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Army Jacket saw security approach when he made his move and jammed the gun barrel in his mouth.
In one moment, he pulled the trigger and painted the dance floor with his brain matter. He was surrounded by a halo of his victims before the majority of the crowd had even had a chance to flee.
Moments. Seconds. It had felt like hours.
Death felt different on the other side, but it didn’t feel pretty.
We stepped back through the doorway, but this time it led us back to the office block in the center of the Mojave desert instead of back to the hotel.
Maddox held a beer bottle between his two fingers as he ushered the group of victims, plus the murderer, through the doorway until the last of the group filtered through. The door slammed shut as if there was a draft.
I didn’t want to look at the confused and transparent souls in the lobby. Knowing they had been alive not even an hour before.
Their incorporeal forms showed no sign of trauma. No blood or bullet wounds.
Even Army-Jacket, the shooter, looked benign and clueless as Maddox led the group past reception and into the conference room. Charon’s showman voice filtered out when the door opened and then abruptly cut off when it shut.
Fletcher, Jamal, and I headed up the back of the crew. Rome had disappeared to speak to the receptionist.
I turned to Maddox. “Is that it?” I asked.
“You just watched several people get shot in cold blood, and you want to know ifthat’s it?” Maddox replied dryly, looking down at me as if I was a speck of dirt on his shoe before he pushed his way into the conference room and disappeared.
I pulled my lip between my bottom teeth and debated my answer. My chest burned and ached with the need to release every thought and feeling. To grab a camera and decompress and unload my burden on my followers. To receive the stream of encouragement and positivity that I lacked since I died.
My lip wobbled and my eyes filled with tears, but before I could say a word, a loud voice sounded out through reception as Ollie burst through one of the doors on heels that belonged in a drag show and a fitted suit that Lucifer would have been envious of.
It was almost too much.
I had watched a dozen people killed dead only moments before. Including the woman that wore high heels like Ollie did.
The demon hustled his way towards me, shaking his hips in a way that suggested he was a dancer in his spare time. His face lit up with a smile.
“How’s my favorite dead girl?” Ollie beamed when he saw me, rushing forward and greeting me with a European-style cheek kiss on both sides.
I didn’t know what came over me. Perhaps it was seeing a group of innocent people getting murdered, but I threw my arms open and hugged him tightly.
“Your favorite?” I joked. “Surely not. I mean, you’ve got Amy Winehouse and Marie Antoinette.”
He looked down at me, a little bit confused, but he didn’t question the hug. “Don’t forget Katherine the Great.” He winked. “Although she didn’t really fuck a horse. Mores the pity.”
My eyes widened, but he continued to speak.
“Charon sent me down here because he wanted to remind you to book an appointment with one of the therapists. You need to speak to someone.” Ollie winced. “I’ve never died, but I heard that it can make you feel a bit topsy-turvy.”
My nose wrinkled, but Jamal stepped up to my side. “He means unsettled.” The British man explained.
Ollie shot him a wink. “I forgot that American English and British English are different.” He waved a hand dismissively. “I couldn’t imagine if that were true for demons. Cyclian is Cyclian. Sloth to Pride. Lust to Gluttony. It's all the same.”
“You needed something?” Jamal’s lip twitched.
Ollie startled and fanned himself. “Yes!” He beamed. “Counselling. Sign up. Do it.” He jabbed a finger with each word before flouncing away.
I groaned and pushed my red hair out of my face, pausing for a moment as the sensation of my new hair unsettled me and made me feel on edge.
“I feel like a hundred years old,” I sighed.
Jamal laughed, the sound carefree but husky. “Why don’t you talk to Maddox.”
