Case 12 - Ep. 3: The Reaper's Tuxedo

Reaping With Class by Beki Yopek

I rigged the Blood Magic before I’d even finished taunting the bitch that stole from me and The Reaper. Pumping both wings, I leapt at Avarice with the haloxite knife in my right hand, ready to dig up whatever she had in place of a heart. Orange blood still dripped from the knife tip where I’d pricked my finger to fuel the Demon-Angel aviators, which fell to the ground when I attacked. I daubed blood from my finger on the knife’s handle and the unguided Blood Magic launched the knife forward even faster than I was flying.

Avarice’s eyes shot open and she flipped her wing sideways to parry the strike. I could see she’d be too late to block the knife that was three feet ahead of me. Martial arts are noble until you need to trick your opponent in order to survive. I’d end her at last and then take out her paunchy partner in the white hat next. He hadn’t moved since handing her that beer--

Hat-head pitched a hip flask from behind Avarice and it smashed into the haloxite knife. Golden powder burst from the flask and I flew right into the haze. Powdered haloxite got into my eyes, mouth, and nose and I sputtered. Brimstone penetrated the defenses of an angel’s halo, and haloxite wrecked demons despite our horns’ protection. Avarice’s block snapped my arm to the side and I flopped right past the pair into a row of spectators watching the Friday Night boxing match.

It was a good thing Yankee Stadium was already getting rowdy with the Louis-Schmeling fight ramping up to a finish. The men and women I collided with tumbled to the cement at the edge of the boxing ring. Multiple shouts erupted and more New Yorkers jumped into the fray, some helping people up, some throwing punches. I kipped up to my feet and sneezed, then queued in on The Reaper’s rasping snarl.

He’d stayed back and clashed with Avarice while the humans caused more chaos, and now he had the Septuplet in a vicegrip between him and the haft of his scythe. Flying without wings, The Reaper soared straight skyward and out of the stadium with one of The Pneuma Coalition’s highest-ranked Septuplets ready to be delivered to the SPD. Or destroyed. Since no souls were in the area, we weren’t bound by Heaven Law to give a crap about these parasites of society.

My grudge against The Coalition boiled in my veins and I flapped up after them. Two more flasks arced past me and I scoffed, craning around to blow a raspberry at hat-head. He shed his fedora and blazer, revealing a mullet, a beer gut and a pit-stained button-up. The horns and the beer gut had already given Voracity away. He was here with Avarice to. . .what, watch a boxing match?

I looped over the rim of the stadium and chased after Reap and his writhing captive. They were already far below, duking it out in the parking lot. Seraphs dotted the skies above us, and a few swooped closer, but stayed away or eased back toward the streets where souls were more likely to be meandering. I descended on Reap as he hurled Avarice down the middle of an aisle of parked cars. She tumbled and skidded, then smacked into an overly polished bumper and lay among the bulky classic vehicles like a crumpled hotdog wrapper.

I touched down next to The Reaper and reached for my Blood Magic folio again. It was out of my blazer pocket when Voracity landed in front of Avarice with a greasy grin on his mug. His overconfident celebrity voice rang out among the cars. “Do you see me futzing around? Get over here and do your job.”

Apathy, the bald careless Septuplet, walked out from between two cars that had their AM radios blaring. The people inside were either rowdy because of the match they were listening to, or the horizontal mambo was in full swing. Apathy waved Voracity’s comment off with a thin hand and adjusted his battered smoking jacket. “I provided you and Avarice with thousands of humans. What more do you want?”

Voracity flicked a wing behind him. Avarice took it by the claw and sprang to her feet, tucking her cleave back into her dirty cream-colored dress. She conjured two fishing nets, one in each hand, and snapped at Apathy. “Soliduction is how I fight for The Coalition. I don’t see you acting when action is needed. Get out there and pull your weight.”

“Bahahaha,” I shrieked, pointing at Apathy with my folio. “She’s lecturing you on responsibility.”

The Reaper leaned in close to me while he tugged at his tux. “Avarice is The Coalition’s leader. She must be.”

