Her smile, teeth barely visible, held a well-worn appearance just shy of the natural side. And spooky. Something about her, maybe the way her emerald eyes caught the light, felt a shade creepy. Her dark hair, black as a raven and wavy, framed those orbs like a pretty picture. A beautiful, spooky gal, that was Nine Thyme in a nutshell.

Of course, Peter had to admit the spooky side had more to do with her being the daughter of a third generation funeral home owner. Her extensive knowledge of caskets and coffins, including comfort levels, could put the willies into just about anyone. She’d be popular at Goth nightclubs, though.

For the job interview, Peter had asked Nine to help with Hallowe’en decorations. She had shot him some quirky remark about free labor along with a teasing grin. He wasn’t comfortable sitting at a table and watching someone. He preferred staying busy. Besides, too many tasks needed finishing for opening day.

While hanging fake webbing with giant rubber spiders on the wall, Nine recited her work history. It wasn’t much; cashier at a quickie mart, a very short stint as a catalog model, package handler at UPS, and, of course, she helped her father in the family business, which was oddly named, Old Thyme Funeral Home. Her sharp attire met the old man’s expectations, but her work experience came up short. She needed more zing to pass the old man’s tests, but Peter needed bodies. All of this barely tracked across his mind, though, and instead of digging deeper he asked about her name.

“No, it isn’t a nickname or short for anything.” Sticking a friendly-looking paper ghost to the wall, she glanced over her shoulder. “Just Nine like the number. My parents are odd that way.”

Looking at her hands, Peter spotted a tattoo on the inside of her arm just above her wrist. Chinese characters seemed popular lately. Noticing him watching her, Nine held her hand out allowing him a closer look.

“I can wear long sleeves if it’s a problem,” said Nine.

Taking her hand, Peter inspected the calligraphy, its brush-like strokes. The old man never mentioned tattoos, but the subtle mark shouldn’t be a problem. He asked about its meaning.

“A corpse possessed by a lost soul,” said Nine. Her smile faded, and she withdrew her arm. “Like a Chinese version of a vampire.”

“You have a dark side, don’t you?”

“Listen, Peter,” said Nine. The corner of her mouth twisted into a coy smile. “I help my father out by dressing corpses, applying make-up, and see things that would make most people lose their lunch. I’m dark enough.”

A vampire tag on an arm seemed plenty dark, and maybe it belonged to other secrets in Nine’s life. Realizing he was still holding her hand, Peter unwrapped his fingers. He began to move on to a real question about waiting on tables, but Nine had more to say on the subject of her dark side.

“Unless I’m out clubbing,” said Nine, “this is how I dress. Sensible clothes and comfortable shoes. I like classic rock and tattoos, but that doesn’t mean I go for bikers or tough guys. No drugs. I don’t even smoke. Dark comes with the family business, and I don’t need more of it.”

“Fair enough,” said Peter. Selecting a paper jack-o-lantern cut-out, he taped it to the wall.

Holding a gob of decorative webbing, Nine glanced around. “You must be proud.”

“My old man’s dream,” said Peter.

The old man had wanted his sister, Tara, to manage the restaurant, but she had her own dream, a vineyard out in the countryside. Nearly a decade older, Tara had practically raised Peter developing a strong sense of responsibility and a nose for business. In the army, Peter had learned how to repair tanks, handle weapons and go several rounds at boxing. Running a business wasn’t his idea of fun. The old man on his death bed had finally given in to Tara’s resistance and had made Peter promise to look after the restaurant.

“My only contribution,” said Peter. He motioned to the balcony level. “It was a closed floor originally, but I figured people would like to see the stage better.”

“I would have guessed the stage was your idea.”

“There all along. This was a jazz club and hotel way back when. If I had my way this place would be a bar, loud music and all.”

“Roseland is full of pubs, cheap eats, and strip clubs.” Nine shook her head. “You couldn’t compete.”

Thundering steps carried Boris out of the kitchen, and he muttered curses on his way over.

“Boss, the freezer door will be here the day after tomorrow.” Boris growled and waved a fist at the kitchen. “You’re stuck with the coffin, but I want it out of my kitchen. I can’t work with coffin in my kitchen.”

Looking at the fake spider webbing in hand, and realizing there wasn’t much time to return the box, Peter decided the coffin would make nice decoration near the front door. Webbing and a big rubber spider would complete the look.

Boris took the smaller end of the coffin, Peter grabbed the head, and together they lifted it out of the crate. Something inside shifted, and Peter couldn’t help thinking about bones. No stench meant no decayed body, and whatever was inside sounded dense, like metal, as it shifted around. Nine marveled at their strength in a teasing voice. Heavier than expected, carrying the box required short, careful steps through the dining area to the front along the wall beside the podium.

