by Gillian Zane
“I figured we’d have more superpowers,” I said, disappointed.
“You can conjure up anything you want. That’s not enough?”
“For the job only,” I frowned.
“Is that why you’ve been hanging out in a coffee shop? Unhappy with your job restrictions?” He looked truly concerned. I guess part of his job requirements was to see that I was productive.
“No,” I said honestly. I wasn’t unhappy with my job, I had accepted my fate. What other choice did I have? “The sky is too big,” I said honestly and his eyes widened at my confession.
“Persephone mentioned you could see through her glamour. I don’t know how, but you can.”
“Is that why the complex feels off?”
“Her manifestation was sloppy, her dimensions were off, and everything seems too big. She crafted everything to fit her needs and then glamoured it to be pleasing to us. From what I know, the PTBs are larger than us, not by a lot, but they prefer their door frames higher, their chairs bigger, and things like that. It makes us feel like children in a too big world.”
“Why is she suddenly interested in us? Has she done this before?”
“No, she’s never taken an interest. I’ve mostly interacted with her underlings. I’ve really only met her once or twice before this.”
“You have no idea why she’s here?” I asked, not believing him. He had to have some kind of theory.
“No, I don’t. I couldn’t begin to tell you what motivates them. I can only give you rumors. People talk; say they move against each other, a lot. One power play after another to curry favor with whomever or whatever is at the top of the food chain. From what I’ve gathered, the more souls our division helps pass into the next step…adds to Persephone’s power. So, it’s in her best interest to see us do well, and straighten out the living with too much negative energy. We are only a small part of her control. She and her husband–”
“Hades?”
“I’m assuming, but I’m not sure. She’s never made direct reference to him. She only calls him her husband. The two of them are in charge of everything in the in-between. The path to the next step, whatever that might be.”
“This is not what I expected death would be like,” I whispered, realizing we were having this crazy conversation in a crowded coffee shop. If anyone overheard us, they would think we were nuts.
“Ditto,” he sighed.
“Brandon,” I began when he looked like he was about to get up. His hands were splayed out on the table as if to push up and leave me to my brooding. He stopped and looked at me.
“Why am I different? Is she doing this because of me?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
“That doesn’t reassure me,” I glared at him.
“We’ll figure it out, I promise.” He stood up and moved closer to me. When I looked up at him, he lightly touched my face, moving a stray hair away from my cheek. The touch made me hold as still as possible and I sucked in a breath when our eyes met. Brandon’s look confused me and I glanced away to hide my uncertainty.
“I don’t know if I want to figure it out,” I said honestly. I was scared of what we might find, especially now that I knew I had died by someone else’s hand. Was it all tied together?
His hand lingered a little longer on my face and then fell to his side as if he was doing something he shouldn’t.
“I think we might have no choice,” he said in a clipped tone.
“What do you mean?”
“I have a feeling we’re supposed to figure out how you died, and it’s all tied together with why you see through Persephone’s glamour. Look, Cassie, I have to get back.” He stepped back, but his eyes held mine as if he had more to say but didn’t know how to word it. The door chimed and we both turned to see who was coming in.
A girl entered the coffee shop. She was plump, with greasy hair. She tugged a small child with her who was desperately trying to touch everything that caught his eye. The girl looked harried. I recognized her. She looked at me, our eyes met and I gasped. My hand jerked, spilling my coffee over the white pants I wore and onto the laptop I was pretending to work on.
Her name was Beverly. Beverly Barnes. The smell of chalk and the bitter aroma of cleaner filled my nose. The memory was so real, so intense I got lost in it. I didn’t know what precise moment in time I lived within.
“Do us a favor, Beverly–”
“Whuh?” The girl in the oversized clothes turned and blinked at me like a deer caught in headlights. She had some food from lunch smeared across her dingy shirt and her hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in weeks.
“Stop breathing the same air as us.” I smiled when my friends laughed at my witty insult.
I didn’t like Beverly. I never had. We had gone to school together for years, since preschool, and she was an ugly bully. Always had been. In elementary school, she had been overweight and taller than my group of friends. She was bigger when brute strength ruled. When a push and shove on a playground won every battle. Now we were in high school and popularity won. I was winning now. My sharp tongue would pay her back for each time she had pushed me, tripped me, or hit me when we were younger.
I remembered how she had ruined my life in 2nd grade by not letting me into the bathroom. She had blocked the door and told me I couldn’t go in because there was a private meeting going on. I had run back to class and held it until I couldn’t anymore and ended up peeing myself during a math test. I hated Beverly.
“I hate you, Cassandra,” she garbled in response to my insult.
“That’s good…I couldn’t give a shit about you.” I looked down at my nails to emphasize my disinterest. “Go away, cow.” I motioned with my hand in an impatient gesture. She left, trying to hide the tears in her eyes. I smiled to hide the guilt.
“What a skank,” my friend Lauren said as she left. We all agreed.
“What’s wrong?” Brandon pulled me to my feet and away from the dripping coffee. He grabbed a napkin and patted at the table.
