The Quick and the Dead

by D. B. Sieders

  Exhaling, the flush in the woman’s face softened and she moved the hard glower from her mouth as she looked at Vivian. “Yeah, we can tackle finances together. Chet showed me the office earlier,” Gutierrez said.

  “Sounds good. I’ll have time until I’m called to tend to the injured.”

  Gutierrez shot one final glare at the two smartasses, before she nodded to Vivian. “Come on. I’ll teach you all about allocations and overhead. Let’s go.”

  They’d almost made it out of earshot when the bigot’s buddy had to go and shoot off his mouth. “What in the Sam Hill are we supposed to do then while these chicks are messing up the money?”

  “They can always use more help in the kitchen,” Gutierrez offered smiling sweetly. Then she turned and started marching back across the field.

  Vivian had the feeling she and Gutierrez were going to get along just fine and dandy.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The books weren’t in terrible shape, and Vivian was relieved to find that the Briggs rebellion had some pretty substantial financial backing. Maria Gutierrez explained that most of the recruits turned over part of their personal savings and assets when they joined. When Vivian commented that most cults had the same requirement, Gutierrez assured her that it wasn’t mandatory and that each recruit decided if and how much to contribute. The only thing Briggs demanded besides hard training and discipline was pitching in with operations.

  Gutierrez had learned all of this during her week of orientation. Since Vivian had been thrown straight into training, she’d missed the intro course. Maria gave her the condensed version while they sorted through computer files, online accounts, and printed spreadsheets.

  Briggs, it turned out, owned the building that housed headquarters, which he’d originally purchased with the intent to fix it up and keep regular tenants. In addition to providing shelter and training facilities, Vivian discovered that he’d invested all of his personal assets into the rebellion coffers. At least he puts his money where his mouth is. Literally.

  “So what’s your story?” Vivian asked. She’d finished going over the last of her spreadsheets. The rest of the work would have to wait until she and Gutierrez compared notes and brainstormed ways to improve the operations investment portfolio for the long term while making sure they still had enough to cover the rebellion’s costs in the “real” world.

  It would be very interesting to know how the rebellion stored spirit energy, assuming they were collecting. The guardian spirits could hold quite a bit in their realms, as could reapers. As a living soul broker, Vivian could only hold so much power before her mortal body suffered. The mental and emotional side effects of those burdens were no picnic either. She’d have to ask Briggs if there was an easier way to offload it.

  Wouldn’t Darkmore love that?

  Gutierrez didn’t look up from the computer screen, but she did answer Vivian’s question. “I was on my way home from work, home being New York by the way, and I had a heart attack.”

  “So you were supposed to die,” Vivian said. That’s what had happened to her. The car crash that opened her connection to the spirit realms should have been fatal. Her reprieve from death came with the price of service in afterlife management. Death might have been better, but she suspected she’d have been tapped to serve a term under Ezra’s mentorship anyway, ferrying souls to the other side and collecting energy for the grand afterlife pyramid scheme.

  Gutierrez’s lips curled into a sly smile as she continued to type. “That’s what Armando told me.”

  Ah, Armando. Reaper or guardian? Either would do, she supposed. After all, she’d been caught between spirits from both sides—Ezra from the guardian side and Darkmore from the reaper side and, of course, Zeke. He’d been caught in the middle, too.

  And, in spite of her best efforts, he’d remained trapped between worlds.

  I’m so sorry, Zeke.

  She shook off that unpleasant thought. Not the time to open old wounds.

  “How’d you get away?” Vivian asked.

  Gutierrez winked and smiled. “I charmed him. What about you?”

  So much for putting unpleasant thoughts aside… Keeping it short and sweet, she said, “One of my guardians took me out in trade with a reaper.”

  “Interesting. Did you charm him?”

  Not until much later… She stood and stretched, taking a moment to decide how best to answer. “It’s complicated, but I made a bargain to release my other guardian, the charming one, and my sister. After I took a trip to the dark side with the reaper, I let loose a whampload of spirit energy and got upgraded to indentured servitude.”