Gaze falling on the sticky note on the corner of the coffin, the message came back to him. What was inside he shouldn’t peek at until Hallowe’en? He didn’t know anyone twisted enough to send an expensive morbid joke for the holiday. The usual cheap tricks, sure, but nothing like this. His sister was too uptight and too broke to send him any gifts.

Kneeling beside the coffin, Nine ran her hand over the black surface. It appeared like she was caressing the damn thing. Finger following the groove along the edge, she looked closely at the crack in the lid.

“I think it’s sealed,” said Nine. Sitting up, she shrugged. “Opening it will likely cause damage making it more difficult to return or sell.”

Breaking the box could ruin it as decoration, too, and Peter didn’t feel like lugging it upstairs or outside. The prankster may even show up for the big reveal on Hallowe’en.

“Why would it be sealed?” Peter snatched a wad of webbing from the decorations box. “Other than to keep me from opening it until the magical day.”

“Some cemeteries require sealed caskets for interment above ground,” said Nine. She rapped her knuckles on the lid and listened. “An air-tight casket may result in putrefied liquefaction. Trust me, very gross.”

Cringing, Peter tried pushing the image of the sticky mess away.

“Peter,” said Nine, with playful grin. “Why would someone seal your coffin without letting you get inside first?”

A beautiful, spooky, fun gal, that was Nine Thyme.

---

Choose your path in Venom. You may continue following Peter's side of the story, or switch to others for a chronological experience of the full story.

Thank you.

The grand opening was three days away, on Hallowe’en of all nights, and Peter Gray still needed to finish hiring the staff. Would the bartender, Kyle or Cal—whatever his name was, consider working an extra shift? It seemed like a quarter of Roseland was out of work, but he couldn’t find enough employees. It would be easier to forget fine dining, but he had made a promise to his father. Even if he screwed up nearly everything else in life, promises he meant to keep.

Pushing the last table into place, Peter surveyed the area making sure there was more than enough space for some large man swinging elbows to pass without knocking someone on the head. As he stacked a chair upside-down on the table, a high-pitched squeal coming from the kitchen startled him. The sound of fracturing wood made him cringe.

In the kitchen, everything gleamed, white walls and silver-wired shelves. Pots, pans, and knives hung on a wall. The shelves at the back were still empty, and the slicer was nowhere to be seen leaving an open space in the middle where Boris crouched over a crate. Splintered wood broke the serenity of the tiled floor.

Pulling on a crowbar, Boris grunted. Another nail squealed as the lid popped up leaving one corner attached.

“Boris,” said Peter, “what the hell is that?”

Boris waved the crowbar at the crate. “The door to the freezer, I imagine. What else would it be?”

Taking up the corner of the kitchen, the walk-in freezer appeared like the opening to a dark, empty cave. He had already rescheduled the meat delivery twice, and needed that freezer door before the big day.

“Boris, that isn’t the right shape for the walk-in. A skinny door, maybe.”

The wrong shape for any door, really, the crate appeared more like it held something the size of a coffee table and plenty of padding.

“Some assembly required,” said Boris. Another pull popped the crate open, and he leaned the lid against the wire shelf. Staring into the open crate in bewilderment, he rubbed his face.

A coffin. Black, unusually glossy under the bright florescent lights, the box appeared ominous sitting snug inside the crate. At the corners, packing peanuts provided padding along with Styrofoam blocks on either side at the narrow end of the coffin.

For a moment it felt as if the afterlife had shipped his father back to him, but his old man rested underground in a white casket. No, this was a mistake. It had to be. Shipper royally screwed up, and likely some funeral home had a freezer door. Opening a restaurant came with its share of stumbles along the way, and for the most part everything seemed to balance out. As far as setbacks go, Peter put this bad delivery into the weird experiences pile.

Tearing the shipping documents off the lid, Boris stood up spewing curses in the language of his homeland.

In the other room, the front door clapped shut. Footsteps approached.

Peter glanced over finding a young woman standing beside him, and he recalled the late afternoon interview. Her sharp-yet-comfortable attire, short-sleeved blouse and long skirt, scored high on his old man’s quality test. After a day of interviewing girls in torn jeans, this woman lifted his spirits. Her smile, closed lips curling up on her left side, appeared playful like a child discovering a new present beneath the Christmas tree.

“That’s the Reaper’s Box,” said the woman.

“It’s a goddamn tragedy is what it is,” said Boris.

“An old model from a line of colorfully named boxes,” said the woman. Shaking her head, she appeared apologetic and held out her hand. “Sorry, I’m Nine Thyme. My family runs a funeral home.”

