Chapter Nine
The Lost All
The Obsidian District
Second chances? What an absolute joke. What about the poor sods who were never even granted a first strike at it? To live with passion and never have the opportunity to explore it. To have a dream without the means to realize it. To love in a world that makes no space for that story.
A second chance at nothing is still nothing. Multiply anything by zero, and it always comes up empty. How’s that for math, Daryl?
Big D’s real name, echoed in my mind, drips with derision.
But this line of thinking can only lead me to trouble that I can neither afford nor tolerate.
This existence may not be the storybook of my dreams, but it’s a far cry better than the nightmare I could be experiencing if I don’t get my thoughts in order and set my mind straight.
Know your place and do your job, Thomas.
I certainly had plenty of time to learn that.
And I know just what I need to keep these racing thoughts in check—a drink.
The Last Call sits on a corner in the Obsidian District, wedged between a processing center for newly arrived souls and a shuttered blade maintenance shop.
The neon sign flickers—The Last Call—casting red light across the pavement.
The ground always glistens here, though I’ve never actually seen it rain.
The streets are perpetually slick, reflecting that enormous cosmic moon hanging in the forever-night sky.
Part of the A in Last and the whole C in Call only illuminate about a third of the time, leaving the name of the bar looking like The Lost All the rest of the time. Honestly, probably a more accurate name for the denizens inside. That’s how the sign reads now as I make my way through the door.
The smell hits me immediately—Lethe and a stale dampness. The pungent aroma may be off-putting to some, but to me, the scent is as sweet as a freshly bloomed flower. It carries the familiar tang of regret and letting go.
The bar is dimly lit. Dark wood, darker corners, and countertops littered with some of the darkest souls.
A handful of reapers occupy the scattered tables and booths.
They come from the Natural Causes Division primarily, recognizable by their slumped shoulders and the way they stare vacantly into their drinks.
They journey souls through the long goodbyes.
The slow crush of that inevitability must take its toll.
So, they find themselves here, searching for answers at the bottom of another bottle.
Kind of like being thrown a brick while drowning.
Not what you asked for, but not exactly unwelcome either.
I make my way to the bar and slide onto a stool that creaks ominously. Everything in this place creaks. I like it; it reminds me of the noises my bones used to make. One of the many sounds I didn’t like when I was alive and now miss.
The bartender appears from the back room in a flourish of purple silk.
He’s wearing a waistcoat that would make a peacock jealous, his silver hair swept back in a style that never went out of fashion because no one else had ever attempted the dramatic sweep and fall before.
His death scar—a mark on his cheek from a duel gone wrong—is on full display.
He even decorates the deformity with glitter and gold rather than masking it, like most do.
Some are better at embracing their truths than others, I guess, no matter how ugly their truth may be.
“Asher!” he announces, as though I were a long-lost relative and not someone who was here two nights ago. “You look dreadful. I mean, we’re all dead, but you’re really committing to the aesthetic.”
“Silas.”
“That’s it? That’s all I get? No witty comeback? No sardonic observation about my impeccable taste?” He presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “You wound me.”
“I’ll wound you all right. I’ll give you a hole to match your other cheek if you don’t shut up and pour.”
“There’s the Asher I know and tolerate.” He pulls a bottle of Lethe from beneath the bar with a theatrical spin.
Lethe is the OtherWorld equivalent of bourbon or scotch.
Nothing ever quite burns as sweet as that single nip of Lagavulin my father shared with me once, but Lethe still does the trick, taking the edge off the mind whenever called for.
A memory of my father’s smile as we shared a dram from the bottle he’d been gifted from the Whitcombs after Mother died pours into me.
It doesn’t go down nearly as smoothly as the whiskey once did.
Well, here’s to a little bitterness to help wash down all that bitterness. The sting of the liquor gave my pain a place. I could feel the hurt in my heart burn as it trailed down my throat. It was a perfect moment in an otherwise unspectacular life.
“The usual, I presume? Or are we trying something new tonight?” Silas’s friendly question breaks my maudlin memory. “I’ve got a lovely wormwood that’ll make you forget your own name for about six hours.”
“Tempting. But I’d prefer to drown in the river. Lethe, please.”
“Manners?” he asks like he’s never heard any from me before. Maybe he hasn’t.
He pours two fingers of smoky grey liquid. The drink may be semi-clear, but my mind after one sip sure won’t be. I welcome the numbness as I bring the glass to my lips.
