Tate's Tale

by Lilith Darville

  Francis gestured for me to take over. Figures. Because I’d been a professor in my past life, I almost always got the job of explaining or teaching. Unless it was one of the many subjects Francis liked to expound on.

  I’m not unhappy about it as this gives me an excuse to look into those beautiful eyes. “Bardo is the realm between life and death where we examine our spiritual growth and readiness to ascend to Nirvana. Each person is assessed for their growth in the eight types of love. The gods have decreed that each of these levels must be passed for a soul to ascend. By the time someone’s spirit is brought to our attention, they’ve passed through the seven other trials and subsequent rebirths.” I pause for a moment to let Caleb refresh our respective tea and coffee and to give Anya the chance to catch up as she feverishly jots down notes.

  “What are your questions?” I ask in my best professorial voice.

  Anya shakes her head, and dark auburn curls bounce around her head. “I’m good. Go on.”

  “It’s our job to assess whether those who are wrongfully killed or mortally injured are ready to ascend to Bardo or whether they need to return to the earthly realm to finish making spiritual restitution. We assess whether a person has learned to fully express their sexual passion and desires. Whether they’ve reached sexual self-actualization and fulfillment. If so, they’re ready to meet their destined mates and ascent to Nirvana.”

  “There’s more than one?” Anya squeaks out.

  I hide my smile. This has been one of the hardest concepts for me to embrace in Bardo—the possibility that my Tate might love more than one person. I’d come to know through my own trial that I’d only ever been a kindred spirit with one woman, my Tate. Similarly, Caleb and Francis had their Gianna, a woman from an earlier life who had not passed through our department, so here they waited. No one knew what exactly was up with Nameless except for the misconception that I’d stolen Tate’s love away from him, and he seemed to have only one destined mate as well.

  “Why is this kind of love left for last?”

  “Because the gods consider it to be the most dangerous, and the one people are most likely to hide the truth about, even from themselves.”

  “Well, people sure do get fucked up about their sexuality,” Anya says. “The gods might be better off getting rid of all those religious mores that give people, mostly men, any excuse to get their rocks off at the expense of women. If we could all just accept who we are and practice consensual sex, we’d probably have world peace.”

  “I doubt that. People are too busy lying to themselves.” Nameless pushes out of his chair and gives a mock bow to Anya while he looks directly at Francis. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve got better things to do.” Nameless and his third arm, his beloved bass guitar, leave the room, and the aura gets several shades lighter.

  “What’s with him?” Anya asks as her eyes follow him from the room.

  “There is time enough for that later,” Francis says. “Let us take the time to talk about the requirements of your position.” And with that, Francis snatches the reins back from me. I drum my fingers on the table.

  Anya swallows hard and swivels her neck again, a neck that begs for my tongue, then, she nods. “Good idea.”

  Francis sits forward and straightens his already immaculate suit jacket. “Hera informs us that they have chosen you to take over as headmistress for the next month. They believe you have the skills and gifts needed to cast out the incubus infiltration and bring order to the chaos.” Francis’s mouth quirks again. “Similar to what you are trying to do with us.”

  “Incubus?” I confirm.

  “Aye.”

  “Or incubi?”

  Francis’s shoulders actually sag. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. “Incubi.”

  “And presumably succubi as well?”

  Francis lets out a breath. “Aye.”

  I chew the inside of my cheek for a moment. “Not that, as an earthling, I’d know the standard operating procedure for getting rid of paranormal rapist kidnappers of any sexual orientation or gender expression, but even taking over management of an academy and reducing the chaos left by poor succession planning is one hell of a lot to expect in one month.” Anya taps the pen on her pad. “I wish your months were longer. I’m surprised the time continuum is the same here as in the Earth realm. It would almost be like home if you guys didn’t have superpowers.”

  “They keep time consistent because, once individuals’ needs are assessed, most will return to Earth to commence their next lives where they will make restitution for past sins.”

  “Back to casting out the incubi . . . Hera pulled me here from my coma. Me specifically. You mention skills. You mention gifts. But I don’t understand. What makes me so special?” Anya asks.

