Carla Sherman, a former NYPD detective/monster hunter now a ghost, finds herself caught up in a fight between divine and infernal forces as she gathers clues about the whereabouts of an old enemy.
Episode 4: Shadow Work
James uses his lunch break to scry on Ashley and divine her astrological connection to the missing Lancelot.
NYPD detective and monster hunter Carla Sherman -- correction, the ghost of Carla Sherman -- is on the hunt for her nemesis in life, the Rat King. When her old partner on the force, George Mix, reaches out to trade a favor for new intel, she braves the daylight to meet with him. With her is her somewhat trusty guidebook written by dead contributors, The Book of the Garrulous Dead. When Ashley also arrives at the diner to meet a new client, a supernatural clash between divine and infernal forces ensues.
James makes a proposition at work that his boss literally can’t refuse.
__________
Written by Steve and Robin Pool
Voiced by Emily Woo Zeller, with Freya Kingsley as Rigan
Sound Design and Editing by DSS (Dissecting Sound & Soul). Sound effects provided by ZapSplat
Intro song “Plastic Stars” by Corey Distler https://soundcloud.com/deadmentalkingpdx
Outro song “Say Something” by Francesca May https://linktr.ee/francescamay
Visit Sayonaraville on our website, Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram.
Copyright (c) 2022 by Uncle Robot Media, LLC
SAYONARAVILLE: MANHATTAN
EPISODE 4: SHADOW WORK
INTRO: The following series contains adult themes, strong language, violence, sexuality, and drug use. Listener discretion is advised.
[INTRO MUSIC: "Plastic Stars" by Corey Distler]
As he did on the first day of every week, James ate ramen for lunch. Not just because he loved the stuff. He did it for the important things it would tell him about his week ahead. And it allowed him to track Iris’s activities. Or, rather, her otherself’s activities. Due to strong magical protections around Iris, he couldn’t scry on her or divine anything. And it was too dangerous to try to monitor Rigan. He’d learned a hard lesson about that when he had still been a prisoner within Iris’s soulscape madhouse. But watching Ashley Chen came with little risk.
James fished out the last slice of beef with his chopsticks and eyed the bits of vegetable and noodle floating in the few remaining millimeters of broth. After placing a plate over the top of the nearly empty bowl, he flipped his hands over, chanting words of power. Eldritch lines sparked and outlined twelve divisions on the bowl’s surface, each representing a zodiac house. Tilting the bowl upright again, placing it on his desk and lifting off the plate, he began to analyze the remnants of his lunch.
A broken bean sprout lay askew in the eighth house, a house of shadow, taboo, and death. The interpretation bloomed in his mind as the enchantment supplied that this represented the meddlesome former Olympic fencer and current Knight of Avalon Deirdre Walck, also called Lancelot. According to his horary divination, her secret capture by the giant contraption Ord and captivity at James’s covert site in Brooklyn now seemed at risk of exposure, possibly to Ashley and, in turn, Iris, who would likely try to do something about it. That wouldn’t do.
A mushroom lay within the lines of the Fourth house, one who comes from below and roots up all manner of ugly secrets, perhaps a family member or close friend. Snoop. Revealer. Disrupter. Fuckin’ Ashley.
A carrot sat in the Third House of childhood friends and communication. Lancelot’s cousin, Marla Hendry, a name the divinatory token easily relinquished. The person most assiduously looking for Lancelot and, according to James’s charts, the one most likely to lead Ashley and Iris to her.
The tight “S” of a soba noodle wove between the mushroom and the carrot, tip-to-tip. Ashley and Marla would connect. Brushing up against the noodle in the Eleventh house of social relationships was a small chunk of chicken.
“When and where?” James asked. In his mind, the divination supplied the answer: Coffey’s Cup at...
“Kravitz!”
At James’s shout, a bird of pure darkness fluttered out of the shadows and crooked its head expectantly.
“I need you to contact a poltergeist for me, the one who used to be Carla Sherman -- you know her -- and get her to find this soggy little carrot, Marla Hendry, before this troublesome mushroom Ashley does. Have her implant a false memory in Marla regarding her cousin to steer Ashley far away from Brooklyn. If Carla doesn’t want to help, tell her it connects to her delusional investigation of the Rat King. That always gets her riled. And don’t fuck this up. I won’t be very forgiving if you do.”
