Gina Grant - Esprit de Corpse

I GLARED ATDante, forgiveness now the last thing on my mind. I didn’t want to hear that Conrad might be allowed to do this. I didn’t care. There was no way that evil son of a skegger could stomp through his life and afterlife tricking people out of theirs. It had been bad enough when it had been me, his daughter’s best friend, but now it was his actual daughter. Had the man no moral compass? Well, I’d be happy to give him directions—straight down to Hell!

I stooped to help Shannon up off the floor. Whereas I’d bounced right up again after being kicked out of my body, she seemed weak and confused. “It’s okay, Shannon. It’s going to be okay.” I wrapped my hands around her upper arm while Dante gently grasped her other bicep. We eased her to her feet. “We’ve got you, Shannon,” I said soothingly.

Shannon took one glance at me, shrugged from my grip and sagged in Dante’s arms. She looked like she’d seen a ghost.

Oh, wait . . .

“Kirsty?” Her voice trembled and her eyes grew wide. I held out my arms, but she cowered and pulled away. I have to admit I was disappointed. I’d expected a hug from my best friend in life, but I guess that ship had sailed away at half-mast. “Is it really you? I thought you were . . .”

Before she could leap to the conclusion that she, too, was dead, I grabbed her arm again and this time dragged her out to the side of her desk so she could see her dad sorting through pink message slips at his old desk.

“Kirsty?” She half-pointed at her dad. “If I’m dead, then who’s that?”

“Listen, Shannon. You’re not dead. You’re now a discom-bod-ulated—I mean, disembodied soul. Your dad, who is actually dead, has managed to possess your body so he can be CEO of Iver PR all over again.”

“But that’s impossible. There’s no such thing as souls.” She looked from me to Dante.

“I’m afraid it is exactly as Kirsty has told you.” He gazed into her eyes, face serious and sympathetic.

After a moment, Shannon nodded. Oh, sure. Take his word for it. He’s a complete stranger to you, whereas I—

“What do I do?” Shannon whispered.

Just then her father shoved the phone against his stolen ear, speaking into the mouthpiece probably before the person even got to answer. “Joanne, bring me a coffee and all the files relating to these messages.”

He paused, listening.

“Where’s Joanne?”

Another pause.

“ I promoted her? Yes, well. Of course I did. And if you work hard enough for me, you, too, could earn a promotion. Now where are those files?”

And to think, I used to believe in him. How could I have fallen for that? But hadn’t his Deal for manipulative powers ended with his death? He couldn’t still bewitch people with his fake charm, could he?

“Your name is . . . Willa, then. Yes, black. Write that down. No, I haven’t hit my head. It’s you who can’t remember how I take my coffee.”

Another brief pause, followed by, “I may have gotten my own coffee before, but as of this moment, I’m making it part of your job description, along with picking up my dry cleaning, gassing up my car and lying to clients when they call. Never tell them I’m with another client. Each one has to feel like they’re the only client in the world.”

He cut the call and turned his attention back to the work piled on his desk.

It was obvious he couldn’t see us; he probably assumed he’d scared us away.

Shannon stared at herself, as her body shuffled paper and scribbled notes. “My dad is back? Like, from the dead?”

Hadn’t I just said that?

“What was that nasty monster I saw before?” she asked.

“Shannon,” Dante answered, voice soft with patience and understanding. “I’m afraid your father is still dead. But due to a mistake on our part”—his eyes barely flickered in my direction—“your father has taken on another form. One that allows him to possess a body. In this case, your body.”

It seemed to dawn on Shannon that Dante was a stranger. She pushed his hands away and stepped toward me. “Kirsty, who is this?”

“This is my boyf—” Indeed, who was Dante to me right now? He wasn’t behaving like someone who loved me. “Colleague,” I finished. “We work together.”

Dante’s eyes narrowed. Had I pissed him off?

Good.

“Work together? The dead need PR?”

“Oh, honey. You have no idea,” I said, thinking of the frumpy, dumpy queen of Hell. “But no. Dante and I are Reapers. Grim Reapers.” I patted my scythe but her confused look told me she didn’t equate the short piece of chrome pipe dangling at my waist with a Reaper’s scythe. When I’d first been reaped, I’d been curious and had grabbed Dante’s scythe during our trek to Hell. Where I’d been angry and proactive, she was soul-shocked and timid.

Shannon was certainly having an entirely different kicked-out-of-body experience than I’d had.

What else had I felt that day? I’d been mad about losing my professionally colored hair and my brand-new birthday tattoo, although I liked my new bat-wings far better than my old one. I’d been concerned about my outfit, which had been the one I’d felt most secure in at the time. Shannon was still wearing her business suit and expensive high heels. Was that how she really saw herself these days?

What a difference a year makes.

Tentatively, she offered her hand to Dante. He took it, bowing low. Maybe in his day men had kissed a lady’s hand when they met, but he wasn’t kissing anyone but me these days.

Or at least he hadn’t up till now.

When Shannon smiled at him and kept hold of his hand longer than absolutely necessary, I found myself growing jealous. Don’t be ridiculous, I ordered myself. You want your best friend and your . . . colleague to get along. But that didn’t help. My eyes turned green and my brain began to boil even as we stood there.

I decided to put an end to this right now. I activated my scythe— oh, pretty —and raised it high. “Conrad, you skeggin’ bastard, you’re coming with me. To Hell!” Gripping the handle with both hands, I sliced the blade downward with all the precision of an experienced Reaper. It cut through Shannon’s body like a beam of light through a human being.

I stepped back, but nothing happened. In fact, Conrad continued working as if he hadn’t just been scythed.

“What the—?” If at first you don’t succeed . . . I raised my scythe to try again. Once more I slid the dark purple blade through the seated man, er, woman, er, person.

“Third time’s the charm.”

“Four makes—” I glanced at Dante. His expression was hard to read, but I could tell he was waiting for my arms to get tired. I lowered my scythe and ran through my class notes in my head. Nothing. “Why isn’t it working?”

“It’s like I said, possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

I did the math in my head before asking, “So if I scythe him six more times, that’ll do the trick?”

“’Fraid not.”

Shannon began to weep softly. Dante draped one arm over her shoulders to comfort her. To me he whispered, “He can’t be kicked out. He has to leave of his own accord.”

But you can’t exactly whisper over a person who you’re currently cuddling.

“Don’t hurt him!” Shannon shrieked, making a grab for my scythe.

I snatched it out of her reach and deactivated it. Nobody had to tell me twice not to let someone else touch my scythe. Well, it’s different now that it’s my scythe, all right? “You’re kidding!” I shouted at my friend in disbelief.

Shannon began to cry in earnest now. “He’s my dad. Please don’t hurt him.” She curled into Dante’s arms, burying her face against his chest, probably getting tears and snot on his Reaper robe. And his spare was at the cleaners.