I nodded and grinned at how well that fit into what I knew of their organization. Avarice could Soliduct any solid object she wanted into existence as long as it wasn’t brimstone, haloxite, magic, or alive. That included gold to use on Earth to buy whatever The Coalition needed. Once they walked away with thousands of weapons, another Soliduction would vanish the gold and create plethoras of something else like ammunition or food. What could Voracity and Apathy do with their white collar powers? Trick people and bore them to death?

Apathy crossed to the middle of the aisle next to Avarice and sneered. “Don’t mistake the ability to rout an enemy once with true victory. Physical combat with The Reaper is stultifying. The AM radio got the broadcast of this fight out so the world could hear it. It did wonders for Joe DiMaggio and the Yankees, and could be made to help The Coalition. So could the cameras the spectators used to photograph the match.”

Yep, Apathy was one of only fourteen beings in the Three Domains with powers, and his had to be the ability to say pointless, obvious crap.

I flipped to the ‘strength’ section of the folio and whipped out a political cartoon of a fifty foot over-muscled ape. “Reap, let’s finish the niff-naff here and unload at the Fountains.”

He rolled his humerus. “I am in a tuxedo, Avaline. We had our chance to destroy Avarice and my choice of garment ruined it. You didn’t see my two clashes with her, but she conjured objects to shield herself from Seversoul’s blows.”

I was about to crank out Blood Magic and suggest Reap use that scythe again when a pair of souls ambled into the lot from the direction of the stadium. Five or six more souls dotted the surging crowd that poured out of every entrance. Most of the humans hurried to their cars, while the rest brawled and attracted event security and police. Three Seraphs swooped from above to watch the fracas now that souls were in the area.

Apathy’s lips twisted. “Consequences, Ms. Vasaga. Your actions within the stadium brought the SPD at a time when you could have finished The Coalition. Let’s go, Voracity.”

With that, the trio unfurled their wings and flapped skyward around the Seraphs and disappeared in the direction of one of the New York hell divides that connected Domains.

The Reaper jabbed the haft of his scythe down and leaned on it as humans filled the lot. “We must wait until these disperse before we can harvest the new souls. Apathy’s talk of radios and cameras fits the current trend we’ve seen with humanity recently.”

I heard more in what he didn’t say than what he did. We wouldn’t kill living humans to get at the souls and their life force. Avarice knew that, and antagonized me into making a mistake that let The Coalition get away with their stolen souls and their lives.

Heaven Law created a balance. 

Fountainians like me and The Reaper worked to build a system that could support all demons and angels, though not in the way they might want or in the way that most helps them.

Avarice and The Coalition used everything from their members’ choices to their very lives as stepping stones so a select few could thrive, while the rest got less than nothing.

They’d be sure to use these things humanity invented against us. All Hell’s magic and all Heaven’s spells would be tested in the coming decades. We could adapt, or The Coalition could exploit weaknesses they found to destroy The Soul Fountains. 

This night didn’t mesh with their usual schtick. 

Why didn’t it?

Case 12 - Ep. 2: The Reaper's Tuxedo

Reaping With Class by Beki Yopek

Friday night at Yankee Stadium usually meant there was enough alcohol going around to drown a small town.

On Friday, June 22nd, 1938, there was at least twice that.

The Reaper grinned at me from beneath the fedora on his black skull. “Prohibition is fresh in the minds of the humans within this stadium, Avaline. In their minds, they deserve an evening like this after being oppressed by the law for longer than they care to remember.”

I patted the Blood Magic folio and haloxite knife in my blazer pockets, then drew a pair of aviators out. “Reap, they won’t even remember this fight night. We just got done harvesting. Why are we hiding in the back rows?”

He pointed to the center of the blazing lights where two men duked it out with gloved fists in a boxing ring. “Even drunk summoners can see us in our usual garb.”

Reap wasn’t wrong. Demon thieves may have followed us from Manhattan. Chances were good that in a city the size of New York, The Coalition would have a few summoners or prayers among the 70,000 strong crowd. Cheers and jeers pierced the eardrums and might have damaged a cochlea if I hadn’t had brimstone horns same as The Reaper did.

I looked him down and up, taking in the solid black tuxedo and fedora he’d swapped out his robes for. “No, I’m saying we don’t have to hide. We already ditched Jack Te-Konos, and I’ll use a little Blood Magic to check for any creeps tailing us. I think we’ve got a little in common with the humans tonight.”

