I hate it when a soul goes all stubborn on me. It doesnโt
happen as often as youโd think. Most people understand that
theyโre dead and want to move on. Maybe itโs because they
think heaven is waiting for them. Maybe itโs because they
believe theyโll be reincarnated as the Princess of Monaco -
does anybody want to be reincarnated as the Princess of
Monaco anymore? Maybe itโs because theyโre just tired of
this world. When I show up to escort them to the Door, they
know why Iโm there and theyโre ready to go. But sometimes,
like today, a soul doesnโt want to leave its earthly body.
Mrs. Luccardi didnโt want to leave her cats โ all 15 of
them. People get very attached to their pets. In fact, Iโve
seen a fair number of people more attached to their pets
than to their children. I understand that they feel like
their little four-legged buddy is part of the family. What
I have to make them understand is that they are dead, and
can no longer feed, groom or cuddle little Muffy, Flopsy,
or Fido. It can be a delicate job, convincing the recently
deceased of their new status.
"Mrs. Luccardi, youโre dead," I said. "You canโt take care
of your cats anymore. Someone else will have to do that
now."
I fought the urge to cover my nose as I said this. Mrs.
Luccardi was recently deceased and therefore immune to the
reek of cat piss that permeated her doily-covered living
room, but I was very much alive and getting tired of
breathing through my mouth.
Aside from my burning need to breathe air unscented by eau
de cat urine, I had two other pressing reasons for getting
Mrs. Luccardi out of there. First, I had a potential tenant
coming to look at the empty apartment in my building in
twenty minutes, and I didnโt want to piss off a possible
source of income by showing up late. Second, some of Mrs.
Luccardiโs precious darlings were contemplating her cooling
body with "buffet" in their eyes. I did not want Mrs.
Luccardi to see her babies gnawing through her flowered
housedress to flesh and bone. That kind of thing tends to
traumatize the newly dead and prevents an Agent from an
efficient escort to the Door.
If the soul doesnโt enter the Door, than they become
ghosts. Agents donโt like ghosts. Theyโre untidy. The
presence of a ghost means you couldnโt close your list, and
if you canโt close your list you have to file extra
paperwork to explain why you couldnโt and I absolutely hate
doing any paperwork at all, period. So I really wanted Mrs.
Luccardi to leave her carnivorous little fuzzballs and come
with me, pronto.
I hadnโt even untethered her soul yet. Her noncorporeal
self floated above the body on the plastic-covered sofa,
bound by a thin strand of ectoplasm. I was supposed to cut
this strand with magic or my silver knife and release the
soul. The knife had been passed to me by my mother, along
with my Agent status, when she died.
In life and death, Mrs. Luccardi was a small, thin woman
with a head of white curls โ- the kind of old lady my
mother used to call a "Q-tip". She glared at me through red
plastic spectacles.
"I donโt care if Iโm dead, missy. Iโm not leaving my
babies," she snapped. "Besides, look at you. Iโm supposed
to believe youโre an Agent of death? Youโre covered in
flour."
"I was in the middle of making a pear tart dotted with
gorgonzola. Youโre an unscheduled call. Besides," I said,
pointing to my back, "donโt you think the wings are a clue?"
She continued to eye me with suspicion. OK, so a ten-foot
wingspan of black feathers probably looked a little
incongruous with my "Kiss Me, Iโm Irish" apron and my fuzzy
blue house slippers. Patrick was always telling me I would
have less trouble if I presented a more imposing image, if
I looked a little more Reaper-like. I always tell him that
itโs pretty near impossible to be imposing when youโre only
five feet tall and generally described by others as "cute
as a button".
Of course, if Patrick had shown up for his scheduled
escort of Mrs. Luccardi, I wouldnโt be here at all. Heโd
called me fifteen minutes ago, said he had a "personal
emergency" (read: a date with a hot guy), and begged me to
take this pickup for him. Iโd agreed because I owed Patrick
a favor or two, but I couldnโt be held responsible for my
appearance.
"Listen, Mrs. Luccardi," I said through gritted
teeth. "Youโre going to a better place. Iโll make sure that
someone comes to take care of yourโฆbabies."
"Oh, no. Harold, my son, will come and have them all taken
to shelters. Iโm not going anywhere. I have to look out for
them." She crossed her arms, set her jaw and looked for
all the world like she had no intention of moving in the
next millennium. I wondered how, exactly, she expected to
prevent Harold from having the cats taken away when she
didnโt have a corporeal self.
Unfortunately, I didnโt have time to argue points of logic
with the illogical dead. I glanced at my watch, a slender,
silver-linked affair that had been a 13th birthday present
from my mother. I really had to go. The potential tenant
was scheduled to knock on my door in fifteen minutes. It
would probably take me that long to fly home.
"Polly Frances Luccardi, will you permit me to untether
your soul and escort you to the Door?" I asked.
"No!"
"Polly Frances Luccardi, will you permit me to untether
your soul and escort you to the Door?" I asked again.
"I already told you, no!"
I felt the familiar buildup of pressure in my chest that
accompanied a magical binding. It was what I imagined it
would be like to drown. My lungs and heart felt like iron
bands squeezed my organs; my ribcage felt like it was
collapsing. If I asked again and she refused, the binding
was sealed. She would never be escorted to the Door, but
would haunt this earth forever.
"Polly Frances Luccardi, will you permit me to untether
your soul and escort you to the Door?" I asked. The
pressure increased and I gasped for breath.
"For the last time, no!"
My heart and lungs reinflated; my ribs sprung back into
place. A surge of power pushed out of my fingertips and
snapped the tether holding Mrs. Luccardi to her body. A lot
of Agents untethered agreeable souls using magic, but I
didnโt like it. I donโt know what a binding felt like to
anyone else but it made me feel like elephants had been tap
dancing on me. Give me a silver knife and straightforward
cut any day. Unfortunately, I could only use my knife on
the cooperative. No one knew exactly why, but souls that
refused the Door had to go through the rigmarole of a
binding.
"Polly Frances Luccardi, by your own words and of your own
volition, your soul is bound to this earth for eternity," I
said, a little breathless.
"Fine. My babies!" she cried, holding her incorporeal arms
out to the cats that were now starting to nibble her
corporeal bodyโs ankles.
Whatever. I got out of there before she realized that her
little Snoogums was about to make her former shell into
breakfast, lunch and dinner. If I had more time, I would
have tried harder to convince her to go to the Door. Now I
would have to file more paperwork, and Patrick would have
to file more paperwork, and he would bitch about it and I
would bitch about it and J.B., our supervisor, would be an
annoying bastard about the whole thing because heโs very
insistent on closed lists. But Iโd deal with that later.
First, I had to get home in time to show the apartment, and
I only had a few minutes.
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