  Gutierrez nodded. Interesting. Vivian expected surprise, but maybe her story wasn’t all that unusual. Or perhaps Gutierrez had been through worse.

  “It happens a lot. If they get the living to do some of their dirty work, they don’t have to spend as much of their energy.”

  That made sense.

  “Greed’s universal. I should know. I worked on Wall Street.”

  Vivian didn’t really want to know which was worse.

  After more skills assessments and a crap ton of written evaluations, Chet informed Vivian and the others that a shorter version of orientation would take place over dinner. Bone weary and hungry, she hoped if the two rednecks from earlier were on kitchen patrol that they actually knew how to cook. Joining Barry “B” Johnson and Gutierrez at one of the newbie tables, Vivian enjoyed surprisingly good pork BBQ and southern-style green beans. She’d promised to bring Darkmore a plate, so it surprised her when the reaper came strolling in, looking good in tight jeans and a thermal pullover.

  The residual scrapes on his face just made him look more dangerous.

  He sat down beside her and surveyed the others at the table.

  A mortal reaper in a den full of angry mercenaries bent on shaking up the afterlife establishment, and he still strutted around like he hadn’t a care in the world. Like he ran the place. She didn’t know whether to be angry or impressed.

  Gutierrez eyed him with a mixture of suspicion and carnal interest, which made Vivian’s temperature rise. B looked at him like he was the devil, and Lewis, the shy man from the field, swerved to avoid their table. Of course, Lewis had looked pretty fragile earlier, which could account for why Briggs treated him with an uncharacteristic gentleness.

  Vivian surveyed the scene, heaved a sigh, and said, “Everyone, this is Lazarus Darkmore, a reaper. Darkmore, this is everyone. I’d introduce them, but you’ve probably scanned them all anyway.”

  “And Southern women are supposed to have such impeccable manners,” he drawled. “You are, however, correct. I am familiar with Ms. Gutierrez through mutual associates, though Mr. Johnson’s story is…unexpected.”

  “Say what?” B actually made the sign of the cross and looked as though he wanted to stake the reaper through the heart.

  “Don’t take it personal, B. He’s like this with everyone,” Vivian replied. The comment about mutual associates confirmed her suspicion that Gutierrez’s Armando was also a reaper.

  “Given his ethnicity and address, one might expect he dodged a bullet, quite literally.”

  “That’s racial profiling!” B said.

  Vivian put her head in her hands and murmured, “This is not happening, this is not happening…”

  “Were I to take the form of my native ethnicity in this era, I suspect I’d endure more than you, but that is irrelevant. No, Mr. Johnson indeed dodged a bullet, just from the other side of the law.” Darkmore thanked the wary young man who served him a plate and began eating. Leave it to the reaper to stir the pot and then leave it boiling over.

  “You were a cop?” Vivian asked.

  “In training. Some meth heads tried to pop a cap in my ass. Almost worked, too,” B answered, pulling down his shirt collar and showing them the scar on his neck.”

  “Anatomy 101—that’s not your ass,” Gutierrez quipped.

  “It’s an expression. Anyway, my design
ated guardian zapped me to a waiting room or something and left me there forever. I didn’t have time for that shit, so I left.”

  The room went silent as folks from other tables put down their clinking silverware and shushed one another so they could eavesdrop. Not that Vivian blamed them. She leaned on the edge of her seat and waited to hear B’s story. It reminded her of the last soul crossing she’d mediated before going rogue. She’d met the spirit later, still on this side of eternity, having been abandoned by the guardian spirits responsible for her crossing.

  They’d drained the poor woman and left her to languish in some in-between realm, the bastards. Seemed like they’d done the same thing to B.

  “What do you mean you left? How do you just leave limbo?” Gutierrez asked. Vivian had to admit she was curious as well. Both she and Gutierrez had gone directly from life to living soul broker work without any red tape.

  “I just got up and walked out. I remember wishing I was back home and boom, there I was.” B leaned back and nodded his head, posturing like a proud peacock.

