wasn’t the slightest bit envious. I’d certainly reaped the benefits of his scythe over the past year.

I have euphemisms and I’m not afraid to use them!

At least mine was prettier than Dante’s old pewter one, which was all scratched and banged up from centuries of hard use. It looked like an antique, which is nice in its own way, but I prefer my appliances to be modern and gleaming. I’d cleaned it as best I could on my own grease-free robe. It looked a little better now; nothing a good buffing with stainless steel polish wouldn’t fix. Oh, sure. They promise stainless . . .

Dante pushed off the wall he’d been leaning against, caught my eye and said, “Ahem.”

Uh-oh. Things that followed “ahem” were rarely good. Dante strode into a vacant classroom, gesturing for me to follow him. Now he wanted to talk? Didn’t we have a demon to catch?

He stopped near the entrance, waited for me to pass him, then shut the door.

“I feel, Kirsty, we should start the last place Conrad occupied on the Coil.”

“My hospital room? But that was a week ago. Plus we dragged him to Hell, locked him up, and then he escaped. There’s no way he’d be there now. I know Conrad and he’d go directly to—”

“If he returns to the Coil,” Dante cut in, “he will likely return the way he came. So that’s where we need to begin.”

He activated his scythe again, holding it before him like a flaming sword. “Okay, Kirsty. Now you try. As you know from your session using practice scythes, it is activated by pressing this small knob.”

To show him what I thought of his condescending course in Button Pushing 101, I pressed my scythe’s activation button with exaggerated motions. For the first time, my beautiful new scythe fired its purple-black light out both ends, the top one curving into the razor-sharp blade.

“Oooh! Ah! Yesss!”

Dante shot me a look. Those were usually noises I made during activities in which no actual scythes were required.

“Now, Kirsty. If you’ll concentrate on the hospital.”

“Dante, listen to me. He won’t be there. He’ll go to his office. In fact—”

“You heard Sergeant Schotz. I’m the experienced Reaper, so you’ll take your direction from me. I know what I’m doing.” He laid his hand on his chest to indicate . . . What? Modesty? That was laughable but somehow I didn’t feel like laughing.

“Our first stop will be your former hospital room. Then we will use the glow of our scythes to follow Conrad’s ecto-trail until we find him. Simple? Good. Now the first thing we—”

I hit the travel button on my scythe, concentrated on my desired destination and zapped out of Hell with a whoosh-bam all my own.

Arriving at the offices of Iver Public Relations felt both like coming home and like visiting a place I’d once dreamt of. The offices looked the same, but they felt different. New coffee-stained carpeting replaced the old coffee-stained carpeting of my day. The walls had been repainted and some new framed award-winning PR campaigns hung on the walls. I paced down the hall slowly, quietly, not wanting to disturb anything.

The sound of clapping startled me nearly out of my robe. It grew louder as someone opened the boardroom doors. It faded away and the attendees—both familiar and unfamiliar—began to collect their electronic devices and empty coffee cups. One jovial fellow I recognized from Accounting shook Shannon’s hand. “You’ll do great, Shannon. You’re your father’s daughter.”

I steamed at the insult. Hadn’t the nightly news reported that Conrad had bludgeoned me to death? Not exactly the person I’d want to be likened to.

Shannon responded in a thin voice, “My father left some pretty big shoes to fill.” She didn’t exactly radiate confidence that she could fill them.

And maybe she couldn’t. After all, his success had been dependent on the devilish Deal he’d made. Would Iver PR continue to land clients and win awards without magic?

Other people shook Shannon’s hand and congratulated her as they left the room. It felt like a wake. People seemed subdued, their clothing somber. Of course, only a week ago, their president and CEO had died after murdering his former protegee.

And that would be me.