In a darkened corner of the otherwise bright and busy Coffey’s Cup diner, an overlooked but palpable “smudge” hung in the air, unconsciously avoided by all inside the restaurant. Except for the area around the smudge, the restaurant buzzed with energy and life: diners carried on shouted conversations; “cute” state-of-the-art serving golems loaded with menus or trays of food, raced between the tables and the kitchen window; meticulously-scripted infotainment news simultaneously glorifying and denouncing violence and despair played endlessly on the restaurant’s overhead televisions. Intermittently, crashes resounded from dirty dishware being dumped into service bins by bored, passive-aggressive busgolems.
The smudge itself, the specter of Carla Sherman, moodily skimmed through the open spectral tome “The Book of the Garrulous Dead” while waiting for her friend George. In life, Carla had been a detective with the NYPD. Her unnatural ability to focus, near invulnerability to bureaucratic bullshit, and mastery of all details -- large or small -- had allowed her to rise high in the force. But she wasn’t feeling any of that today. It took great effort just to finish the passage in front of her, written by one of many angry, dead authors in this anthology. She was not enjoying this grim, self-hating diatribe against the profound unfairness of para-existence, the state of being dead but not gone. Reading it felt about as pleasurable as enduring a toothache.
Pretty much every chapter and every passage was a repeat of all the other stream-of-conscious, nonsensical bitchfests that filled the tome. Could she have done so, Carla would have gladly told each of these dead authors to just shut the fuck up about it already and accept his or her fate. She would have given it up entirely, despite her great love of reading and research in life, if the book hadn’t also contained useful clues, weird facts, lost knowledge, and buried treasure underneath its mountains of bullshit.
It wasn’t for any lack of sympathy that she hated this tome or its authors: being a ghost sucked and was confusing and depressing. Whatever expectations she’d had about death and the afterlife -- if there even was one -- hadn’t been close to the actual conditions. Whatever happened to heading off into the clouds, the flames, or some cold, dark void? So many others around just like her, ghosts and other types of spirits, each had those same lost, damned questions, each unable to find any mythical shafts of light waiting to take their spirit to either Heaven or Hell. It both angered and saddened Carla. Who the fuck was in charge of death, anyway? Weren’t there supposed to be both rules and rule enforcers, or at least directions, someplace to manage the affairs of the afterlife? Wasn’t somebody supposed to be overseeing this obviously pointless transitional existence, or non-existence?
In death, Carla had become neither a saint nor one of the damned. It was much worse than that. She had become the soul equivalent of a hobo. No one she could find knew how to fix that; the only ones who thought they did were batshit-crazy, malevolent shades full of misguided, warped advice.
With the length of her internment in the Overworld unknown, finding only dead-ends and frustrating contradictions in her search for someone who could show her a way forward or out, Carla, ever pragmatic, settled in to work the problem herself, as she had done countless times in life.
No more milk to spill or cry over, she would no longer be a victim nor would she tolerate that kind of weakness in others. Her resolve had mostly made her a pariah, except for a few deranged spirits who found her angry grit an amusing and somewhat rare novelty. Most spirits were babbling idiots. Clearly, she was not. Neither were those same, strange, amused spirits. In fact, a few turned out to be useful sources of information. From these, Carla had learned about the Lost Souls’ Library, where she’d acquired her copy of the distressing but damnably useful “Book of the Garrulous Dead.”
Now thoroughly bored by the text in front of her, Carla placed her forehead down on the book and sighed, depressed by the bright sunshine streaming in from outside.
“Dammit, when is George coming? I should have insisted on him meeting me at the Library instead of this diner. There are too many of the living here. And, of course, all I have with me is this useless, depressing-as-shit book. And now, because of the hour, I’m stuck.”
As long as the sun was out, Carla couldn’t leave. Braving the daylight for a poltergeist was a painful and sometimes treacherous experience: the light burned, and, surrounded by it, she wouldn’t be able to see more than a few feet in front of her. She could easily stray into one of the world’s many “cracks” without realizing it, getting lost for good. The brighter a place was, the more hazy and insubstantial the world became; it was always safer to just remain in a shaded or darkened place until the sun disappeared from view.