Drawing out my folio, I flipped to the ‘sight’ section and withdrew two magazine pictures. One was a painting of an angel from some bigwig church, and the other was a ridiculous sketch of a demon out of a political cartoon. I took the haloxite knife, slid the point into my finger, and daubed the orange blood that welled up onto both pictures. Then I rolled them up and made sure the blood, picture, and the aviators’ frames were all in contact with each other.

Noise erupted from the well-dressed crowd around the boxing ring and I cranked out the Blood Magic while I waited for it to die down. With the shades on, I glanced skyward and saw half a dozen Seraphs on flight patrol. The left lens highlighted them in sharp violet light. When I peered down, I raised my own right arm and saw it outlined in green through the right lens. A smile quirked the corners of my mouth. The new Demon-Angel aviators worked.

I was about to tell Reap we were safe to watch from the front row when a second shimmering green outline appeared in the D. & A. aviators. A woman in a low-cut, cream colored dress raised her wings and screamed along with the crowd. 

“Dammit,” I cursed, nudging The Reaper with an elbow. “See that woman with the carmel hair?”

He shook his skull.

“Avarice,” I spat. “Figures she’d be here. Humans spend a lot of money on fight nights.” I looked up at the Seraphs again, then back down at Avarice as she applauded one of the boxers falling down. “Are there any souls anywhere?”

The Reaper straightened his tux. “None whatsoever.”

I leapt from the back row bleachers and flapped hard for the front row where Avarice was accepting a beer cup from a portly man in a crisp white suit and hat. Two announcers behind a table nearby shouted into mics about Schmeling landing a punch on Louis. Sweat stink and cigar smoke clogged the air and I squinted at Avarice and Beer Cup Man, who was clearly Voracity with that mullet hanging down the back of his suit. Their light clothes and green outlines fit snugly among the men who must have been summoners in the crowd around them.

Humans might not be able to see or hear us unless they’d summoned or prayed recently, but I wasn’t risking this chance. Not with the plan I had fully formed in my mind. If thousands of humans saw a whole lot of invisible nothings thrashing around between them and the boxers, it would have to be because they were too drunk to see the fight right. 

Voracity shimmered in green as I descended on the ring and landed on the edge beside the turnbuckle. I pointed the haloxite knife with my blood on it straight at Avarice’s forehead. “You stole two thousand souls during our harvest earlier tonight.”

Avarice’s expression flashed with annoyance and she jerked her horns skyward. “You still think you can end The Coalition with violence? In front of the SPD? Heaven Law states there can be no blows delivered between Soul Fountain workers and Coalition members during a harvest.”

I bared my teeth and readied enough Blood Magic for Voracity and Avarice. “Do you see any souls in the crowd?”

Case 12 - Ep. 1: The Reaper's Tuxedo

Reaping With Class by Beki Yopek

“So The Reaper drinks tequila?” Nia asked from behind the bar at The Down South Lounge. She was in her favorite spaghetti strap pink top and yoga pants, a far cry from the blue blazer and slacks she’d worn when I saw her yesterday. Three other bartender demons rushed around the long counter, mixing drinks and pouring drafts for the hundred or so bar-hopping angels and trashed demons Friday nights always brought in. Raucous chatter filled the long room, the air was heavy, and the bouncer Hildariel was letting in rowdier demons than Nia typically allowed.

Reap had to shout over the slurred singing from the digital jukebox at the end of the bar, where a demon in a cheap blue suit and black fedora was arguing with the pair of angels making blatherskites of themselves. “This night does not merit a simple ale.”

I finished my Sin and Tonic and met Nia’s smoky eyes. “He’s still learning modern vernacular. It’s not a beer kind of night.”

Nia tossed a bottle of Lethe Gin to a bartender in a jersey and he swung a bottle of Hallelujah Tequila behind his back at her. She caught it with one hand, pointed a wing at her co-worker, and did a little shimmy. Then she faced The Reaper and poured tequila into the highball glass full of ice in front of him. “I hope you’re not neglecting work. You two helped create every mote I make selling drinks tonight.”

I blew a lock of my crimson hair out of my face. “We worked a double tonight and Jack Te-Konos showed up in Nepal and New York.”