  “Good question. We will no doubt discover just that over the next month,” Francis says. “All we know is that the gods have made an exception in your case. Instead of coming to us as an apprentice, which would be the usual course of action, you are here as our colleague.”

  Caleb jumps up and starts clearing the table. “It won’t be all work. We’ll have some fun, too. We’ve been waiting for you for a long time.”

  Anya’s face moves from startled to wary. “You’ve only just met me.” Her tone makes it clear she thinks Caleb is delusional. She turns to look at me. “Do I need to be concerned about him?”

  “No, he’s harmless. He’s got himself convinced that you’re his beloved Gianna.”

  “I’m not convinced. I know.” Caleb’s voice rings with conviction. “Once imprinted, nothing can break the bond, not life, not death. She’s Gianna.”

  “Humor him,” Francis says. “He hasn’t had sexual relations of any kind for a long while, so he is subject to hallucinations whenever he meets a beautiful woman. He is indeed harmless.”

  “I’m telling you—”

  Anya clears her throat loudly. “Can we get back to the subject at hand, please. So, at the end of this month, I get to return to my life on earth, right?” She looks from one of us to the next.

  “That’s what we assume, but that’s for the gods to decide,” I say. “We’ve been told we’re to spend the week giving you orientation while we protect you from the incubus.”

  “Incubi,” Anya corrects.

  We all sigh. It is going to be a difficult job.

  After another top-up on our drinks, Caleb takes his seat at the table. “One of us, preferably two, has to be with you at all times for the whole month.”

  Anya draws herself up straight. Like Joan of Arc getting ready for battle.

  “Mo chridhe, you may think it will not happen, but it most certainly is happening in this time between lifetimes.”

  Despite the use of the pet name, Francis’s voice carries the kind of steel that used to make royals at European courts cringe. I move in to soften the harshness as Anya flinches slightly under his wrath. Francis has a thing or two to learn about modern women.

  “Bear with us. Give us a chance to explain. There’s method behind all this madness,” I say.

  Anya looks dubious but keeps still.

  “Unlike the rest of us, you’re still mortal and will remain so until the gods decide whether they’re returning you to earth. Normally, because your death would be premature, you’d be presented to us for examination to determine whether you’re ready to ascend to the Sexy Sins Academy to begin your final apprenticeship. Once we finish our assessment, we report to the gods with one of three recommendations: return the soul to earth because they have work to finish there before they’re ready to ascend, unite the soul with his or her destined mate so they can ascend to Nirvana, or enroll them in an apprenticeship program at Sexy Sins to get ready for the next life.”

  “And what exactly do they learn during this apprenticeship program?” Anya looks as if she hates to ask but has to know.

  Caleb almost bounces off his chair he’s strung so high. “They learn the true nature of their sexua
lity. And that’s when the fun starts. They get to have a lot of sex.”

  “By fun do you mean there’s a bunch of orgies going on all the time? And are you guys having sex with the apprentices?” Anya sounds morally outraged, and I can see by that damned quirk of France’s mouth that she has his attention.

  “No, we don’t have sex with the apprentices or the staff. Which means we haven’t had sex for a very long time in some of our cases.” Francis gives her a penetrating stare.

  Caleb, with his weird connection to him, clearly senses he’s about to make Anya uncomfortable because he rushes to speak. “We can have fun watching, and we spend a lot of time jerking off.” Caleb is not at all embarrassed by his plain speech.

  Anya raises her hands and crosses her index fingers in Caleb’s direction, but she can’t suppress a chuckle. “TMI, Caleb, TMI.” Too much information.

  My meter ratchets up another notch where this woman is concerned.

  Anya bites the inside of her cheek and then purses her lips, obviously thinking. “So, why are you guys still here? Do you have to do this job as penance for a period of time or something?”

  I answer, “As Francis mentioned, we’ve passed all the types of love and now we’re just waiting for our kindred spirit so we can ascend as destined mates. We have no desire to have sex with anyone else, although we could if we wanted to.”