  B just went up a notch or two in Vivian’s estimation. Not only had he escaped limbo, he’d come back with his mortal body and the powers of a living soul broker. He had guts, brass balls, or was just foolhardy.

  Nah, he just did what he had to do.

  “Of course, your guardian came back,” Darkmore said between bites, pausing to wink at B.

  Vivian braced for a fight, getting her feet beneath her and pushing away from the table. She wouldn’t hesitate to zap the reaper if he got out of line. Better her than Briggs.

  “Fear not, Vivian. I do not intend to feed on Mr. Johnson’s suffering. I simply want him, and the rest of you, to be aware of what you’ll soon face.”

  Judging from the brief flash of fear that crossed B’s face, Darkmore managed to hit a raw nerve. The reaper was right, though. She suspected they all had some idea of the dangers inherent in going against the ancient guardian regime. Vivian wondered, looking at Darkmore, if they’d also be going against the reapers at some point. She’d be curious to hear Briggs’ thoughts on the subject, whenever he decided to speak with her again.

  Would the old adage about the ‘enemy of my enemy is my friend’ hold true? Would the dark side remain neutral? Perhaps they’d seize upon the weakness of the other side and take over. Vivian shuddered at the thought.

  B stared at Darkmore for a long moment and then gave him a single nod. “Yeah, my guardian came back, mad as hell and scared, too. I wouldn’t give him more energy, so he roped me into taking energy from the living. I drew the line when he went after special needs kids.”

  “And you have the scars to prove it,” Darkmore said, smiling.

  B didn’t offer to show those scars, assuming they were physical.

  “Okay, kids.” Chet’s voice boomed from the kitchen door. “We’ve got a few hours of training before we split up into teams. I’ll text you your assignments. Briggs wants new recruits paired with our veterans for soul crossings. The rest of our seasoned members will be with me.”

  B yelled, “What’ll you folks be doing?”

  Vivian didn’t expect an answer, but Chet flashed an evil grin and said, “Raid on the enemy. Train hard and we’ll let you in on the action.”

  B grinned back. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

  Darkmore studied Chet, though Vivian couldn’t tell if he liked the man or wanted to consume him. It made Vivian glad they’d be assigned to a different unit. She didn’t see into the hearts and souls of mortals like Darkmore did, but she knew his hunger. Briggs’ second might not be safe with them.

  Honestly, none of the souls in the rebellion were safe with them, but the same was true for the reaper. She’d be walking a fine line, balancing his need for protection with theirs. Her phone pinged. Digging into her back pocket, she pulled it out and read the text that sent a shiver of dread down her spine.

  It was from Briggs.

  You’re with me. Bring the reaper.

  Chapter Fourteen

  They drove in silence, the dull and dreary landscape a blur of brown and grey. It made her unutterably homesick for the crimson, gold, and cinnabar decorating her home state. There was no joy in Jackson’s autumn. Not just the urban decay in the city streets, but the landscape beyond lacked the color and variety of Tennessee. And it was still hot and humid. Briggs had told her not to expect seasons when he’d invited her to his hometown. He hadn’t been lying.

  Maybe living here had shaped her host as much as the far away desert in which he’d fought more than enemy soldiers.

  “Who is she?” Vivian asked.

  Briggs ran a hand over his face, clearly not in the mood to talk about the vision he’d given her. She probably should’ve waited for a more private moment to ask. Darkmore sat in the back, his expression a mask of polite interest. Briggs wouldn’t want to give the reaper any ammunition to use against him. But she sensed there was something Briggs wanted or needed from her, even if he wouldn’t admit it outright.

  “Someone you weren’t supposed to see.”

  She let out a humorless laugh and glanced to the backseat. “I showed you mine.”

  He gave her the side eye and said, “This ain’t a democracy. I’m doing you a favor right now. Don’t make me regret it.”