A gentle hand and voice stirred Carla from sleep.
“Whuh..?”
Carla, head on her arms on top of her book, looked up, momentarily disoriented. What time was it? The light slanting through the windows told her that the sun must be close to setting. Several hours had passed without her notice.
George Mix, a fellow detective and one of her oldest friends, the man who’d called her here, lifted his hand from her shoulder where he’d been tapping. Smiling, he repeated himself. “I said it was time to wake up. I have some important news to share with you. About your favorite topic.”
Even though it had been years since they’d been able to meet as livings in a restaurant, George had been kind and loyal enough to stay connected even after her death. How he did this or even knew how to find her remained a mystery.
Time had truly been kind to George: he had to be in his sixties now, or maybe older. She couldn’t help notice that he was still strong and vigorous despite his age. A rumor had been whispered -- that he must now be part lycanthrope after having been constantly bit and scratched while hunting them down -- but she chose to disbelieve it. Still, something about his youthfulness seemed unnatural. Pondering, Carla felt a little embarrassed because she couldn’t quite remember his actual age anymore. Not that it mattered. The dead don’t celebrate birthdays. George seemed to instinctively know this and had always avoided bringing such things up.
“So,” George asked impatiently. “You gonna ask me about it?” He hadn’t stopped smiling.
Sitting up and straightening her spectral hair, Carla replied. “Honestly George, sometimes you’re more impatient than a little kid on Christmas Eve. Not even hello first?”
Sitting on the opposite bench, he replied, “You’re absolutely right. Where are my manners? ‘Hello, Carla, my dear. Are you well today?’”
“Sorry to say that today’s been a little bit shitty, but...” Carla shrugged. “Before I ask for details about your news, I need to know what it will cost me.”
Information was the only real currency that mattered to ghosts, and one didn’t get information unless one gave something of value, like more information, or maybe a little revenge hit. Carla thought this was very sensible and had never hesitated to engage in the trading of secrets.
“Very easy job. An altered memory for a living person. Just one small change. She won’t even get hurt. It will actually save her some hurt.”
“Hmmm. I can do that. Who and where?”
“Here, actually, in this restaurant. And she should be coming in any time. I’ll point her out when she gets here.”
“She, huh? Trying to make her forget you?”
George blushed. “No, nothing like that. It’s not even about me.” He held out a palm-sized iridescent globe. “This is the new memory. It will override an existing one, not make a new one. So getting it to take should be pretty easy.”
Carla grabbed the sphere and rolled it around in her hand. Pretty. She thought about asking “why and what” questions but decided to keep them to herself. This didn’t concern her or the Rat King. What George was offering for this favor did.
George kept her engaged in small talk, and while Carla really liked that -- missed it, in fact -- part of her was repelled. A voice inside her groused about it being nothing but friendly ghost shit. Who the fuck does that? She knew that prior life attachments only made it harder in this one, but she was loathe to chase George off. He was so bright and warm and a good distraction from her own ennui.
A well-dressed Black woman sat at a table two down from the one George and Carla occupied. George turned and pointed. “That’s her. That’s the person whose memory we need to alter.”
“After I do this, you’ll tell me your latest news about the Rat King?”
George nodded. “Yes, just as we agreed.”
“Alright, then.” Carla gripped the memory ball in her hand as she made her way over. Brushing up against the woman, Carla rubbed the memory ball over her forehead as if it were some kind of balm. She could see the woman’s expression change from anxiety to serenity. As Carla strolled back to George, a server golem walked straight through her without stopping. It didn’t even detect her presence. Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be any sensors in the restaurant, either. She didn’t want anyone to get in between her and George’s information.
Too late, she did notice that someone had actually spotted her. Another living, Asian, with shoulder length dark blue hair, molasses tortoise-shell glasses, periwinkle suit, and paisley scarf. Very confident, very profesional, possibly a sorcerer or, worse, an exorcist. “Shit!”
“Hey!” The woman called out to Carla, oblivious to the stares from the other livings around them. “Hey, you! Stop!” In her hand, a glowing object appeared. A...feather? Fuck! Angel feather! This was bad. Really bad.
Carla turned to run. George called out. “Get behind me, Carla! I’ll try and stop this nutcase.”