  “What about my Bob? Have you seen Bob?” But each time she says the name, all I hear are musical notes and a nonsense syllable.

  Francis shoves back from the table and offers Anya his arm.

  “Let us we reconvene for sherry in the sitting room where we’ll be more comfortable.”

  Just like our Francis.

  Sherry in the sitting room in the afternoon. Who does that? I suspect it’s Francis’s way of distracting me from my questions about Bob. He has a lot to learn about me. When I’m on a quest for information, I’m like a dog with a bone. I’d learned early on that my two top strengths were getting things done and expressing myself and my feelings. Something about my personality compels me to step up and step into fear when needed, to influence and get things done. I don’t thrive on confrontation, but I don’t step away from it, either. It’s usually the first step toward conflict resolution, and there sure as hell is conflict here. My skin itches with the energy circling around me.

  Francis leads me into a cozy sitting room with a sunken conversation pit. Two semi-circular sofas surround a round wooden coffee table. He guides me down the three steps and sits me in the middle of one of the two sofas. I sink into the most comfortable seat I’ve ever had. Caleb instantly plops his massive bulk beside me, smack dab in the middle of my personal space. Cue the stink-eye.

  “Would you mind giving me some space?” I use my most uninviting tone, trying to set a precedent. Did I mention I have no problem expressing my feelings? I’m compelled to tell the truth or present the facts, no matter how unpleasant they may be. This trait stood me well as a leader but pissed off a lot of people. Caleb doesn’t seem fazed by my directness, however. He simply scooches over a foot. Stink-eye goes into overdrive, and I gesture for him to move even farther. He grins and complies.

  Soon, we’re all settled on the couches, sherry in hand compliments of Francis. He raises his glass in a toast. “To Miss Anya.”

  Joe Bob echoes the words. That smile that lights up my pinkish parts makes his face shine. Caleb joins in with an amen-to-that enthusiasm. Francis settles back and, for the millionth time, trains that piercing gaze at me. I might be getting used to it.

  “Tell us something about yourself, mo chridhe.” There he goes again with that damned pet name that adds fuel to the fire already started by Joe Bob. I swivel my neck. It’s stiff from tension, or maybe from having had the ascension cold fever.

  Caleb bounces up behind me and tentatively puts a hand on my neck. “I’d be happy to . . . I mean, if you’re okay with it. No funny business.”

  Well, this is progress. He has taken my feedback and adjusted his behavior.

  “Actually, maybe just a little. That would be nice.”

  He has his hands kneading my shoulders before I can finish the sentence. And it feels so damned good. I succumb for at least two minutes before I have the presence of mind to remember my prime directive: get control of this situation I’ve landed in. And Francis, chiseled face and all, is looking just a touch too smug for words at the moment. Oh no you don’t, buster.

  “Thank you, Caleb. That’s much better.” I gently shrug out of his hands. Slightly hurt feelings radiate from behind me. I turn in my seat and look up at him.

  “That felt great, and I’ll take a rain check for the rest of it.” I give him an apologetic smile at almost the same instant sunshine returns to his. He bounces back to his seat, pretty phenomenal for a guy his size, but there’s no other way to describe his irrepressible enthusiasm.

  I turn back to the other two. Joe Bob just oozes charm with that boyish grin as he sits forward, forearms on thighs, just waiting as if every word I’ll utter is sheer gold. Caleb shares his delight at my company. Oh boy! *fans self*

  “You go ahead. Tell us whatever you’d like us to know,” Joe Bob says.

  I look at Francis, mostly because if I keep looking at Joe Bob’s ridiculously handsome face, I might jump him. It must be a spell.

  “Have you seen my . . . um, Robert Morrison?” More of those damned musical notes go off as well as an impossible combination of consonants.

  “And, he is?” Francis asks.

  I consider giving him attitude. Looks as if there’s bound to be a power struggle between us, but one thing I’ve learned is to pick my battles. I heave a huge sigh to give him the message. I’d swear his eyes twinkle in return.