“I, uh, I know her.” I gestured covertly to the woman. Of all the things I could remember about myself, that wasn’t a pleasant one. I now remembered what high school I went to. The same high school as Beverly Barnes. And if that was typical of my behavior, I knew how I built up the negative energy that got me here.
I looked down at my pants. They were stained with coffee, and people were looking at me funny. I didn’t like people watching anymore. I had to leave.
Brandon packed up my laptop and was trying to help me with my pants but I waved him away.
“Let’s go,” I said and grabbed his arm to pull him away. We made it ten steps before her voice stopped me in my tracks.
“Cassandra,” Beverly said as I rounded a display rack full of coffee mugs. I looked up in astonishment. How did she know it was me? Did she recognize me?
I stopped and shook my head, saying in a stammering voice, “No, my name is Cassidy.” She looked back at me, her eyebrows drawn together in consternation.
“No, I would know you anywhere,” she insisted. Her child tugged at her arm, whining and making a fuss like only a preschooler can. He was maybe four or five. I did the math in my head. She would have been pregnant in high school.
“Mommy! Want cookie!” he insisted.
“I’m sorry, you’re mistaken.” I looked at Brandon for help but he seemed at as much of a loss as I was.
“Sorry, yeah, you’re right.” Her forehead was wrinkled in thought as she continued to peer at me. I knew I didn’t look anything like what I used to look like. But she saw something in my face that had made the connection. Beverly had always been strange. She had been a bully in grade school, but in middle school she had withdrawn into herself, always scribbling in a notebook, always looking skittish, and muttering that no one understood.
“I have one of those faces,” I lied. The kid started wailing and Beverly looked at him. Panic, frustration and dark energy flowed around her. Her aura pulsed w
ith blackness when I looked closer at her. She was wearing oversized clothes like she did in high school, but they were clean and weren’t as stained as they had been back then. If I remembered correctly, she didn’t come from a very well-off family. Her parents had split when we were in 1st or 2nd grade, which was probably why she turned into such a shit in those grades.
I kneeled down in front of the kid who was still screaming for a cookie.
“Hey kid,” I said. He stopped wailing and stared at me, big wide eyes the color of his mother’s. I reached into my purse and thought about the softest teddy bear possible. I wondered if it would work. This wasn’t about karma. Well, maybe it was, but it was my own karma. My fingers brushed against soft fur. I pulled out a cute stuffed bear, the size of my hand.
“I was looking for a home for this guy. Would you be kind enough to adopt him?”
The boy’s eyes widened and he reached for the bear, but then thought about what he was doing and looked up at his mother for permission. Beverly shrugged, apathetic, looking at me with that confused look still on her face. She knew me, but she didn’t know me. It was the eyes. She recognized my eyes. That had to be it.
“What’s his name?” the boy asked when he had the bear in his arms, cuddling it close.
“You have to name him,” I said softly.
“Poopy soft,” he laughed.
“Jerome,” Beverly said appalled.
“Sorry, momma. Softbutt?” he asked and she looked done with the conversation.
“I like Softbutt,” I laughed and stood up.
“Thank you, lady,” Jerome said.
“Thanks,” Beverly said.
“No problem.” I looked at her again with scrutiny. There were circles under her eyes and her skin was a sallow color. There were bruises on her arms. She looked terrible. I also realized there was a dark green cast to her aura. She was tagged by another operative. What had she done to get her under Karma’s scrutiny? It wasn’t an operative I recognized. I didn’t think there was another division in the area, but there must be.
Giving the bear to her son wasn’t a big deal to me, but it could mess with the plans of another operative. I might have screwed up majorly.
“Have a good day,” I said as I fled the coffee shop, Brandon keeping pace with me.
“She was tagged by another operative. I didn’t see the sheen until too late,” I said nervously.
“I didn’t see it either. She might have just been assigned, it could be a coincidence,” he said trying to reassure me.
“I didn’t recognize the print, did you? What other group is working in this area?”
“I don’t know.” His phone went off and he pulled it out and scrolled through a text.
I broke out in a sweat even though it was cool outside. Was the text about me? Had I screwed up again? My stomach fluttered with nerves as Brandon came to a stop to text whoever it was back. I stood there wringing my hands nervously, all the possible consequences going through my head. It’s not like I did anything. Just a little toy for the kid. I didn’t mess up anything. I couldn’t have. They couldn’t hold something like this against me, could they?
“What?” I blurted when Brandon looked up from his phone.
“You have a case.”
Chapter 7
Mr. Nixon
Phillip Liam Nixon. Millionaire. COO of Butterfield Advertising Group. Chronic gambler, chronic womanizer and part-time embezzler. Phillip, known as Phil by his friends, was a liar, a cheat and a con man. He couldn’t turn down a bet or a willing woman if his life or soul depended on it. According to the case file it was time for Phillip to go down. This wasn’t about redemption. This case was about putting the last piece into place. Phillip needed to be exposed.
I stood in front of the Human Resources lady and tried not to fidget. I had studied Phillip’s file overnight and was ready for a little action. Downtime sucked.
“My name’s Cassidy Hail, the temp agency sent me over,” I said to the woman behind the desk. She had introduced herself as Miriam Lee. She was a fifty-something attractive woman, attractive in a motherly way. She had let her hair go salt and pepper and she wore a conservative but classy outfit. She looked me over with a critical eye. Her aura pulsed a pretty orange with only a few darker regions near her stomach.