Nia garnished Reap’s drink with lime and haloxite powder. “What happened there?”

“Huge earthquake in Nepal killed thousands of humans, and New York is New York.”

She slid The Reaper’s drink to him and he downed half, then crunched on the ice. Nia refreshed my Sin and Tonic. “The Pneuma Coalition needs to stop messing with my girl. Jack didn’t follow you here, did he?”

I shook my head and pulled a pair of aviators out of my inner blazer pocket. Blood still clung to the frames on each side, along with a folded picture of military-quality infrared goggles. “Been using these to watch for tails on the flight over. Infrared aviators. Jack won’t be a problem tonight.”

The blue-clad demon sat on a barstool closer to The Reaper than anyone had dared since we came in after our shift. Nia asked the bartender in the jersey to serve him, and came back to examine the shades. “You’re always pushing your Blood Magic.”

Reap checked that his scythe was safe on the barstool next to him, then rasped, “Doesn’t using that much blood in your magic make you a lightweight?”

I quirked an eyebrow. “How do you even drink? Alcohol and haloxite powder travel through the bloodstream, and you don’t have veins or arteries.”

He tilted his ram’s horns to the side. “I have a mouth, therefore, I can drink.”

I laughed and said, “Well, at least this means we’ll have the time to recruit another bodyguard. Double shifts are shit, but it frees up more time than we usually have.”

Once I ran out of positives, my mind dwelled on the negatives. Someone broke into The Reaper’s office in Fountainia and stole the last Case Note we’d written. Everything I’d hoped no one would ever learn about me was in that Note. Pride. My ideas. My pain. Had Jack or someone else from The Coalition listened in on us yesterday? I couldn’t exactly investigate either since we’d harvested twice in one day.

Demons and angels didn’t need to sleep thanks to their horns and halos, but that only meant there could always be someone hunting you.

I buried the negatives and the pain with a huge swig of Sin and Tonic. Most of it went down the hatch. When Nia pulled a hanger with a solid black tuxedo from around the door of her back room, I sprayed the rest onto the rainbow of bottles behind the bar. “You’re bringing that out tonight?”

Nia beamed mischievously. “You told me he needed a new wardrobe last Saturday.”

A grin snuck across both lips. “Yes. I did.” Spinning on the barstool, I caught Reap dumping the last of his drink into is ah, mandibles. “You want to attract more bodyguard candidates? Put that on.”

The Reaper set his glass down. If he had eyes, I could tell he’d be rolling them. “We have discussed this before, Avaline. Plain brown robes are practical, expendable, and give me a fearsome appearance.”

Nia sashayed around from behind the bar, drawing demons’ and angels’ leers. She flourished the suit at The Reaper. “You. Tux. Now.”

Voices quieted around us and drinkers stopped talking to listen to The Reaper’s response. “The raiment I wear is sufficient, and I choose it--”

“Try it on, or the next one will be hot pink.”

I stifled a burst of laughter and The Reaper stood to his full seven foot height. “Be careful what you desire, Nia. I’ll play along this time, but remember that you pushed for this.”

With that, The Reaper stripped off his robe to stand naked among a hundred gaping drunks. He seized the tuxedo, whipped the pants off the hanger, and slid into them like he’d done it for centuries. Shirt on, vest buttoned, belt and bow tie secured in a New Purgatory minute. Reap slipped the jacket on and hefted his scythe, then faced Nia with his shadow-black skull tilted down. “It isn’t my color. Too light.”

Shock and absurdity blended like a bad drink recipe in my chest. Nia’s mouth hung wide and her eyes darted among the patrons and bartenders. A good dozen demons had fled the bar while The Reaper dressed, no doubt expecting an angry outburst that would end with them dead and their life force as food for other demons. When nobody spoke, Reap cackled and gestured to himself. “Perhaps there is no one in Hell capable of guarding all this.”

Laughter burst from me and the angels at the pool tables behind The Reaper. Nia’s mouth opened and closed, failing to find any words. I drank some Sin and Tonic to give myself a second, then said, “All he needs now is one glove and a fedora.”

Nia’s flabbergasted face turned into a guilty smile and she pointed behind The Reaper. “Hey Shawn, can we borrow that?”