Silas’s next remark stills my hand though. “You must be dealing with something next level if it’s pulling the pleasantries out of you.”
“It’s been a day.”
“Let Silas hear all about it, reaper. I’m a very good listener.”
“I’ve been reassigned,” I tell him, then down the contents in a single swallow.
“Well, variety is the spice of life. Might be fun to mix things up. Where you off to?”
I meet Silas’s bubbly positivity with silence.
“Another,” I say finally, pushing the glass in his direction.
He pours with a certain reluctance. Maybe he misses my manners already. “Most reapers come in here, looking to unload their problems. Yet here you are, acting like you’re looking to make more.”
“I ain’t here for the scintillating conversation, barkeep. I’m here for the oblivion.”
“How very Byronic of you. Broody—thy name is Asher.”
“Lost Souls,” I mumble, sliding the glass along the bar—a silent request.
“Aren’t we all?” Silas muses while pouring.
“No. That’s where I’ve been reassigned.”
Silas’s neatly plucked eyebrows shoot toward the top of his head. “You’ve been pulled from Catastrophes to help the new girl and her pensive doctor friend?”
“Rue and Kane, the OtherWorld lovebirds. Yes.”
“Well, tweet-tweet, my little canary. You’re gonna be doing some singing now!”
“I’m probably more likely to suffocate.”
“When are you supposed to report?” Silas asks while tending to my empty glass.
“Big D didn’t say. I assume that means I have time enough for a few drinks. What is time anyway? Am I right?” The boastful edge in my tone is short-lived as my Tombstone Phone chimes in my pocket.
I pull it out and read the message from the boss himself.
Big D: Report to LSD now, reaper. My orders wait for no one.—Big D
“Based on the look on your face, I’d say you are very much not right.”
“It would seem that our concepts of time may be slightly different.”
“No time like the present, eh, Asher?”
“Indeed. How’s about one for the road there, chap? Got to make this last one count.”
Silas raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “You gonna tell me why you got demoted to the Hand Hold Division?”
“Does it matter?”
“Philosophically? No. Practically? Also no. But I do love to be in the know. It’s so much more appealing than the alternative.” He pours another. “So, what happened?”
“My last reap didn’t go smoothly. Left a soul behind.”
“Performance anxiety. I get it. Happens to the best of us.” He leans against the bar, studying me with eyes that have seen it all. Or at least a lot anyway.
“Not funny, Silas. D lost it. Sent me to LSD and exterminated Quinn.”
“He did what? What does that even mean?”
“He called it vaporizing. One second Quinn was standing next to me, the next he was less than dust.”
“How do you know he didn’t end up somewhere else?”
“D confirmed it. Said he unmade his soul.”
“Well, that’s a terrifying amount of power in the hands of an unhinged–”
“I know,” I cut Silas off sharply.
I’ve had enough of this trip down my all-too-recent memory lane. I’ve had enough of all my memories, matter of fact. I take another deliberate pull from the grey liquid.
“Shame about Quinn. He was a good reaper. A little stiff and by the book, but earnest,” Silas mumbles softly. It’s the closest thing to a eulogy anyone gets around here. Silas sighs while wiping the bar down. “He didn’t deserve that.”
“No, he didn’t.”
We sit in silence. The jazz playing from the ancient speakers fills the space between us—some mournful saxophone piece that feels like it was made exactly for this moment.
“So,” Silas says eventually, “Lost Souls. That’s going to be quite the adjustment. You’re used to quick extractions. In and out. Slice and dice. Lost Souls requires …” Silas looks like he’s searching for the right word.
“Compassion,” I say.
“I was gonna say finesse, but you don’t have either, so it doesn’t really matter now, does it?”
“I don’t suppose it does.”
“You’re going to hate it,” Silas says, and he seems to enjoy the thought. “Building rapport. Listening to their sad little stories about unfinished business and lost loves and regrets they can’t let go of.”
“Sounds awful.”
“Probably will be for you. And from what I’ve heard, Rue runs a tight ship over there.
Very thorough. Everything has to be done with love and understanding.
Empathy protocols. Emotional check-ins. Compassion reports.
” Silas shudders dramatically. “The last reaper they had working there told me she made her fill out a seventeen-page form about a single haunting. Seventeen pages! For a ghost who just wanted someone to find his hidden will!”
“Probably better off in The Nothing,” I joke. I think I’m joking.
“Probably best to stay on Big D’s good side if you can,” Silas reminds me.