Had construction of Harrison Metalworks continued as planned, Lordly Estates would’ve teemed with the vast cadre of middle managers necessary for the facility’s proper operation. Harksburg may have had a reputation as a great place to raise a family, but it was not even remotely on the radar of your average corporate ladder-climbing douche bag. To encourage its best and brightest to voluntarily relocate, Harrison purchased several dozen acres of land on what would become Plastic Hill and started building McMansions which it planned to include in its relocation packages. Like the industrial park it had been built to support, Lordly Estates stood incomplete, a vision of progress half-realized and half-baked.
Unlike the Works, Harksburg had found a buyer for Lordly Estates, a mysterious British gentleman known around town as Mr. Pemberton. Rather than completing the project and selling the finished homes, Mr. Pemberton lived there—alone, by all accounts, though Waltman often theorized that he had strippers and prostitutes airlifted in during the dead of night. Once a month, Mr. Pemberton drove his big black Lincoln into town to run errands. He’d stop at the post office to collect a massive heap of mail. He’d swing into the library to exchange last month’s batch of seedy romance novels for an armful of new releases. Sometimes he’d visit the hardware store to procure various odds and ends. At his last stop, Herman’s Grocer, he’d purchase several boxes of cereal and enough TV dinners for lunch and dinner until his next supply run. By all accounts Mr. Pemberton was a nice enough fellow, a quiet man who rarely started a conversation on his own but always responded politely and intelligently when spoken to. He always wore a crisp black suit, paid in cash, and adhered to the speed limit.
As far as the general populace of Harksburg was concerned, Mr. Pemberton was a complete fucking loon. Flanagan tailed him whenever he came into town. “That weirdo’s up to something,” the officer claimed, “and whatever it is ain’t happening on my watch!” Kevin wondered what his friend would make of the news that Mr. Pemberton was consorting with the local avatar of death.
“We jokingly call them ‘reaper keepers,’” Driff explained during the short drive back up Plastic Hill. He was careful to keep his hand in his pocket the entire time. “Helping friends, family, and even casual acquaintances accept death is not a fun experience. Most reapers withdraw from regular society to live as hermits. They’re well paid for their work and each is assigned a servant to see to his or her needs and represent the reaper when interaction with the general populace is necessary.”
“Hence why Mr. Pemberton’s name is on the deed to Lordly Estates,” Ren added. “Billy provided the capital, but he didn’t want his name on record.”
“Why does he care?” Kevin asked. His head was still swimming from his meeting with Nella; he suspected he was missing something obvious, and he wanted to know what.
“He was human once,” Driff said. “He probably doesn’t want to be tracked down by anyone he used to know.”
“That could be a bit awkward,” Kevin agreed. Telling people he hadn’t seen in years that he was “in between things”—his preferred alternative to “unemployed” because it felt a little less desperate—was bad enough. Having to explain to someone that you’re the avatar of death or look a friend square in the eye knowing that you’re the only reason Grandma didn’t climb right back into her body after that stroke would be absolute hell. Kevin certainly didn’t begrudge the reaper his need for privacy.
A massive wrought iron gate set into a pair of towering stone pillars kept the riffraff out of Lordly Estates. Beyond, the forested road snaked around a corner, keeping the development itself out of view. The proletariat wasn’t even allowed to catch a glimpse of the luxury inside without explicit permission.
Ren stopped the car in front of the gate. “I’ll get us an invitation,” Driff said as he clambered out and approached the intercom set into one of the monolithic supports.
As soon as the car door slammed shut behind the elf, Kevin leaned forward and took firm hold of Ren’s shoulder. “What the hell’s going on, Ren?”
His friend shifted into the contemptuous tone Kevin had only heard him use when he’d been caught red-handed. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You. Me.” He pointed at Driff’s back. “Him.”
“He’s our employer. And we’re his exceptionally well-paid employees.”
“I get why he wanted me along. But why you? Why’d he go to you first?”
Ren pursed his lips and considered this for a moment. “My reputation as a shrewd-yet-fair businessman must run deeper than I thought.”
Ahead of them, hidden machinery pulled the two halves of the gate apart. Driff turned to make his way back to the vehicle. Their only chance to talk wasted, Kevin slapped the back of his friend’s head. “You’re an ass, you know that?”
“Yeah, but I’ve got a great car.”
