Gina Grant: Esprit de Corpse

“ Mmm . Geese are who die whore,” I said.

While the universal translator was pretty accurate, it could not handle a mouthful of gingersnap. I chewed, swallowed and re-enunciated: “These are to die for.”

Dante grinned, only a tiny bit of cookie peeking out.

“What’s that?” In a flurry of crumbs, he gestured with his half-eaten cookie at a piece of paper on the counter. It had Dear Kirsty and Dante writ large across the top.

I shoved the rest of the cookie into my mouth in order to free up my hands. Brushing crumbs on my days-old outfit, I unfolded the page.

Dear Kirsty and Dante,

Thanks so much for your hospitality. We enjoyed being welcomed into your lovely home.

However, due to a real lucky streak (and possibly a bit of help from Claire Voyant), we hit the jackpot at the karmic casino. I cleaned up at the floating carps game (it was as easy as shooting fish in a barrel), while Leslie hit the jackpot at the karmic wheel of fortune.

We ended up with enough to pay off our karmic debts, buy the franchise and rent a small apartment near the new restaurant. Claire introduced us to this great surreal estate agent.

We’ll be back to visit soon but all our efforts right now are going into readying the restaurant for business.

So once again, thanks from both of us. Without you, we’d never have realized we’re better off dead.

Lots of love,

Carey and Leslie

P.S: We have Jenni with us so you don’t have to worry about feeding her.

Dante came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me. He rested his chin on my shoulder and read the letter. “ Bene. This is good news on many levels.”

And here in Hell, we knew about levels.

“Yeah, sure,” I said, sniffling. Again.

“But cara ! They have succeeded in only a few days what we expected to take several lifetimes. Is this not good news?”

“Yeah, I guess.” I wiped my nose on my sleeve. After three days’ wear, this shirt was bound for laundry. “It’s just—I liked having them here. I hadn’t lived with them in years and I only lately realized how much I loved them and just when I’d have a chance to show them, they move away and now they’re goin’ to spend all their time at a skegging restaurant. Again!”

I may have wailed that last part.

I spun in Dante’s arms and cried against his chest. His shirt was also going in the wash.

You might think I was overreacting, but arriving home to find Carey and Leslie gone was a little too similar to the day I’d found out my parents had been killed in a car accident. I wasn’t just sobbing for my current sadness, but also for my parents and for the little orphan I’d once been.

And then I stopped. Just like that.

Because it had occurred to me that with my family moved out, Dante and I could go back to our cozy little afterlifestyle à deux .

We could go back to showering together.

We could go back to wandering around the apartment looking like we’d just had sex.

We could go back to having sex all over the apartment.

Like, for instance, here. Now!

Anxious to show how sorry I was for behaving badly (not to mention anxious to not have The Talk about how I’d behaved badly), I shoved Dante up against the nearest hard surface and drew his lips down to mine. We spent long moments kissing. I pulled back, knowing my lips were now as red and swollen from kissing as my eyes and nose were red from crying. I felt like a scarlet woman. I let my beautiful white hair fall across my face to mask a multitude of redness.

Dante began to lick and nibble at my neck and caress my back. He drew my shirt off over my head. Phew! I needed a shower. And if things went right, I’d need one even more in a few minutes.

The way I was feeling, a few minutes was all it was going to take.

I pulled back and hopped up on the table. Dante’s eyes gleamed wickedly as he followed, coming to stand between my legs.

“Are you still mad at me, cara ?” He slid his hands over my thighs.

Okay, looked like we were going to have The Talk after all. I sat up straight and stilled his questing hands, answering his question with one of my own. “Are you still mad because I touched your scythe?” And by “touched your scythe,” I meant all the bad things that had been fallout from my teensy little error in judgment. I considered touching his scythe again, euphemistically speaking, but decided to hold his gaze and his hands instead.

“All’s well that ends well, cara. You are now a bona fide Reaper with two souls squared away. You can carve a couple of notches on your scythe. Kidding. Kidding,” he reassured me when I opened my mouth to protest. “No scythes will be harmed in the making of your Reaper career.” He slid one of his hands from my grasp and caressed my cheek. “I would say this was a win-win for us.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it?” Done with the talking part of the conversation, I raised my face for another kiss. Our lips met for long moments while he expertly unfastened the top button on my jeans and then worked the zipper down. Stepping back, he grabbed my pants at the ankles and pulled gently but firmly, sliding them off. My panties followed suit shortly thereafter.

With my shirt dangling from one wrist and his jeans pooled around his ankles, we restated our love for one another in the best possible way.

I gasped, he groaned and the universal translator gave up altogether.

Afterward we dined like kings on the Tupperware bounty my family had left behind. (After I’d disinfected the table, of course.)

Leslie had cooked up a storm, no doubt enjoying all the fun new ingredients we had here in Hell. Mushrooms and plants that had been poisonous up on the Coil now added zest to a buffet of interdimensional cuisine that was also to die for. From. Whatever.

I felt pretty good about the way things had turned out, including how easy on me Dante had been. I grew uneasy, though when Dante put down his fork and gave me a serious look. Was I about to get The Talk, Part Deux ?

“You must trust me, cara. We cannot have this”—Dante paused, allowing me to fill in the appropriate pejorative adjective—“jealousy, between us. It is good for neither our professional relationship nor our—” He paused again, then his face lit with a wicked smile. “Our un professional relationship.”

I couldn’t help but smile back. For a second. Then jealousy tugged at my heartstrings again. “But what about Beatrice? Who is she to you?”

Now his expression lost its sexy overtones, his smile becoming more wistful than wanton. “She was my muse. I spent most of my last incarnation thinking about her.”

A dull ache replaced the hot, green jealousy. Was he just earning enough points to get into Heaven so he could be with her again? “You loved her?”

“I did, but not in the way you think. It was courtly love, not romantic love. I only met her twice while living, although we’ve spent some time together at interfaith sporting events.”

He was referring to the weekly ice hockey games that were used to settle disputes between Heaven and Hell. It cut down on the chance of an apocalypse breaking out, although sometimes fights between the players did. Gabriel found blowing the holy trumpet a challenge with his front teeth knocked out.

“Courtly love? Like in tennis?” I didn’t know much about tennis, but it was played on a court and they bandied “love” about, along with balls.

He took my hand, rubbing his thumb over the back of mine. “No. Courtly love was a concept of my day meaning admiration and respect. Essentially, I used the idea of Beatrice as a muse, an inspiration for some of my work.”