Studying Nine Thyme, Peter found a pleasant expression, not the face of a prankster. Unless she had one hell of a poker face, Nine hadn’t sent the coffin as a joke. Although, a funeral expert arriving after the coffin seemed like a strange twist of cosmic entanglement. Tentatively, he shook her hand and introduced himself.

“Aren’t you too young to be running a restaurant?” asked Nine. Squeezing her eyes shut, embarrassed as if she had just stepped in something disgusting, she took in a deep breath and opened her eyes again. “I mean you are the sole owner, aren’t you?”

“Autumn Twilight was my father’s dream. Before he passed, I had promised to see it through for him.”

Her smile evaporated, and her gaze darted between the coffin and his face.

“No,” said Peter, feeling the blood drain from his face. A restaurant is an unthinkable location to keep dear old Dad. “My father died three months ago. This is a shipping mistake.”

“Mistake my ass,” said Boris. He waved the shipping papers. “This thing is addressed to you, Peter. Your goddam name is on here.”

“Papers must be mixed up, Boris. While I interview Nine, will you get the shipper on the phone and see if we can swap this thing for our freezer door before tomorrow?”

Nodding, Boris pulled his phone out of his pocket.

Nine kneeled beside the crate and ran her fingers over the surface of the coffin. “A nice old model in great shape,” she said.

“Well, I’m trying not to become too attached to it,” said Peter.

Glancing over her shoulder, Nine shot him a cold look. “You might want to rethink that, Peter Gray.”

Gaze falling on Nine’s tapping finger, Peter spotted a blue sticky note near the top corner of the coffin. He crouched beside the crate, his gut sinking deeper. Edge crinkled, and black ink smudged, the note appeared as though it had been stuck there for a year or longer. He had no trouble reading it though, and he didn’t like it one bit. As if it might make the meaning more clear, he read it again to the room.

“For Peter Gray. Do not open until All Hallows’ Eve.”

Watching the wraith emerge from the vortex, I pull my blade free and toss the sheath aside. Dressed in a black cloak, his splotchy, cracked skull peeks out from beneath the hood. He gazes at me with his pinpoints of light within eye sockets, violet smoke spilling down over jagged cheek bones. From between his rotten teeth, smoke gathers around his slender fangs and drips like blood onto his cloak. Preparing to strike, I hold my sword overhead.

He speaks, not with a voice in this silent world, but an invading thought inside my head sending a shower of painful prickles down into my neck.

Kandy, will you bleed for me?

Hell no.

Here on this side, I imagine is the only place I can kill the wraith. My churning gut reminds me this is his home where he has the advantage. If only I can catch the creature off-guard moving between worlds.

Attacking, I slash down at his head. He drifts backward evading my blade. I continue the attack, but he moves away leaving me in his smoky trail, and that stupid dead grin of his taunting me. The world darkens around me, and I realize I’m within the shadows passing back into my world. Walls appear blocking out the purple sky, and ghostly forms rise out of the darkness behind the wraith. Before he can reach the other side, I lunge, my sword slicing through churning black-and-violet mist and into his neck.

Thundering drums crack the silence, light explodes, and the scent of sweat and blood fills my nostrils. My sword slices flesh, bone, and zips through the air spraying a crimson streak across a mirror and one of the light bulbs surrounding the reflection of the dressing room.

The shocked face before me turns away, head toppling over. The body collapses to the floor.

Stratton lays dead at my feet, and his bodyguard stares down at it, stunned.

Pushing away thoughts about how the wraith tricked me and the consequences of murdering my employer, I circle around searching the dressing room for the wraith. Including the bodyguard, Stratton’s body, and a dancing girl cowering in the corner beside the lockers, nobody that matters occupies the room. Not on this side of the shadows anyway.

Purple Hell.

Crossing over, I find the wraith reaching for me with his talons. Diving into a roll, I leap up and spin around slashing at my foe. Instead of the skull, I find the face of my mentor—my friend, Steve Reynolds. His nebulous, purple eyes fade leaving normal blue eyes gazing back at me. His cool hands wrap over mine pulling the sword free.

The sky darkens, ghostly forms rise up like smoke, and I find the dance floor of Necropolis. Some of the patrons glance around in confusion while others storm up the stairs for the exit. The music hits me like a brick. Steve twirls around, dancing with me. He’s wearing his suit, of course, his tie streaming from his neck. As I spot the light flickering off the blade, the gravity of it all falls upon me. I take a step back into the shadows, music fading.

Cold slices through my neck.

My head fails to respond, but my eyes manage a look around. I’m on the floor, the black-and-white checkerboard of my club. A wood shelf disrupts the surface blocking my view of the entrance. I can’t quite see the beaded curtain at the back, but there appears to be shelves lining the wall. Relaxing my eyes, I find Steve Reynolds standing over me. I try to speak, but my mouth fails. As Steve kneels down beside me, I see tears spilling down his cheeks.