The demon in the cheap blue suit doffed his chapeau and tossed it like a frisbee to The Reaper. He ringed it on a finger, then placed it between his horns. “What do you think?”

Shawn stammered. “The light color pairs so well with your dark erm, complexion. You’d kill at the clubs downtown.”

Reap’s growl was a dragon’s. “Thank you. Now I have work to do. Speak with Nia later to get your hat back.”

“Y-yessir,” he said, backing away from his barstool and fleeing toward the classic arcade games at the back of the Lounge.

When The Reaper sat back down and twiddled his glass, the crowd dissolved and went about their drinking. The angels kept shooting pool, the bartenders poured more drinks, and Nia ambled back to her spot behind the bar. She shook her head and nodded her halo at Reap. “Ava, warn me next time I’m about to push The Reaper too far.”

“Hey,” I said from behind my glass. “You hugged him yesterday. I thought you two were close enough to know that.”

“You’re a s--you’re so bad.”

“That’s why you love me. And did you almost--”

“Avaline,” The Reaper hissed. “Tuxedos are dangerous. I cannot fight well in one even if it is tailored to my bones. Get out your pen. Do you recall our visit to Yankee Stadium in the late thirties?”

Case 6 - Ep. 3: Mass Produced Soul Destruction

Fallen Fisticuffs by Beki Yopek

When those who enforce the law are away, the villains come out to play.

I pumped my wings hard and swerved low around the bow of the Marie Celeste, whipping a 1922 photograph of an absinthe bottle out of my folio. Salty water splashed into both nostrils from below with each wingflap, and it seeped through my crimson blouse and into my trenchcoat. Sunlight glimmered off the ocean in front of me, so I squinted and flew hard toward the yacht where the potbellied demon was flying among the partying humans and spiking their drinks. Whoever the beer-gutted bastard was, I’d clean his clock so hard I’d knock the stains off his smoking jacket. 

“Avaline, fly back here now,” The Reaper bellowed from somewhere behind me. 

Ignoring my boss, I flew straight for the partiers and pierced my left pointer finger with the haloxite knife I’d drawn seconds earlier. I smeared my orange blood on the photo and kick-started the Blood Magic. We were supposed to be done with the Pneuma Coalition. The Acheria Board’s new tenant should have put a stop to these animals stealing life force from the mote system. I never should have put my faith in Heaven’s politics. 

“Don’t you dare destroy him,” Reap screeched. “We have life force to harvest.”

Yeah, not much. This glutinous freak stole most of it. Flecks of red flared in my vision as I shot over the yacht’s prow and snarled. Defending The Reaper was my job, but the T.V.T. tenant was Heaven Law now, and the actual act of harvesting souls was supposed to be easy as thinking. No way would I let this demon continue with the Pneuma Coalition’s parasitic work. 

I screeched as I barreled toward the drink-spiking demon. He snapped his head around toward me at the noise, but the party-heartiers were in his way. Blood Magic flaring, I swooped between three half-naked women and slapped the absinthe photo right on the demon’s gut. “That’s what you get for stealing from--”

Before I could stab him a good one, I crashed into a man in a boater hat and tumbled horns over heinie into the water. Humans on the yacht screamed while I re-surfaced, sopping wet and missing my folio. The Atlantic must have eaten it when I face-planted into the surf. Spitting, I pumped both wings and shot upward, seeking the chubby thief. 

Reap hovered twenty feet above the yacht, and he tugged the absinthe photo off the demon’s clothing. He was chatting with that demon in mid-air instead of destroying him. People scrambled about on the boat, some slugging it out, others calling for a truce so they could find out what happened. None of them noticed me, Reap, or the thief, and I realized it was my fault they’d gone nuts in the first place. They had no summoners or prayers on board, so of course they hadn’t seen me smack into the boater hat guy. 

I flapped over the edge of the yacht next to The Reaper and dripped water onto the deck. I jabbed the haloxite knife at the thief. “He waited until the volunteer left so he could steal life force with no witnesses. Why’d you let him live?”

The Reaper swiveled to face me and hissed, “Voracity here is not violating any tenants of Heaven Law.”