Ash had been looking at her phone, re-reading her contact’s self-description, when she’d entered the restaurant and seen what looked like a spirit attacking Marla. Instantly her third psychic eye, invisible to normal sight, had opened, and she could now also see that the man behind was really a disguised devil.
“Hey!”
The poltergeist turned to her as she shouted. Good, it could see and hear her.
“Hey, you! Stop!”
Reflexively, Ash drew forth her archangel feather, preparing countermeasures against a possible attack. A poltergeist could do a lot of physical damage just by throwing things around. How big and how heavy was unclear, but Ash always assumed the worst. But the ghost surprised her. Rather than lashing out physically or employing some kind of psychic assault, she turned and ran towards the devil. Which could mean all kinds of other problems. Maybe something Rigan would have to handle.
Ash knelt next to Marla, who was smiling, seemingly unaware that a ghost had just attacked her. “Marla.” Nothing. Ash put her hand on Marla’s shoulder and snapped her other fingers, “Marla!” That seemed to bring the woman out of her daze. She turned. “Oh, hey, are you Ashley? It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Yeah, uh, Marla, we have a bit of a problem. You’re going to need to leave the restaurant. Like, right now.”
Marla looked confused. “Sorry? I don’t..."
Fueled by the power that coursed through Iris’s body, with one hand Ash lifted Marla to her feet and nudged her to the door. Marla stumbled forward, her few hesitant steps carrying her towards the diner’s facade of plate glass windows.
Turning, Ash considered the poltergeist and the devil appearing as a man. How to contain them with minimal casualties and damage to the restaurant? The poltergeist seemed more reasonable, so restraining her first would ease the situation.
Drawing a symbol in the air with her archangel feather, Ash cast a binding ritual on Carla. “Have a seat, Ma’am!”
Eldritch energy pulsed out and coalesced into golden chains around a protesting Carla. “Wait, wait! Don’t hurt me! I don’t want to fight.”
“Good. Then have a seat and wait for me to come and talk with you.”
George’s concerned grandfather expression dropped away, replaced by Kravitz’s smirk. “I hope you don’t think that will work on me, little exorcist.” He cracked his knuckles, and spikes began protruding from George’s body, dozens then multiple dozens. Ash recognized the standard tactic of a spine devil, dammit.
Behind him, the ghost looked genuinely shocked and frightened. “...George?”
Ash clutched her archangel feather tighter. “Are you going to let everyone here go so it’s just you and me?”
Kravitz grinned from an unnaturally wide mouth, exposing a huge row of long, spiked teeth. George’s human body morphed, and his eyes became a dark wine-red. His torso and limbs stretched and lengthened like pulled taffy. Fingernails became claws, blackened at the tips as if burned by fire. Skin blanched, becoming ashen, and his hair darkened like soot. To Ash’s spiritual senses, he reeked of affliction and corruption, and the force of his presence hit her like a tsunami. Only her determination, bolstered by divine energy, kept her from screaming and fleeing out the door. This infernal son of bitch was one of the truly bad ones.
“I don’t know. Why should I?” His voice was like creaking wood and grinding stone. “What will you give me not to slaughter these poor little sheep?”
Calming herself before replying so her voice wouldn’t quake, marshaling as much bravado as she could muster, Ash replied, “How about I let you fight it out with a bonafide god?”
Kravitz scoffed. “Tempting as that offer is, mystic, I doubt you can produce..."
“Rigan!” Ash shouted. “Switch with me!”
Cool, gray fog enveloped Ash, and when it cleared, there stood Rigan, a sword in each hand already drawn.
Kravitz laughed as he shook his finger at her. “Bath Catha! Battle Crow! Excellent!” In a shout that was more like a shriek, Kravitz bellowed, “EVERYONE OUT EXCEPT THE GODDESS AND THE GHOST!”
The Coffey Cup’s customers, already confused and frightened by the developing catastrophe, had jammed up the front door trying to push their way out. No one dared approach the fire exit in the back within striking range of the ghastly infernal. Panicked by Kravitz’s command, the agitated crowd turned into a screaming, frenzied mob. Trapped between the jammed doors and the tide of shoving bodies, customers were crushed as those behind them tried to escape. Patrons began to dive through pane windows to reach the street. Golems programmed to serve the restaurant’s loyal customers jumped in to help, seizing and defenestrating anyone who appeared paralyzed, stuck, or unable to move forward.