My life doesn’t flash before my eyes, and I realize in a way, it has been passing before me since this very day Steve stole my memories. Time is a collection of ghosts.

Don’t forget me, Steve.

He doesn’t see her lips move, or hear a voice. He reads her thought inside his head.

“Never,” he says.

Glancing around the room at the brightly packaged albums, he smiles.

“Look, Kandy. It’s your record store. How odd is this?”

It’s the same place, the same position on the floor, only now their roles reversed. Instead of the Sanctuary of Sin, it’s Kandy Fangs, a music store. History changed along with their memories, a life the two of them shared together at the most intimate level.

Remembering the note, he reaches into her pocket and removes the crumpled paper. Unfolding the kill order, he reads the fine script.

Steve Reynolds a.k.a Ezekiel.

It’s her handwriting.

The theft of her memories is a terrible crime, but she pushed him to this final dance. It’s about retirement. She chose him to replace her. In the spirit of a killer, she made him fight for it. Their intermingling memories somehow lifted a few strands out of Fate’s tapestry turning her club into a record store.

Eating memories is a dangerous game.

Pushing his hand across the gore beneath the half-severed head, he props her body up. His other hand beneath her thighs, he scoops her into his arms. Turning, he steps into the quiet place and crosses the shadows into the other world. Selecting a spot in the endless desert, he sets her down and returns fetching some tools.

Slamming the pick into the hard soil, Steve breaks the ground beneath the violet storm reaching for each horizon. There is no sound, just the vibration of each strike climbing his arms. The work is slow and tiring, but he manages a trench. Switching to the shovel, he digs a hole. The dry grit becomes easier with depth and soon, he stands beneath the surface. Looking up, he watches the churning sea of clouds drift by. It might be night, but there is no way of knowing. No stars or sun, just the everlasting storm lighting the world.

Purple Hell. It’s a good enough name.

Climbing out of the hole, he finds three wraiths standing several meters away. Here on this side of the shadows, their features stand out even though they remain dark and nearly ethereal. They each wear skirts flowing about their ankles. He imagines the skirts once had color. One in blue for the warriors of the north. Another, a dark green worn by the wizards in the east. And the third, violet, the color of the royal guard. Perhaps these are Kandy’s ancestors come to mourn her passing, or welcome her home.

Kneeling on the hard ground, Steve slides the body down into the grave. Grabbing the shovel, he stands and begins filling the hole. A drop splashes on his shoulder, and another on his head. Red splats on the ground.

Looking up, he watches the red rain. Purple Hell cries for her.

* ~ *

“Mister Reynolds!”

Spinning around, Steve Reynolds spots the bike messenger squealing to a stop at the curb. She pulls her messenger bag from her shoulder and opens the flap. In her bottle cage is a black aluminum can with silver-and-blue writing.

“What’s your drink?”

“Vampire Ice,” says the bike messenger. She rummages through the bag. “A new energy drink and addictive.”

“I bet it is.” Naturally, the new drink dispels the venom rumors.

“Here it is.” She pulls out an envelope, same size as all the others. “You need an office,” she says with a laugh. “It would make tracking you down much easier.”

“Sounds like a wonderful idea. Do you have any suggestions?”

Twisting around, ratty hair flipping over shoulder, she gazes back up the street. “Yeah, there’s an empty space just five blocks from here. You’ll see the signs.”

Steve tips the messenger, shoves the envelope under his arm, and walks up to the police station doors. The detective meets him in the lobby with a huge smile.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” says Detective Silver. “Your wife will be so happy to see you again. They are on their way now.”

The name, Steve Reynolds, is his at last. He still does not remember where the name, Ezekiel, comes from. Maybe another memory, but it doesn’t really matter. He has a wife and a daughter, a step-daughter, but his girl just the same. They can go to the movies, trick-or-treat, or whatever. Fate? Her tapestry may have changed the memory of the world, but this is Yasmine’s doing. Another envelope full of money confirms it. The Itoril woman runs Roseland now.

“I’m just sorry I couldn’t have been more help with your investigation,” he says. Of course, he can’t mention the identity of the killer, the body that left the streaks of blood on the dance floor, or even the other body in the locker room. Would anyone even believe such a confession?

“Not to worry,” says the detective. “It’s only been a few days. Forensics is still going over everything.”

“Of course,” says Steve, smiling. “Good luck with your investigation.”

Silver extends his hand. “Have you learned anything about your past?”

Giving the hand a firm shake, Steve considers the question. There is no past. No future. There is only the ever changing fabric of the universe pushing around bits of information leaving ghosts—memories.