I had colored my hair to a brighter, more golden blonde and had it pulled back in a relaxed bun at the top of my head. I wore a button down white shirt that was form fitting and showcased my assets. The beige pencil skirt and nude heels I wore emphasized my business slut look even more. She didn’t approve of my look. I could tell by the way she clicked her tongue when she took me in. But she knew Mr. Nixon would appreciate it. She didn’t like that. She didn’t like Mr. Nixon, but he signed her check, so she wasn’t going to complain. Her thoughts came to me easily since she did nothing to hide them.
“Yes, Ms. Hail, you’ll be working for Phillip Nixon, he’s our COO. His full-time assistant had a medical issue, so if you work out, you’ll do her job until she can return. The agency said you have experience as an Executive Assistant, is this true?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I nodded to reinforce the lie.
“Good, follow me.” She led me up five floors to the executive wing and showed me to the desk I would inhabit. Mr. Nixon wasn’t here yet, he was golfing, but I should have everything prepared for him by the time he rolled in.
“Check his calendar.” She flipped through a notebook on the desk. “His first appointment is at eleven, expect him then. It shouldn’t differ much from your other job. Your priority will be organizing Mr. Nixon. Anything he needs, you’ll make sure he has it. Take calls, schedule appointments, take notes for him. He’s a busy and important man, treat him with respect.” She pursed her lips like she wanted to say more. She looked me over again and decided whatever she had to say wasn’t important.
“Good luck,” she said and left me.
There was a list of logins and important information on the desk. His assistant had given plenty of warning she would need the time off, and she left detailed notes with some tips and tricks. I noticed one of the tasks was to email important documents to who Mr. Nixon specified, since he didn’t quite have the nuances of email down straight, or so said the note on the desk.
This meant I had access to all of his servers. I began digging immediately.
Phillip Nixon was a wealthy man, but what he had wasn’t enough. He was supplementing his gambling habit by embezzling from his company. My job was to make sure he got caught. The Butterfield Agency was an advertising agency that worked for some of the biggest names in the corporate world. Phillip Nixon had his hands in billions of dollars of advertising money for some of the most advertised brands in the world. He was stealing from all of them.
On my initial inspection, I found nothing. But the servers I had access to were accessible by most of the company. He wouldn’t keep them there.
“Good morning, Ingrid.” A tornado in the shape of a man came barreling through the door. It was Nixon. He was a distinguished looking man, better in person than his case file images. He was in his forties, with a perfect facade that looked chiseled in person, but had looked cold in all his pictures. He was meticulous. Meticulous with his clothes, his hair and his body. He had a set schedule for working out, eating and playing. His vices were gambling and women, but he refrained from drinking or smoking.
“I’ll need you to take dictation,” he said as he hung his jacket up in a closet.
“Sir,” I said and stood. He hadn’t looked at me. He thought I was his regular assistant, Ingrid. Either he didn’t know about her leave, or he didn’t remember. Or he didn’t give a shit. I was betting on the latter.
He turned around and stopped in his tracks. His eyes landed on my face and then trailed down my body, he caught himself and they quickly went back up to my face.
“You’re not Ingrid.”
“No sir, I’m Cassidy, Ingrid has—“
“Yes, yes, that condition
. I didn’t realize she would be leaving so soon. I hope you’re as good with dictation as she is,” he said and his mouth quirked into a half smile like he was thinking about just how good his assistant was at dictation.
Perv.
The case file noted he had been having an affair with Ingrid but she had recently called it off when she found out about her condition. There was no mention of what that condition was in my notes. Ingrid wasn’t my concern. Phillip was.
“I’m highly competent, sir,” I said with a smirk. I didn’t know how he would take that. I needed him to trust me, not think of me as his next conquest.
“Let’s get started then.”
Chapter 8
Dictation
Phillip Nixon knew how to dictate, but that’s about all he knew how to do. I had to do everything else for him. Including ordering flowers for the chick he had hooked up with the previous night. He didn’t tell me what kind, but when I looked up florist in the calendar app on the computer there was a note attached to it:
Wildflower bouquet. For the date that didn’t put out, but he’s hoping will happen.
White roses. For the after hook-up he doesn’t want to hook-up with again, but would still like to remain friends with.
Red Tulip bouquet. For the hook up he wants to hook-up with again.
He had mentioned they had a phenomenal time last night, and she’s the reason he’s late to work and he hopes to see her again. Red tulip bouquet it was. I called the florist and they knew what to do.
This job was relatively easy for never having been an assistant before. It helped that Ingrid had left detailed notes. I think Mr. Nixon owed Ingrid some flowers. The abhorrent thing was, she had been sleeping with him and still had to send flowers to his conquests. That was all sorts of messed up.
When I got off the phone with the florist I glanced at the clock, startled to find the day was almost over. This was my first nine to five gig and the time had flown. The elevator dinged and since we were in the executive penthouse, with only the CEO, COO and CFO on this floor, it was relatively low traffic, so the noise surprised me.
