Part Seven
I plug in the tablet, so it won’t run out of juice while Pumpkin is reading, and head to my room.
Room is a stretch, honestly, there’s barely room for my mattress and a pile of my clothes, which receive a mutter of “Cleanse” while the word is still fresh in my head. Chances are I’ll forget it by the morning, but it’ll be the least of my worries. There isn’t a light, but my phone is enough to find the mattress without tripping and finally take my coat off.
Once the phone’s turned over, I’m alone in the dark.
A moment later I’m swiping photos, eyes feeling tight, hot, not wet. I don’t want them to be wet.
There’s the sign on the wall of the haunt reminding the actors to pick up their damned cough drop wrappers.
There’s a guy in his twenties, muscular, crew cut, white, slightly blurred since he’s running, a large wet stain in his crotch and going down his left leg.
A woman looking apprehensive, on the left of the shot, about to pass a prominently featured statue pedestal.
No one should have been taking these pictures, of course, but there are always rule breakers. Another swipe and…
On the left is a man, face in decay-makeup, some latex effects to drive the gore factor, and his smile is a disturbing rictus that would send chills down many a spine, but not mine. On the right is a woman with alabaster makeup, blood streaks around the eyes and dark veins on the face and neck, tattered white wings with some dark feathers, metal spikes at the tips surrounded by blood stains. Her smile doesn’t match her visage, but it’s genuine, and angled slightly to her left, at the conspicuous distance between the two of them.
“Why do you keep doing this…”
I don’t usually talk to myself, but it’s been a hell of a night.
Necromancers aren’t real. No one really believes that they exist.
So Absinthe Jennifer Ebinger don’t exist anymore, not to them, or anyone.
And if you try to tell them you do, you’re crazy. Or a stalker.
Anyone human, at least. It’s easy enough to go by A.J., Abby if I like them, but as far as the world is concerned I never existed. Consequently, it makes finding a job difficult, save rifling through the wallets and purses of the dead and buying scratcher tickets, or pawning off any valuables that the dead don’t mind me taking. It’s something I would have found repulsive before all of this, but hunger and homelessness are excellent motivators for rationalization. There are rules though, still, but not mine.
Take the gold watch off their wrist, and a zombie or ghost won’t bat an eye. Put even a finger on a wrinkled receipt from their first date, or a pair of socks given on a birthday, or a Walkman that’s years beyond dead, and you could end up with a pissed off spirit.
Seriously, I got thrown across a room once for disturbing a mix-tape.
But that’s not the worst.
God help you if you lay a hand on a treasured photograph.
I never was that stupid, but curiosity if the opposite was true paid off; you’ll have a friend to the end if you find one and return it. The concept of value shifts after you die, if you stick around.
I mean, I’d trade all of this if it meant I could have that photo back on my phone, in the right way.
But I can’t.
Better to distract myself with the new developments of the evening/early morning.
First, the god of the underworld is real, is a lawyer, and isn’t pleased with my freelance necromancer work. This is something that should be a priority, since if he can blink me across town and take my stuff without me knowing, I don’t want to test the waters. I was able to hold my own in conversation, but I get the feeling I tip-toed up to the line and stepped directly on it, otherwise I wouldn’t get a sneak preview of my potential afterlife. I’ll probably have to brush up on my Greek mythology to have an idea where he’ll want to put me, considering gods don’t seem like the type to joke about coming to collect you personally.
Second, a woman was murdered, and I’ve promised to discover her killer. This, obviously, is the top priority, it’ll take more than a passing knowledge of procedurals and list articles about how procedurals are inaccurate to solve a murder. Since magic and zombies and ghosts are involved, I probably can’t go to the cops, because the only person that’ll get locked up will be me. Then again, I could always try being a “psychic” or “medium”, since the dead will actually talk to me, and Hell, sometimes they get paid if the leads pan out, but then again, if the leads pan out you end up a suspect because even the procedurals get that part right.
I really need to get out more, develop contacts in the real world beside Tasha, and it would be nice to come home with an actual paycheck for once. No matter how well I help out around here, scratcher tickets are not a long term plan. I’ll think about it in the morning.
Which, according to my phone’s alarm, is in two hours.
The knock on my door shakes me out of it and…
“Hey. Wake up. I’m heading out.”
I could swear I just put the phone down a second ago.
I mumble something, but Tasha’s fluent.
“Yes, there’s coffee left. Thanks for getting the dishes. Get a shower, okay? You smell like shit even through the door. I’ll be back later.”
I mumble another reply, but the only answer is the closing of the front door and the clicks of the three deadbolts.
She’s right though. Smelling like death may be necromancer-cool, but that’s not a trend I’m looking to set.
Also coffee. Coffee is exactly what I need right now.
The kitchen area isn’t a mess, just a cereal bowl and an empty coffee mug in the sink, both looking rinsed, because Tasha’s not an asshole. I don’t take any of her milk from the fridge either, because I’m not an asshole, and the dry-erase board on the fridge door has been updated with last night’s scratcher ticket contribution to the bills. I’m still about two hundred behind, though, with the rent due in a couple weeks. I always come through, but I should pick up some more cash today to ease any tension.
“I wish your roommate wouldn’t unplug the tablet before I’m done reading, Abby.” I forgot how chatty Pumpkin gets when Tasha’s not around.
“And I wish thigh-high Chuck Taylors weren’t a thing, but here we are, your Lordship. Now I have to do some work today, start working on investigating a murder, and get some legitimate money.” I exhale, hard. “And I need help.”
“Which murder?”
“I’m sorry, Pumpkin, but not yours, right now. I can ask around while I’m working on this-“
“You promised!” The eyes of the goat skull burn with bright blue fire.
“I did. And I will keep that promise. I need to build contacts, get official information and reports and all that kind of stuff, and all of that I can use to learn more about when and where you died. It’ll make it easier to learn your name, that’s for certain. All of this will help you, Pumpkin. Please understand that.”
The flames dim slightly, but still burn. “Remember your promise, Abby.”
“I won’t. But I need your help.” I smile, and even curtsey. “If you would be so kind, as to alleviate the mishaps of my ignorance with your exquisite and expansive knowledge, Lord Pumpkin?”
His faux-British accent returns, eyes a soft orange, “Indubitably. Though my influence in my current state of affairs may diminish my assistance, Lady Absinthe.”
Hopefully someday they’ll pass a law so it will finally be legal for Pumpkin to enter a state of wedded bliss with the sound of his own voice.
“So how might I find additional assistance, your Lordship?”
“Well, there is… Oh no, Lady Absinthe, that would be too shameful for you. Too degrading to your ladylike standards and dignity.”
I set my jaw, and exhale through gritted teeth.
“Pumpkin, whatever it is, just say it, okay? I work with zombies and dead people, it can’t be that bad.”
His accent drops. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Positive?”
“Yes. Pumpkin.”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“You would be wrong.”
I’d swear that plastic skull grins.
“You have to go clubbing.”
Oh.
So he would be right, then.