“No, can’t really say I did.”

Life is a memory, a blood-spattered stain on the cosmos where ghosts relive every moment. Before his eyes, another life flashes, ghostly moments of love, sadness, anger, and joy from birth to death, indescribable sweetness. If he looks deep within the murk of stolen memories, near the cinnamon and lavender scents, among the knowledge of weapon skills, down in the blood of it all, he’ll find me and my fangs.

---

Big thanks to Carrie and Jason.

David G Shrock

Dark shapes appear. Swaying, the hazy shapes surround me. They appear like smoke, their swooning motions leave wispy trails. They dance in slow motion. Turning around, I find more of them, a mass of smoky forms in every direction. They dance, waving arms building smoky clouds above their heads.

Purple haze lifting, dancers increasing in speed, the smoke trails fade leaving solid forms. Clothing ripples out of the blackness. The ghosts dance, their pale forms turning and moving on a wood floor. Dark columns holding purple rods rise up into a white fog where lights spin splashing red like blood dripping from the mist.

Thunder erupts, pounding into the floor. Another dull boom, and another, the increasing beat becoming alive, sharpening. The dancers stomp to the beat, their movements increasing in speed. A chorus of guitars join in, and music explodes.

The prickly sensation of déjà vu crawls beneath my skin.

Standing at the center of the dance floor, I search the crowd for Steve. White shirts and waving colored bracelets glow in the black light. Some of the eyes glow as well like phosphorous disc floating on white orbs. The discs bounce and weave. The floor shakes to the beat of the drums and dancing feet.

On the stage, a woman with deep crimson hair screams into a microphone. Her voice, harsh, shouts about blood and death. Behind her, the band shakes their heads and stomp while they work the music into a demonic chorus.

I dance into a storm riding the edge of shadows, my dress floating about me like smoke.

Spotting a familiar face watching me, I dance my way towards him. Watching in wonder as I defy the light, the crowd parts for me. The young man doesn’t look much like Steve. Shorter and too scrawny, the young thing appears to lack confidence dropping his gaze from mine. The sea of sweaty bodies flows away, and I swoop in on my prey.

He tells me his name.

Satisfied I have Torx, I smile and say, “Nice to meet you, Steve Reynolds.”

Standing right behind Torx is a wraith smoking in and out of the shadows like a dark fire eating the air.

“I’m sweet like candy,” I say. The sinking feeling of having done this before pulls at me. My feet grow heavy. I spin away from the wraith, and tug at Torx’s hand. Glancing back, I say, “with a K.”

This is my memory playing out. My memory eaten by Steve, returning to me because he’s in my head and has been all this time. He never stole this man’s memories. He might have peeked inside and only taken a taste.

It all starts making a twisted sort of sense, the déjà vu and my old club Steve has been visiting. It’s like time travel, but Steve calls it revisiting a memory. Somehow something changed there in that moment I thought I had killed him. Some serious messing with Fate’s tapestry.

“I’m looking for vampire ice,” says Torx.

“I have what you need,” I say, pulling my prey onto the back stairs.

Glancing back, I search the dance floor. The wraith is gone, but I spot Stratton and his bodyguard slinking through the crowd. I curse Zee. I curse the magistrate for getting here so fast. Feeling time crushing down on me, I pull Torx stumbling up the stairs and into the VIP lounge. I push him into the balcony room and slam the door closed.

The music is loud as ever, pulsing through the glass and trembling across the floor. My groove cuts a line down the center. At the sofa, I spin around and wave my hand in a come hither. Money already in hand, Torx approaches with a goofy grin on his face. Sometimes I can’t believe how willingly they come, but without venom it would be a savage pain even masochists would deny.

Holding out the money, Torx takes a wobbly step closer. His face loses color, and his gaze drops to my midsection. “Is this going to hurt?” he asks.

With both hands, I grab the extended arm, pulling the sleeve up. Pushing his shoulder up, his arm backward against his elbow, I lock my prey into a prone position dancing on his toes in a fit of pain. I bite down crunching through tendons, blood shooting out.

In a violent spasm, Torx screams like a girl.

Cool toxins flow out, and warmth gushes inside. More than I can handle, blood rushes down my chin splashing onto my dress and onto the floor. I taste the alcohol, the drugs, and a lifetime of poor eating. There is nothing sweet about Torx.

Looking up, I find my mark standing in the room. The same business suit, the same buzzed hair, the wraith watches me with his nebulous violet eyes spewing smoky wisps curling over his head. Is this my Steve? I realize I’ve already given up drinking, the mess dripping on the floor.

Take him.

I’m uncertain if he can read my thoughts, but if he’s eating my memories, certainly he remembers them.