Driff yanked the passenger door open and climbed in. “Billy will see us.”
Kevin rolled his eyes. “I’m glad he’s willing to take time out of his busy schedule of not doing his fucking job.”
“He knows who pays the bills,” Driff said as Ren pulled the car forward. The gate closed behind them with an ominous clunk.
“You elves?”
“Among others. Anyone who doesn’t want a world full of immortal humans—and elves—who refuse to let go when it’s their time.”
“Humans and elves. But not, say, water nymphs?”
The elf shook his head. “The fae do not need a reaper’s help. They understand the way of things and they’re at peace with it. When you live as long as they do, death is a lot easier to accept.”
That explained why Billy, a recluse who spurned all human contact, was willing to become romantically entangled with Nella. Kevin found himself wondering what the reaper’s work was like. How exactly did you go about helping someone die? A couple of days ago, his answer to that question would’ve been blunt and to the point. When blades and bullets aren’t enough, what then? He flashed back to his own out-of-body experience after Driff shot him, to that overwhelming, all-consuming desperation with which he’d clung to life. What force on earth could possibly overcome such a powerful instinct? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
The road banked sharply to the right, bringing them to the first row of homes. Lordly Estates was, above all else, a physical representation of the abstract social levels its intended inhabitants expected to climb. Smaller homes for lower-level executives were carved into the first row. Houses grew bigger and grander with each of the six tiers, culminating in the sprawling manse at the very top reserved for the regional vice president.
“My family’s house is bigger,” Ren said nonchalantly. Nobody cared.
Kevin shivered. Something about Lordly Estates didn’t feel right. The empty driveways and curtainless windows made the place seem stillborn. Vacant overgrown lawns should’ve been strewn with tacky ornaments and forgotten children’s toys. Halloween was only a few weeks away, and yet there was nary a scarecrow nor jack-o-lantern in sight. An eerie silence settled heavily over it all, interrupted only by the soft purr of the Jaguar’s engine. The place felt dead—appropriate, Kevin decided, given its master. Nella never would’ve been happy in a place like this.
Ren took the direct route, easing the Jaguar up the wide street that bisected the lower tiers on its way to the reaper’s abode. The number 22 beckoned in bulky gold figures on the marble mailbox at the head of the mansion’s winding driveway. The building itself evoked memories of a Civil War era plantation Kevin had once seen in a movie: tall and white and foreboding and propped up with gargantuan white columns. Ren’s family’s home may have been bigger, but its silly postmodern lines weren’t nearly as grand and imposing as those of lot 22.
As the car rolled to a halt before the front porch, Kevin leaned forward between the seats and looked to Driff. “So…uh…anything we need to know about dealing with a reaper?”
“If he goes for your nose, run,” the elf replied as he clambered out of the vehicle.
Mr. Pemberton awaited them on the mansion’s expansive front porch. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, his deep voice emotionless and precise and annoyingly British. Narrow eyes and the pencil-thin mustache that traced his slender upper lip combined to give him a perpetual condescending frown. His age was as difficult to judge as his attitude. His long face was clean and unwrinkled, but his short black hair was flecked with gray and rapidly receding from his forehead.
“Good morning,” Driff replied. “We appreciate your master taking time to see us.”
“Representatives of Evitankari are always welcome in Lordly Estates,” Mr. Pemberton said officiously. “As are their companions.”
“Allow me to introduce Ren Roberts and Kevin Felton,” the elf said, indicating each in turn. Ren offered Mr. Pemberton a slight bow. Kevin nodded and toed the grass awkwardly. He wanted to get this over with.
“Charmed,” Mr. Pemberton said. It bothered Kevin that he couldn’t tell if the damn Brit was being sarcastic. “Follow me, please.”
The glass and gold front door, inlaid with the blocky Harrison “H,” swung open automatically at their approach. Beyond, the cavernous foyer stood empty. Where Kevin expected to find ornate furniture and priceless art he found only empty marble floor and blank white walls. The balcony above, trimmed in gold leaf and repeating the company symbol, was similarly bare.
“Where’s all the stuff?” he asked.
Mr. Pemberton sighed. “My master is a bit of a minimalist.”
“Blew his whole wad on the house and couldn’t afford to put anything in it,” Ren whispered. “Typical new money. They ought to have a school to teach these people how to spend their dough properly.”