Kravitz laughed and clapped. “Oh, that is funny. Much better to watch them harm each other than me doing it, don’t you agree, goddess?”
A length of golden, divine chain, made from Ash’s binding spell, wrapped around Kravitz’s throat. No one held the chain’s other end. Carla’s psychokinesis propelled it. With a mixture of grief and righteous rage, she shouted, “I don’t know who you are or where George is, but I will not stand by and let you harm others!”
As she shrieked, a blast of force radiated from her, shattering her table and booths, along with the shop’s side window and a 10-foot stretch of the outside wall. Brick and glass shards mixed with splintered wood. Foam cushion pellets exploded like grape shot across the restaurant and out into the street. Outside, the siren atop a nearby surveillance station, monitored simultaneously by the police and Avalon, wailed its klaxon alarm and issued orders for everyone in the vicinity to evacuate. Back in the restaurant, Rigan deflected the debris with a shield spell, while Kravitz grasped at the chain around his neck.
The air around the devil grew hot, and his skin scorched where the divine chain touched it. “L-let...go...of me..., you bitch!” He strained and whipped wildly, pulling back as much as the chain pulled against him. Whether he could actually be choked to death or not, his expression held a panicked, desperate frenzy. Carla, undaunted, kept the chain taut.
Spikes flew from Kravitz’s body like shrapnel. Several struck Carla with great force, driving her back, and pinning her to what was left of the wall. Her head dropped, and the chain went slack, falling to the floor.
Huffing, seething, Kravitz cursed the poltergeist. “You think you’ve suffered until now, bitch!? Well, you haven’t seen anything! When I..."
“Eyes here, monster! I’m your opponent! Not her!” Rigan’s fist cracked the back of Kravitz’s head, staggering him.
The devil turned and answered with a rumbling growl. Black blood mixed with boiling saliva sizzled in his mouth. He spat, and his spittle burned a small hole clean through the wood floor.
What was left of the restaurant’s side wall exploded as Kravitz sailed across the street and smashed into a parked car. The car door caved from the impact. Kravitz, on his hands and knees, began to curse furiously in the language of the Hells. Rigan, leaping out of the building’s new, gaping hole, landed in the street. Two large, black, angel-like wings unfurled from her back.
“This is it, devil. You wanted a piece of me. Here I am!”
Much as she wanted to beat the shit out of this hellish creature right here on the street, Rigan knew the potential collateral costs of indulging her desires would be very high. It was better to move the fight to a more ideal spot.
“C’mon, you prickly little shit cactus! Come get me!”
Kravitz slowly stood up, now towering at nine feet tall. “Godling, I promise that you will fucking pay for that.” One moment he’d stood on the opposite side of the street, and the next he was looming over Rigan, gripping her in a piercing embrace. Rigan let him come -- he seemed like the type who liked grabbing women. Even though it hurt to be impaled, the contact made it just as easy for her to hold on to him.
“Let’s take this somewhere else, shall we? This neighborhood is much too twee to trash.”
With a flash of her wings, Rigan dragged the devil up a thousand feet above the city, past the airspace safe zone. She ignored the pain of wounds from his barbs, claws, and teeth, and Kravitz, though freakishly strong, was unable to break free.
The air above the safe zone was markedly different from the balmy New York sea level summer, far colder and damper than Rigan had expected, and the atmosphere carried a strong static charge. As her hair began to stand up, she felt an electrical surge build around them.
Kravitz, realizing his predicament, screeched in protest, and his attempts to free himself became more frenzied. “You lying bitch! We had a deal! I’d get to fight you in exchange for sparing the humans. Not this shit!”
Lightning bolts began to flare around them, cloud to cloud, a clear warning signal as Rigan flew them towards the former harbor. “So sue me once you get to the Hells. As much as I would like to let you try and take me, I’ve decided that it's best if I let the forces of this world deal with you, instead. Plus, I’ll admit it. I find it very satisfying to hear you bitch about being cheated.”