Take him, wraith!

The wraith doesn’t move, but I feel him draw closer. The grin appears to shift between cruel, love, and thirsty. Yes, terribly thirsty. The wraith wants it all, suck my life down, feast on my private thoughts and deepest secrets.

Realizing he has no interest in my offering, I release Torx and spin around stepping into shadow-time. Reaching into the sofa cushion, I grab my gun and twirl around through the rising purple mist stepping back into normal time, gun aimed at my target.

Gun oil tickles my nose.

I pull the trigger, and the world falls into slow motion. He moves, not in physical relation to me, but in shadow-time. His buzzed hair turns smoky, dark wisps rising, and his body fades into a ghostly, dark form. His luminous eyes sparks violet energy leaving a trail of tendrils behind him. He closes in, creeping within the violet shadows.

Unwilling to surrender my remaining secrets to him, I dive deeper into our entanglement straight into his Purple Hell.

The hammer pops, thunder growing quiet, swallowed by silence.

Walls crumbling away, ceiling fading, a violet storm erupts consuming the club as I backpedal through the ethereal sofa fading away, through the window. Falling, I watch the dark purple clouds raging across the sky and the wraith diving after me, arms reaching out. I fire my gun again watching the bullet disappear back into normal time.

Even in Purple Hell, gravity is a killer. Only the hard desert floor awaits me, so I twist around reaching for the other side. Through a curtain of shadows, a spray of mist, I find the dance floor rushing up at me. Moving in slow motion, two ghostly forms dance on the pedestal beneath me. I slip into normal time and fall upon a dancing girl.

An explosion of splintering wood, the pedestal collapses. I feel bones crunch beneath me as I topple over the girl rolling onto wood, another body, and onto the floor. A cloud of dust rises, and people dive away blinking in and out beneath the strobe light.

Standing, I enter the quiet place. My gun is gone, but it’s useless on this side of the shadows. Glancing over my shoulder, I spot the wraith, a slender dark form dressed in a black suit leaving a trail of black-and-violet smoke. I race around nearly frozen ghosts, catching an arm passing through me leaving a shiver of tingles. Spotting the hall, I charge through the hazy wall into the dressing room.

Turning for the locker, I bite my lip, concentrating, and pull my arms in, ducking, making myself as small as I can. A short step, I pass through the slender steel door, hoping like hell I fit inside. Another short step, skipping back into the world, I clasp my sword hugging it to me, and slip back into the quiet place, passing through the wall and spilling into another room.

Two ghostly men stand at urinals, and I feel relieved that the smell of urine and those damn deodorizer discs remain locked away outside the quiet place, but the memory attacks my nose turning my gut. Wash basins behind me, trash bin beside the hand dryers in front of me, I turn facing the closed door in the corner where I spot the wraith melting through the wood.

No longer appearing much like Steve, the wraith is a shadow defying the light. Violet smoke pours from a pair of pits, but otherwise darkness. I can only hope killing this thing will free Steve. Free me. Smoky appendages fly out, slender claws cracking with dark energy.

Diving backward, I tumble through the ethereal wall and return to the world, music crashing into my head. Leaping to my feet, I find throngs of people hurrying off the dance floor, passing confused faces of others, onto the steel stairs for the exit. And there I find him dressed in a white shirt without his tie, his blue eyes open wide, moving with the sea of bodies.

My Steve spots me, our gazes connect. He doesn’t recognize me at first, and even then the moment passes, and he glances around as if lost.

The wraith emerges through the wall, and Steve stands frozen watching it.

In a flash, my arms come to life, and I swing my sword upward, the sheath bashing across Steve’s head knocking the man over and fading into a ghost passing into the shadows. A dark claw lashes out, and I duck into the quiet place searching for Steve. Spotting his ethereal form fading away, I follow him into Purple Hell, my shoes skittering on the cracked soil.

Steve is gone. Spinning around, I search the desert finding black and violet clouds churning away on horizons. He must have passed back to the other side. Completing another circle, I spot a black fog rising from the ground spiraling into a vortex of violet electrical sparks and churning black smoke.

Sneaking weapons into a club isn’t something I normally consider given the authority of my position, but when I’m carrying enough hardware to make a distraught postal worker appear like cuddly toy bear I have to think through my options. Walking in shadow-time is easy enough, but that’s where Steve lives. I keep hearing his voice, a whisper calling my name. His scent lingers in the damp air. He steals memories, and the best I can figure is he took mine that night when he lay bleeding on my checkerboard floor. He did something before disappearing into violet smoke, and he’s been haunting me ever since. There’s only so much shit a girl can deal with.