  She bit back a smartass remark and went back to staring out the window. They’d traveled a few miles outside of the downtown area and into an older neighborhood. Small houses that screamed post World War II boomer lined the narrow streets. Most had been kept up, she was pleased to see, with neat, if bland, lawns bordered by chain link fences. Some had carport add-ons with newer cars resting beneath. Most were painted, the colors a jarring contrast to the dismal sky and uniformly dead landscape.

  What sort of favor did he think he was doing? He certainly wasn’t favoring her with his company. That was for damned sure. At least he hadn’t attacked her. She’d have to wait, it seemed, to find out where they were going and what he planned to do when they got there.

  Not for the first time, she was glad to have the reaper at her back.

  They pulled into the driveway of a house with new powder-blue siding and a charming lawn. To her surprise, the grass was green. Every other house on the street, along the drive, and as far as she could tell, the entire state, was brown with only a hint of green in patches. Hanging baskets of blooming flowers cascaded from hooks along the carport’s roof. She marveled at the reds, yellows, and purples, not to mention the fragrance that caressed her senses when they exited the vehicle. It was like stepping into a patch of spring.

  An older woman wearing an apron stepped out on the front porch, looking like she’d stepped out of a 1950s sitcom. White curls blossomed out of her scalp and around a face distinguished by a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and striking blue eyes. The woman wore plenty of makeup, but wore it as well as she wore her age. She crossed her arms and scowled at Briggs, cocking her head to one side, her gaze as intense as a bird of prey’s.

  “Her stories are on. She won’t talk to you right now. Come back in an hour.”

  Briggs grinned. “Come on, Auntie. That’s no way to greet your favorite sister’s son.”

  The woman kept the scowl, but her gaze lit with wry amusement. “You’re my sister’s only son, thank the good lord. Why aren’t you working?”

  “Station’ll call if they need me. I got some folks here who need to contact the loa.”

  Briggs’ aunt made a sour face. “I don’t like it. You know I don’t like it. Coming here to my house and asking for that ungodly—”

  “It’s my house, Auntie,” Briggs said, not unkindly, but firm. “You don’t have to like it, but you’ll respect Gran and her ways.”

  She sighed and looked away. “I take care of her, don’t I?”

  Briggs walked across the lawn, up the steps, and enfolded the woman in a warm embrace. “You do.”

  Briggs turned his head and nodded to Vivian and the reaper. “This is Vivian Bedford from Tenne
ssee, and her friend, Lazarus Darkmore. Auntie Olive takes care of Gran better than Gran’s good for nothing son ever did.”

  Olive, who’d pulled out of her nephew’s arms to get a better look at them, laughed and patted Briggs on the back. “Just like you took care of me when my Otis passed. Your daddy was no good, but you? You’re your mama’s boy through and through.”

  Vivian made her way to the front porch and extended her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Olive.”

  Auntie Olive eyed Vivian with interest as she shook her hand. “You don’t look the type to go running around looking for mumbo jumbo.”

  Darkmore coughed, which Vivian suspected was meant to cover a scoff. Plastering on what she hoped was a winning smile, Vivian said, “You’d be surprised.”

  To her surprise, Darkmore bent low and kissed Olive’s hand, a move that made Briggs all but growl. Olive didn’t mind the attention at all, gushing over his manners while ushering them into the house.

  The interior was dark, a combination of small windows covered with thick curtains and dark wood paneling. Heavy furniture in faded wood made the room seem smaller. No, that was memories of her late sister’s room. To any other person, the space would feel homey and welcoming. All it inspired in Vivian was claustrophobia and a muted sense of unease. A couple of prints hung above a floral sofa. A matador and an elegant Spanish lady surveyed the scene with eyes that seemed to track their movements. Surrounding these were a variety of family photos spanning generations. She recognized a younger Briggs standing between a woman who resembled Auntie Olive, presumably Briggs’ mother, and a tall, imposing man in military uniform. Unlike his son, Briggs senior’s head was covered with tight, cropped curls, his dark eyes filled with wariness. She recognized the look. A veteran who’d seen too much, done too much to return to normal life.

  Waylon Briggs had that look, too. He’d seen too much in a faraway desert.