With a wet, shooking sound, Rigan shoved herself free of Kravitz’s barbs, and he fell, screaming. Several angry lightning bolts chased him down, blasting his spiked body. Below, a giant toothy mouth opened on the surface of the sea. When he reached the water level, his furious expression morphed into terror as the maw swallowed him whole.
Grinning, Rigan said, “Sayonara, motherfucker.”
The wind buffeting in Rigan’s ear began to threaten. “Leaave heere...! You...do not...belong...war goddess. Thiiss is our realmmm.” A painful static jolt sparked off Rigan’s skin.
“Okay, okay. I get it. I’m going.”
Just to make sure, a few near-miss lightning bolts lanced around her as she touched down in the alley next to Coffey’s Cup. The place was already surrounded by police and emergency vehicles. When an Avalon-made NYPD security drone flew up, Ash emerged, private investigator and exorcist licenses in hand. It scanned her and her IDs before letting her pass.
Seated on a bench that had escaped ruination, Ash found space to talk with Carla. She had actually recovered fairly quickly from Kravitz’s attack. Ash noted approvingly: Carla was one tough dead chick. In return, Carla was surprised to find a drifting soul with a human channel who allowed her to walk about the regular world as a living.
“That’s amazing! How long have you been with your host? What did you say her name was? Iris?”
“Good memory! Ummm, minus a 20 year gap -- don’t ask -- it’s been about two years, give or take. Listen, changing the subject, I understand your situation now. I want you to know that I think you’re very brave to have endured being here as long as you have without becoming a vengeful killer or just slipping away into oblivion. Or making a pact with a more powerful spirit or demon.”
Carla gaped. “Wait. I could have done that?”
“The important thing is that you don’t have to do that now. I know you are more than ready to move on, and I can help you with that.”
Carla looked down and said nothing for a few moments. She stroked her guidebook. “You know the rule around here for us spirits, don’t you, Ashley?”
“No. What is it?”
“No one gets anything for free.” Ash tried to interrupt, but Carla was insistent. “No. Look, I get that you are some kind of sweetheart who really likes helping out lost souls like me. And you can’t imagine how much I really want your help to finally get the fuck out of here. But I don’t want your help for free. I want to pay for it.”
“Pay for it? How?”
Carla tapped her book. “This is for you now.” Gently placing the tome in Ash’s hands, Carla added, “I won’t be needing it anymore.”
Ash fingered the disturbing black leather cover, embossed with surreal images, while her third eye drank the aura of the book in. “The...Book of the Garrulous Dead. Huh. That’s a new one to me. Thank you.”
“You might not thank me later, once you start to read it. Also, you can only open it in shadows or the dark or while in the Overworld. Basically anywhere there’s no direct sunlight. But as long as it doesn’t wear you out, you should find useful information for your work.”
“I will keep that in mind and promise to use it judiciously. Are you ready to ascend now?”
“One more thing. I want to give you something else.”
“What’s that?”
“Information. You said you were here to meet a client whose cousin has gone missing?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“I have information pertaining to Dierdre Walck, the cousin of the woman who’s memory I kind of fucked up a bit. Which I am so sorry for.”
“I just saw Marla outside, and she told me that her cousin had called and said that she’d be on assignment in Europe for a while and to not worry about her. On balance, that’s not a bad thing to leave her thinking while I search for Dierdre.”
“That’s the thing. It’s not true. But I know where she really is. Ms. Walck, also known as Lancelot, Agent of Avalon. She’s being held captive in a lab down near what used to be Canarsie Beach Park in Brooklyn, along with an associate.” Carla leaned in close. “Listen, Ash. Tread very carefully if you go after them. There’s a huge mechanical nightmare that’s guarding them both.”
Ash was stunned. “Brooklyn? No one goes to...How...? How do you know that?”
Carla grinned like a mischievous cat. “Page 384, third paragraph. Check it out for yourself, if you like. As I said, weird and disturbing as it is, the book knows some very useful shit.”
Carla took Ash’s hands into hers, flesh into spirit. “Thank you so much, Ash. For everything. And be sure to thank your host, Iris, too, for me.” Carla sighed. “I guess this is it. I think I’ll kind of miss this place. Waitaminute. No I won’t. But I will miss George. I’m really sad that I didn’t get to see him one last time again after all. There were...so many things that I wanted to tell him. Are you sure...he’s gone?”