The line at Necropolis is longer than usual full of young people wearing clothes too skimpy for the cold Autumn night. They bounce about or hug each other for warmth. I’m in my black party dress, and why not? At least I have my coat on. Behind me, a young man holds two young women in his muscular arms. He has that cocky look on his face like he’s God’s gift to the world. I’d love a bite of him, and his lovely ladies. Pulling my gaze from the morsels, I scan the street for danger. No Itoril thugs or creepy wraiths. The scent of rain mixed with cheap body spray hangs in the air.

Hearing my name, I spin around spotting the doorman, Axe, waving me over. Passing irritated faces, I march to the front of the line.

“What’s in the bag?” says Axe, wrinkling his brow. A vein rises on his bald head, but his body glow remains cool.

I press a hundred dollars into the doorman’s palm and say, “What bag?”

Axe laughs and says, “Just try not to wreck the place.”

Necropolis swallows me, doors banging shut. Striding down the stairs, the electronica works into my legs, and I bounce to the beat. If not an executioner, I’d be a dancer. Can’t beat getting paid to dance all night.

I don’t know if it’s even possible to push Steve into another head. Memory thief. Is it truly him? Or does the wraith have him? Sucking the memories out of someone has to be the most invasive intrusion imaginable. Finding another victim isn’t tough. Original Steve Reynolds, Torx, is apparently a mind he’s at least lifted the name from if not indulged in. I’m certain Torx will take to the vampire ice rumor and arrive looking for a good time.

If the wraith doesn’t accept my offering, then it’s going to end one way or another. Kill the wraith, and be free of the torment. Or die and be free of it all. Retirement is permanent for executioners.

There’s plenty of open space on the dance floor at the early hour. On the stage, a disc jockey with a tired expression works his machine. Hopefully the main band is loud enough to hide the screams, if it comes to that. Maybe Torx can handle a little bite. Passing the dance floor, I dive into the dark back hall coming to a closed black curtain.

Peeling the curtain aside, I find a dressing room lit by circles of glowing bulbs around mirrors on the left wall. At the back, a shower drips on the tile. Lockers occupy the wall on the right where a young woman sets a black purse on the floor of an open locker. Walking to the locker on the near end, I open the door. It squeaks, so I close it and try another. It’s tall, nearly big enough for a small person to squeeze inside.

The woman, one of the podium dancers if I remember correctly, glares at me. “You’re not supposed to be in here. I’ll call security.”

Opening my bag, I pull out my shotgun and lean it, barrel up, inside the locker. Holding my katana, I pop the blade free checking friction, and push it closed. I lean the sword into the other corner. On the shelf, I set several spare ammunition clips for my handgun.

“You can’t do that.” The dancer folds her arms in defiance, but her scowl gives way to fear. The girl glows hot like a human and smells just as nice. “I’m calling the cops.”

“You do that.” Shrugging out of my coat, I hang it on the hook inside the locker and close the door.

“I will,” says the dancer, stomping her foot.

I fasten my lock and give it a tug clanging the door. “Did you want to borrow my phone?”

The scowl returns. “Bitch.”

“Sugar and spice,”I say, singing. Raising my hand, I hold the chain dangling the locker key from my fingers. “Take it.”

“What am I supposed to do with that?”

“You can show the cops my weapons or return the key to me at closing.”

The dancer appears uncertain at first, but reaches out and snatches the key. She loops the chain over her head and stuffs the key into her cleavage. “Okay,” she says, “but if I don’t see you dancing out there, I’m calling the cops.”

It’s a deal that doesn’t cost me any money.

Bag scrunched under my arm, I climb the back stairs to my second stash location, the VIP lounge. Slipping through the curtain, I enter the lounge lit by candles perched on the wall above leather sofas. A row of small lamps glows over the bar opposite the sofas. Standing in the corner, the bouncer dressed in a tight black shirt nearly blends in with the dark walls. He nods at me. I don’t recognize him, so I smile showing off my pearly whites. Fang flashing is the customary way of establishing position. He doesn’t show me his teeth; he accepts my dominance. Only a fool wouldn’t.

At Necropolis, VIP refers to Itoril. The only humans that ever enter the lounge are club staff, entertainment, and menu items. Here, Itoril are free to be themselves. In the old days that sometimes meant stupid activities like shooting each other in the gut to see which one could take the most pain. Since then, Yasmine started enforcing a no-weapons rule, but that doesn’t stop me.

The bartender, Nathaniel, dresses like people did nearly a century ago complete with puffy sleeves and a bow tie. Nobody else dresses in costume. Spotting me approach, Nathaniel raises a bottle offering o-negative.

I can taste it teasing my tongue already. Nathaniel takes good care of his customers, always remembering favorite drinks delivered with a broad smile. I always appreciate good service, and it’s one of the things I like about Necropolis.