  “He’s my husband. What you folks keep referring to as my destined mate.” I bow my head as tears threaten to spring. Shit. I will not cry in front of these guys. I have to work with them. Last thing I want them to think is that I’m a wuss. I roll my lower lip between my teeth and do the neck swivel thing again. Caleb almost leaps to his feet, but Francis gives a shake of his head. Joe Bob moves to sit beside me and takes my hand.

  “So he’s alive?” Francis’s absurd question jolts me back to my rational mind.

  “What makes you say that? Would I ask if you’ve seen him if he were still alive? Is this some kind of trick question?”

  “That’s my girl,” Joe Bob says. If it were humanly possible for a face to look like a fist pump, his does. So much so, I can’t hold the term girl against him despite my feminist values.

  “I say that because you use the present tense,” Francis says.

  I give that a split second of thought. “That’s because I feel him here. Like he’s in the room, but I just can’t see him.” I give him a grudging smile of acknowledgment. “You’re right, though. He died six months ago. From cancer.” I take a gulp of my sherry. Not something I’d usually drink, but it tastes damned good.

  “It’s a Barbadillo Versos 1891 Amontillado, just one of one hundred bottles ever made.” Francis takes an appreciative sip of his, making me feel just a tad gauche for my gulping approach to the fine wine.

  “He was supposed to visit me in my dreams.” Those words walk out of my mouth without any warning.

  Joe Bob squeezes my hand, the hand he still holds. The one I’ve curled my fingers around. I should let go, but I don’t want to. What I want to do is lean my head on his shoulder and feel his warmth.

  “Maybe he wanted to but couldn’t. Maybe a visit would have torn him apart knowing he couldn’t stay.” Joe Bob’s voice infuses me with comfort.

  “Joe Bob is the romantic in the group. You will have to excuse him. It is something that’s just possessed him recently.” Francis exchanges a look with Joe Bob that I don’t quite catch.

  “It’s probably the gods.” Caleb looks so comical in his conviction, I almost laugh.

  “And all three of you are avoiding the question. Have you seen him?”

  The quali
ty of Francis’s gaze changes. He examines me as if I’m a lab specimen. Or maybe as if I remind him of someone he used to know. Joe Bob looks as if he’s even prouder of his girl.

  “Oh, Francis, I think you’ve met your match.” Delight bubbles out of Caleb.

  “It would seem so.” The intensity of Francis’s gaze makes me squirm and reminds me of the fire ants that lit my skin on fire when he touched me. “Yes, we’ve seen him,” Francis says.

  “Francis,” Joe Bob’s voice is low in warning. “That’s confidential information.”

  Francis rises and refreshes the sherry. “I think not. As headmistress, she is entitled to the same information we are. It is patently obvious the gods have blocked any information they don’t want shared. Her command trait demands it, and she will not work well otherwise.” Francis resumes his seat and continues his lab specimen examination. As if I might be the next addition to his butterfly collection.

  “I don’t collect butterflies.”

  Shit. I wish he’d stop doing that but recognize his distraction technique for what it is.

  “So, can you help me find him?”

  All three of them talk at once, but all I hear is a jumble of musical notes forming a familiar song I can’t quite catch. Okay, so magic stuff is at play, and that means he’s probably still here. I raise my hand to silence them.

  “I think I’m catching on. The gods won’t let me see him until I fix their damned school. Am I right?”

  The three of them exchange a look I can’t quite identify. Joe Bob shrugs. Francis looks as if he’s giving begrudging respect. Caleb says, “I’ll help you look for him.”

  “As will I,” Joe Bob says.

  I give both of them my most gracious smile. “Thank you, Caleb, Joe Bob. I’d like that.”

  Francis stands abruptly. “That brings this meeting to a close. We will reconvene for dinner at seven.”

  With that, he sweeps out of the room. Joe Bob takes my hand, and we follow. Caleb takes up the rear. My insides tingle at the thought of what the night might bring. But my heart is full at the thought of what the month might bring. My husband.