“I checked. His old station reported that he’d passed peacefully in his sleep about eight months ago. His daughter had told them that he hadn’t suffered and hadn’t been in any pain. Which means he very likely didn’t become like us. I’m really sorry for your loss.”
“That sonofabitch always was lucky like that. Imagine, going all snuggled up under a pile of cozy blankets. Not like I did. Brrrr. Pardon my saying, but maybe not for you, either I’m guessing.”
“No,” Ash reflected. “Not me, either.”
Carla, not wanting to intrude further into one of the taboos for the dead, changed the subject. “Did you know that George was one of the very first lycanthrope hunters on the force? He was legendary in his day. All those beasts captured or put down and never once had he ever been infected or seriously hurt, though he sure as hell should have been. I still remember the first day I met him. I was a stupid, wide-eyed kid fresh out of the academy. It was my first posting and I was scared to death of fucking up in front of him. But he was always so kind and patient with me. And loyal to a fault. His wife was a lovely person and the best cook. He also could play a pretty convincing Santa come Christmas. Sadly, he let the job take away all the good things in his life just so other people could be safe and hold onto theirs. Damn him. I should be so lucky if anyone out there had ever thought of me in that way. I can’t believe that a fucking devil had the audacity to soil my good memories of him like that. I hope that beast gets what’s coming to it.”
“Don’t worry, Carla. My partner, Rigan, fed him to the Harbor. Not a good way to go. Sounds like George was a wonderful guy. And I get to experience that because of your memories of him. You’re lucky too, you know.”
Carla thought about it for a moment. “I guess you’re right. Especially because I met you.” She reflexively wiped an eye that could no longer cry. “Listen to me, getting all maudlin. Can you send me through, please, before I embarrass myself any more than I already have?”
“Absolutely.”
“Wait!” Carla had a sudden realization.
“What is it?”
“After I’m gone, somebody needs to keep up the search for the Rat King. He or she needs to be found. And stopped.”
Ash smiled. She knew quite a bit about the Rat King from the Silver Load graphic novels she’d read as a kid. Had Carla been a comic book nerd, too? “Don’t worry about that slippery one. I’m on the case, Detective Carla.”
After Carla was gone, Ashley checked with a few officers and filled them in on her interview with the poltergeist, who, she assured them, had moved on. Seeing Mr. Coffey, the restaurant owner, arguing with the police, Ash approached and thrust her card into his hand. “I won’t bill you for my services today because I was protecting a client, but I should. And next time you need to hire a spiritual cleaner for your business, you should really call me. The person who did it for you last time really sucks.”
[OUTRO MUSIC: "Say Something" by Francesca May]
James stewed in the dark in his office. How had everything gone so thoroughly sideways? Fucking Kravitz. What a fool he’d been. Why the hell did he try to take on that Morrigan bitch? He got what he deserved, getting devoured by the beast who held James's own master captive. He should have just run once Rigan appeared. Let the poltergeist deal with her. Or better yet, hide in the shadows, say and do nothing, and not reveal himself to either of Iris’s twin guard dogs.
There was always going to be the risk of escalation in that situation. Rigan was never far whenever Ashley showed up somewhere. And vice-versa. Those two were trouble, and they would have to be dealt with at some point.
And that traitor, Carla? James was beside himself. Betrayed by a fucking ghost. Unbelievable. James would never fully trust one of her kind ever again. Lesson learned. By now Iris would know that the Lancelot woman was being held in Brooklyn, which would doubtless lead Iris to eventually discovering his operations there.
“James. We need to talk about your request to be transferred to the City Hall account.” Daniel Greene, managing partner of Hatch Trevans, the consulting firm that James worked for picked the most inopportune times to intrude. Without even knocking.
James gave him a sour look. “Not now, Dan. If you can’t tell, I’m having a shitty day.”
Daniel reddened and snapped, “It’s either Daniel or Mr. Green. Not Dan. Not Dano. Not Danny, you irritating little shit. You would do well to remember that. Also, when I want your complete, undivided attention, I will have it from you. Now, about your request..."