I say, “I need the balcony room for the evening.”

Even frowning, the man still appears happy. “Kandy, dear,” he says, “that’s Yasmine’s room.”

“Tell her I’m sorry, Nathaniel.” I fan ten twenties on the bar.

His smile returns, and he swipes the dollars away. “I’m certain she’ll understand.” He pops the cork from the bottle releasing the scent of blood. “Enjoy.”

Taking the bottle, I spin around and march into the balcony room closing the door behind me. A sofa sits beside a table against the glass wall overlooking the dance floor below. Music pounds through the floor calling me. Taking a chug from the bottle, I taste the sweet blood splashing in my mouth. The donor must be young, and female with good eating habits except for a chocolate weakness. She tastes too damn good. I take another gulp, and march over to the sofa.

I set the bottle on the table. Throwing the bag on the sofa, I open it and remove my pistol. Sliding the clip, I check my ammunition. Hollow point. I have my doubts that it will be enough to stop a wraith, but any Itoril getting in my way will think twice. Satisfied, I push the gun into the sofa cushion.

The music ends, and my heart sinks.

Pushing the backup clip between my cleavage, I squeeze it into the pocket sewn inside my dress. After stuffing the bag under the sofa, I stand at the window pressing my palms against the cool glass.

For a moment, I stare at my reflection–my ghost in a party dress. Something Steve said creeps into my thoughts. Time is an illusion, and memories are the ghosts we cling to making it appear we have a past.

The stage crew warms up the instruments, plucking at the guitars and banging on the drums. They test the sound system as the disc jockey pushes his cart off stage. People stream down the steel stairs, some onto the dance floor and others lining up at the bar hidden beneath my feet.

Steve will be here. I know, because when he stole my memories somehow some of his dripped into mine. His past is my future, and my ghosts are his. They’ll all be down there, original Steve and the memory-eating wraith. Or maybe it’s not his memories mixing with mine. Could the memory from down there on the dance floor originate from me? It’s my ghost he took twenty years ago, and he’s been haunting me since.

He knows all my secrets. How I like being touched. My desires. That’s how he got to me. He charmed me with my own thoughts.

Pulling the paper, the kill order, from my pocket, I unfold it and read it again. It’s just his name handwritten on the page. I should have finished the job twenty years ago. Tonight, I’ll end it.

Grabbing the bottle, I take a sip and cross the room. Opening the door, I find Zee leaning against the bar with a wine glass in hand.

“What the hell, Zee?” I slam the bottle on the bar. “Why are you passing fake venom?”

“Covering your ass, babe.” Swaying to the side, he clinks his glass against my bottle.

“Hell you are. You’re passing that shit around my haunts.”

“Deflecting attention.”

“Yasmine hired Steve Reynolds about your venom thing. She probably already knows all about it.”

Nathaniel pours whiskey into three glasses. I glance around, but I don’t see anyone else besides the bouncer. One of the other rooms must be occupied.

Zee wobbles to one side, his eyes zipping in the opposite direction, and sways back again, confusion filling his face. “She hired that drug addict?”

“The other Steve. The guy hanging out with us the other night at Midnight Dream. Amnesia guy.”

Zee shakes his head, confusion twisting into that concerned look reserved for crazy people.

I push the kill order into his hand, crumpling paper. “This guy. Twenty years ago, you delivered this order and helped me track the guy down at my club where I executed him.”

Unfolding the paper, Zee reads the note. Shrugging, he drops the paper on the bar.

“He’s back from the dead.”

“Shit, babe. You’re starting to scare me.”

“Don’t worry. I’m taking care of it.”

“You’ve never failed, and I don’t even know what guy you’re talking about.”

I grab the bottle and gulp down the remaining contents.

Leaning against the bar, Zee shakes his head. “I never delivered that order.”

“Twenty years ago, Zee. I executed him at my club. Or thought I did.”

“You never had a club,” says, Zee. His face sags, and he flashes a look at Nathaniel.

Spinning around, the bartender disappears into the back room.

“Sanctuary of Sin,” I say, determined to knock some sense into the old Itoril.

“Before the Sanctuary of Sorrows, that building was a record store.”

Not again with the record store.

“Your record store where we used to jam in the back.”

I stand still watching Zee, and I see on his face that he sees the frustration on mine. I can also tell he’s going to call the magistrate. There is nothing more dangerous than a fully-armed executioner out of her mind talking about imaginary clubs and twenty year-old kill orders.

“Please, Zee. Give me a little while and I’ll have my mark. Then everything will be right as rain again.”

Picking up the note, Zee reads it and holds it out. “Babe, for all I know, you wrote this kill order. And that has me scared to the bones.”