Kevin snorted. “Yeah, because those portraits your parents had painted of you on horseback for your birthday every year are extra classy.”
“Equestrianism is a dying art that deserves to be celebrated.”
Mr. Pemberton led them across the foyer and into the far hall. The harsh glare of the ceiling lights against the bare walls and floor made Kevin feel as if he were walking into the mythical white light. Appropriate, he thought, if not entirely accurate. He’d been dead and he hadn’t seen such a thing. Did that make the white light just an old wives’ tale? Had he simply not been dead enough? Or… was his ultimate resting place not in the paradise beyond the light, but somewhere darker and less inviting? Like so many things that had crossed his mind that day, Kevin didn’t want to think about it. He supposed he’d find out soon enough if he pissed off Billy.
An unnerving thought stopped Kevin in his tracks. “I’m…uh… not due for collection, am I?” he asked, the blood draining from his face. Technically, Kevin Felton wasn’t supposed to be alive. What if the reaper knew Driff had shot him in the head and decided to set things right?
“Your soul is not a late library book,” Driff snapped. “Let’s go.” Upon reaching the double doors at the end of the hall, Mr. Pemberton spun around to face them. “Please forgive the state of the master’s suite. He vociferously disapproves of any attempts at tidying up.”
Ren shrugged. “When Death tells you not to wash his fucking socks, you don’t wash his fucking socks,” he said, looking to Driff for approval. The elf rolled his eyes and shook his head.
There was, Kevin realized, a rather unique smell emanating through the cracks of the double doors. He couldn’t place it. Thick and sweet, it was spiced with undertones of blood and something spicy and humid. It was death, he decided, the stench of a dark, frightening creature steeped in violence and despair. After checking to make sure Driff and Ren weren’t paying attention, he clandestinely took a step behind them.
Mr. Pemberton pushed the doors open, unleashing a wave of that unnamed odor. The room inside was dark, lit only by a single source of light in the far corner. Trying to force his eyes to adjust, Kevin blinked as he followed the others inside, stepping in something soft and squishy on top and hard and crunchy underneath. He took a deep breath and looked down, hoping against hope that the horror in which he stood wouldn’t send him screaming from the room.
It was pizza. Half a pepperoni pizza, to be exact, exposed to Kevin’s careless sneakers in an open box. Other pizza boxes mingled with fast food containers and dirty clothing to form an ankle-deep swamp of sorts that undulated across the entirety of the floor in wavelike heaps and clusters. Posters of pop punk bands with dumb names and even dumber hair covered the walls in layers like fliers on a popular bulletin board. Thick black curtains caked with dust and cobwebs were shut tightly over tall windows. The only light in the room came from the four computer monitors set atop a desk in the far corner. There the reaper sat, concealed behind the imperious black back of a tall leather chair. Kevin recognized the bulky medieval characters duking it out on the wide screens. His freshman year roommate had failed out of school because he wouldn’t put that damn massively multiplayer online RPG down long enough to get to class. Not that it would’ve mattered, seeing as his roommate was an idiot, but a little bit of effort surely wouldn’t have hurt.
“Master Billy,” Mr. Pemberton called out, “allow me to introduce Ren Roberts and Kevin Felton of Harksburg and Council of Intelligence Driff of Evitankari.”
Kevin was about to ask Driff why he was a Council and not a Councilor when a single tap on the keyboard brought the action on all four monitors to a halt. The chair spun slowly around, creaking as it went, to reveal the reaper. Kevin bit back an exasperated sigh. Of course death is a scrawny little emo kid, he thought. Of fucking course. In this new reality to which Driff had dragged him, Occam’s Razor held no sway. The simplest answer was not the most plausible because the simplest answer was never fucking correct. When it came to magic and elves and fairy creatures and avatars of death, Kevin realized, the thing to expect was always the most ridiculous.
Billy glowered up at them through dark, watery eyes trimmed in thick black mascara. His swoopy black hair dangled across his eyes at a seemingly impossible angle. He wore a plain back T-shirt and plain black jeans at least two sizes too small. The studded belt wrapped around his waist was certainly more for form than function. Tattooed stars traced a path up his forearm and disappeared into his sleeve. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar, but Kevin couldn’t figure out what.