“SIT DOWN AND SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
James’s words carried a power that overwhelmed his boss. Daniel sat down and went quiet. He had no choice.
“You know what?” James asked, almost to himself. “I think it’s time for you to transfer control of the firm to me. I was going to wait a few months before I forced the issue, but I can’t trust you to follow my orders if I’m working for you. That’s pretty clear. I have things that need to be done, and I need this company to help me do them.”
James freed Daniel from the silence that held him. Still in shock, however, Daniel found himself at a loss for words.
“I like you, Daniel. That’s why you’re not a greasy splat down on 6th Avenue. You have the pull to put me in charge of everything. Plus, you have motives and traits that I can use. You’ve always been obsessed with wealth. You’ve always desired to make connections with powerful people to whom ‘the rules’ don’t apply, and you’ve always wanted to become one of them yourself. You gave up everything to build your career, your massive monument to your enormous, fragile, shivering ego. And you slaved your way up to senior partner because you are an Ozymandias who wants more than anything to be God.”
“N-No...That’s not...”
James continued. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, actually. Those are ambitions I can trust, even if you didn’t know you have them. I’ve known people like you my whole life. Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin...this is the real you.”
“You...you’re insane! I’m not putting you in charge of this firm. There’s a partnership committee and a managing partner -- me -- who run this place. Not you or...or your delusions. You’re fired! Get out of this office before I call security.”
“Do you know how many large companies -- along with political offices, media sources, even humanitarian organizations -- serve as fronts for other...more clandestine...special interest groups? No? Well, this is now one more of those. Sure...we’ll still consult, we’ll still advise, we’ll still turn a tidy profit, et cetera...not that I really care about any of that...” James’s eyes began to glow as he spoke. “Basically, I chose this company, by joining it, to become a division of...what? Hell? Chinvat? Hades? The Primordial Night? Truthfully, I don’t even know that such places exist. But if they do, this firm will definitely be a part of them.
“Let me tell you what the true purpose of what our firm will be going forward, Dan. It’s to fuck with everyone’s shit. I know that’s a little vague. Once we go over what that means in detail, however, you should be able to get this gist. Your job here, going forward, is to ensure that all of that happens. And mine’s to ensure that you shine in that role. Consider this a friendly, hostile takeover by me.”
Anger washed over Daniel’s underlying fear. “Are you out of your goddamn mind? You. You’re just an arrogant, entitled piece-of-shit kid fresh out of law school. I have children older than you. I don’t answer to you. You don’t even work here anymore. I’m calling the police.”
James replied, “Suit yourself.” He pointed back towards the window. “I accept your resignation. Go over there, bust out that glass, and jump.”
Daniel shot back. “I am not jumping out of the window.”
“Are you sure?”
Against his will, Daniel began to walk towards James’s window, looking out over Midtown Manhattan from 60 stories up. Panicking, he began to protest. Once he reached the window, he picked up a chair and swung it.
Thump!
“Are you sure I’m fired? Hit it again.”
Thump! Daniel grunted.
“Are you sure you’re not going to hand control of the company over to me?”
Daniel whispered, “...Please...just let...”
“Hit it again.” A louder thump. “Where do we go from here, Daniel?”
“I...I….”
“Again.” Another thump, and this time, the window cracked.
Daniel, panicking, shouted, “Yes! Okay! As far as I’m concerned, the firm is yours. And I’ll do what you want. But I don’t think the other partners...”
“Don’t worry about them, Daniel. I’ll worry about them. You just worry about yourself.” James stood up and stretched. “Well...this has been a productive meeting, don’t you think? Have me transferred to the City Hall account, effective immediately. And have the board gather for a meeting with me first thing Monday morning. After the meeting and the vote has been taken to make me the man in charge around here, I’ll modify everyone’s memory so that none of you will remember that you now work for a demon. I’m nice like that. However, if you fail to comply with any of my orders or you try to tell anyone about what I’ve told you, I’ll have you throw yourself in front of a train. Right? Good! Hope you have a lovely weekend.”
James grabbed his coat and walked out of his office. Daniel stood, frozen for a good minute. He would have thought the whole thing had been a terrible joke or some kind of momentary delusion or bad dream. Except. He fingered the crack in the window and began to tremble.
NEXT EPISODE: BUBBLES