Perhaps more importantly, he couldn’t figure out what the hell Nella possibly could’ve seen in this guy. Billy was sort of handsome in a depressed-looking way, but that was all he had going for him. Kevin’s departure must’ve hurt the water nymph more than he thought. At least he knew for sure Billy wouldn’t be any competition, because really, why would Nella want this little twit when she could have a rampaging stallion like Kevin Felton?
Several moments passed in silence as the two sides studied each other. Driff finally broke the ice. “It’s come to our attention that you’ve forsaken your duties.”
Billy didn’t give any indication of having heard Driff. He clearly wasn’t pleased at having been interrupted. Maybe Nella had been right; maybe visiting the reaper was indeed a stupid fucking idea. At the very least Kevin was going to be scrubbing pizza out of his shoes all afternoon, and that was more than bad enough.
Driff continued. “Mind explaining why?”
The reaper just snorted.
“Fine,” the elf snapped. “We know about the girl. We know she left you and you aren’t happy about it, but that is no excuse for shirking responsibilities only you can perform and for which you are handsomely compensated.” Kevin and Ren exchanged anxious looks. Neither liked how hard Driff was pushing.
Billy steepled his fingers and glared daggers over them at Driff. “Keep your fucking money,” he growled. “I don’t fucking want it.”
“What do you want?”
The reaper’s gaze flicked to each of them in turn. Kevin felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up straight. There was power in that gaze, dark and primeval. This Billy, despite his appearance, was not a creature to be trifled with.
“Before Nella left me at the altar, she made a little speech,” the reaper explained slowly. “‘I’m leaving you for someone kind, and warm, and all filled up in the places where you’re empty. I’m leaving you for a real man. I’m leaving you for my best friend.’ As she stomped away from me, tearing off her wedding dress as she went, I called after her: ‘What’s the fucker’s name?’”
Kevin’s blood turned to ice. She didn’t. She couldn’t have. There was no way she was that stupid. No way. Nella was blue and she lived in a lagoon in the woods by herself and she hated wearing clothes, but she wasn’t an idiot. At least, he was pretty sure she wasn’t an idiot. He didn’t really know much about her.
“His name…” Billy paused and closed his eyes. He spat his next sentence out as if every syllable burned his tongue. “His name is Poofy.”
Kevin almost threw up. Poofy. The pet name his mother called him when no one else was around. Thankfully. It was their little secret. He’d never told anyone about it—and he didn’t think he had told Nella. So how the hell did she know about it? And what the hell had she been thinking when she said it to the reaper?
Driff cleared his throat. “Are you sure she was being serious? Maybe she just wanted to get under your skin.”
“Anyone named Poofy is probably a big pussy,” Ren added. “If she left you for someone like that—well, her loss.”
“Yeah,” was all Kevin could contribute.
Billy opened his eyes and rubbed his chin. “Find this Poofy. Bring him to me and I will consider going back to work.”
Driff didn’t leave any time for suspense. “You know I can’t do that. Aiding and abetting a homicide isn’t something my superiors would approve.”
Kevin stifled a sigh of relief. He suspected the elf’s reluctance had more to do with his newly green hand and his promise to Nella, but nonetheless he was grateful not to have been thrown under the proverbial bus.
The reaper spun his chair back around and reactivated his computer game. “Then this conversation is over.”
Well, Kevin thought, that went just perfectly!
Driff’s gaze swiveled over to Kevin and Ren to imply it was their turn. Ren took the lead, clearing his throat and sauntering slowly toward the reaper. “Billy, my friend, this is beneath you,” he announced in his best used car salesman voice. “You’re a reaper. Death, destroyer of worlds! The great equalizer! Along with taxes, you’re the only sure thing in life.” When Ren reached Billy’s side, he grabbed the back of the reaper’s chair with a friendly hand. “You, sir, are a man among men. Don’t let a bad breakup bring you down!”
At that, the chair whirled around once more, knocking Ren on his ass. Fire burning in his eyes, Billy reached forward, grabbed firm hold of Ren’s nose, and yanked with all his might. Ren’s body went rigid as something dark and ethereal exploded out through his nostrils. That something slowly coalesced into a smoky version of Ren, tethered to his physical form by wispy tendrils that stretched between his ghostly feet and his real-life nose. Before anyone could protest, Billy let go. Ren’s soul snapped back into his nostrils like a rubber band, launching him straight onto his back and slamming his head against the floor with a sharp crack.
Being told that someone can pull a man’s soul out through his nose and actually watching it in person were two wildly different experiences. It took every ounce of self-control Kevin could muster to resist the urge to piss his pants and run screaming from the room. Driff and Mr. Pemberton both merely rolled their eyes.
Billy nonchalantly spun his chair back around and went back to his video game. Ren writhed like a fish out of water for a few moments, gasping and arching his back repeatedly as if trying to get his body going again. Mr. Pemberton took him by the hand, dragged him through the laundry and garbage littering the floor, and deposited him at Driff’s feet. Ren rolled onto his side and looked up at Kevin. “Careful,” he croaked. “That fucking hurt.”
Oh, so it’s my turn now, Kevin thought. He didn’t want a fucking turn. Finding out which other orifices Billy could use to pull out a man’s soul wasn’t something he was particularly looking forward to, but if he didn’t try, he might as well announce himself as Poofy right then and there and get it over with. There was no way to be sure who else in town knew; his mother had a big mouth, and despite her promises that the nickname had stayed between the two of them, it wouldn’t surprise Kevin to know that it had slipped a few times. Nobody was going to save Kevin. He was going to have to take his fate into his own hands and save himself. So, what could he try that Driff and Ren hadn’t?
The answer came to him almost immediately. It was so obvious that he knew it couldn’t fail. The way to reach Billy wasn’t to appeal to his sense of duty or to his pride. In his current state of mind, neither of those things mattered. Kevin knew that firsthand. Later, he convinced himself he hadn’t acted completely selfishly, that he did what he did and said what he said because he genuinely wanted to help Billy. He’d been in the poor guy’s shoes recently enough that it still hurt.
“A year ago, my company was bought out by the Griffin Group,” Kevin said somberly. “I was laid off the next day. They gave me two months’ severance, but I started looking for a new job immediately. That money wasn’t going to last forever. I went on two, sometimes three interviews every week. Nobody bit.” He almost couldn’t bring himself to describe the next part. “Still, I figured it would work out. My girlfriend had a great job and we were living together, so I assumed things were going to be okay. I went on my last interview a month ago. It didn’t go well—to put it lightly—and I came home earlier than expected. That’s when I found Kylie screwing her fifty-seven-year-old boss on our living room couch.”
Mr. Pemberton winced. Driff nodded and motioned for Kevin to go on.
Kevin had to pause and collect himself. This wasn’t some story he’d made up to try to save himself; it was real life, his life, and it was still a raw, bleeding wound, even considering how happy Nella made him. “I threw the old bastard’s pants out the window and chased him off with a Dustbuster. I wasn’t trying hard enough to find work, Kylie told me. She couldn’t take care of me forever. An unemployed boyfriend, she said, was basically social kryptonite. No one at the office could understand why she hadn’t already traded me in for something better. It was only a matter of time before I wound up in retail, they reasoned—better to cut her losses now before someone important saw me greeting customers at the door.
“She packed a bag and left. I haven’t heard from her since. I miss her—a lot—but if she tried to come back into my life I’d show her the fucking door faster than she could blink.
“I was broke as a joke. I couldn’t feed myself or pay the rent. So I moved back here. Where I grew up. To stay with my mother and her umpteen Jesus figurines. I really hate those fucking figurines.”
The video game froze. Billy slowly turned his chair to face Kevin. The reaper’s expression had softened. He’d slouched back in his chair, defeated, as if listening to Kevin’s story had taken a lot out of him. Kevin could sympathize; he wanted nothing more than to go crawl up in a corner and wallow in his problems. He hadn’t told his tale to anyone in that much detail—not Ren, not his mother, not even Nella. Burying it and pretending it hadn’t happened had worked just fine until he’d put it into words. Now it was all he wanted to think about.
But Kevin didn’t have time for that. He’d successfully baited the reaper. It was time to set the hook. Luckily, he had a personal experience perfect for closing the deal.
“If I could just meet someone new—well, I’m sure the pain wouldn’t go away immediately. But it would help.”
Billy rubbed the stubble on his handsome chin, considering that. “Yeah, it would help.”
“I could use a wing man. Even if we don’t pick up any women, at least it’s something to do.”
The reaper nodded. “Better than sitting around here all day.”
“Friday night at the Burg?”
“Friday night at the Burg.”