Raising a balled fist, the thief ranted with the offended brusqueness of a celebrity chef. “You don’t get to screw with a Septuplet. Heaven Law’s behind me now. I can manipulate whatever livestock I want.”

“I saw you stealing that life force,” I snapped, pointing to the glow-less ghosts on board the yacht.

Voracity raised two fingers and a wafer-or was it a tablet?- appeared between them. “I was marinating their cravings. They’re the ones killing themselves. Humans are livestock. Earth is the slaughterhouse, and if a Seraph didn’t see me taking life force, then it never happened.”

I squeezed the knife’s handle and bared my teeth at him. All the Septuplets contained such intense magic in their bodies that they carried one superpower to go with any spells they’d learned from Hell’s or Heaven’s colleges. Voracity’s addiction pills-if that’s what they were-wouldn’t kill a human outright apparently. So we couldn’t report him as violating the T.V.T. tenant, or any Heaven Law. “You’re lucky you’re a Septuplet. Nobody’d miss a random demon that got killed in the thieving process.”

The Reaper’s next words were scalding icicles. “Your employment with me ends here. Get thee back to Hell.”

My mouth hung open and I dropped ten feet before catching myself and flying level with them again. “Excuse me? Get the Chief Seraph over here to arrest the shit out of--”

Voracity buffeted me with a blast of air from both wings. “I will make sure that the Acheria Board ousts The Reaper for this. Avarice will take my side and so will the rest of the Coalition. The next Reaper won’t stand for his bodyguards’ insubordination.” 

My next shout died when the Septuplet pumped his wings and soared away the same direction Jack and Apathy had flown minutes before. I lost him in the shining afternoon sun and peered down at the yacht to blink the spots away. Men and women darted glances in my general direction, avoiding the spot where my soaked trench coat dribbled water on the ship.

The Reaper swiped Seversoul at me and I beat both wings hard to back away. Its sharp two-toned light gashed the air around it. “What was that for?" I bellowed. 

“Voracity used to work alone. Now you have given him a reason to seek our enemies and join them. Avaline, if we kill every demon and Septuplet that resists the mote system, then no one will trust us or the system.”

“You killed Rage during the Great War, not me. Hypocrite's too light of a word to describe you."

"Heaven has asked us to put our faith in their ministrations. The SPD and The V--"

"It's divine dumbassery," I snapped back. "They force their 'justice' on the Three Domains and then get pissed when we enforce it?"

"It was our actions that started this and we are responsible."

"We wouldn't have to bow to Heaven if they busted the Coalition like they should. Jack and Avarice and the others are tougher than ever because of you. What the hell did Rage transform into before you finished him?”

The Reaper pointed a dark hand at me. “The Pneuma Coalition had no leverage over us during World War One. Now they do. You have become reckless. I have to be better, and I cannot do that with you endangering the Soul Fountains.”

Scarlet swam in my vision and I pointed the haloxite knife at The Reaper. “Law doesn’t stop criminals. They’ll steal again as soon as the SPD’s back is turned. Voracity is living proof.”

“Your job was to protect me, and now you use me as an excuse to kill. You don’t think and adapt to what is needed. Those old violent instincts of yours are taking you over again. That makes you as closed-minded as Avarice and the Coalition. When Voracity reports this to Avarice, the Seraphs will hunt you and be justified by Heaven Law. I am glad to be rid of you.”

Case 6 - Ep. 2: Mass Produced Soul Destruction

Fallen Fisticuffs by Beki Yopek

The end of the Great War meant The Pneuma Coalition got smarter. Flooding battlefields with demon thieves might have worked in 1918, but stealing life force form dead human souls in war zones died out when The Reaper formed the Volunteer Guardian Angels. We paid heavenly recruits several motes a week to work with the Seraph Police Department. The VGA watched Earth’s big cities for Septuplets and demon thieves, and reported them to the SPD, who cleaned up in the name of the Soul Fountains. By 1920, we were filling millions more motes with life force than we had ten years ago. We could pay the VGA, the SPD, and still have an abundance of life force for the demon and angel masses.

So the Pneuma Coalition snuck themselves back into prominence during Prohibition in 1922. America’s ban on alcoholic beverages turned the entire yankee population into surly teenagers, doing the opposite of what Uncle Sam said just because he said it. The Reaper and I soared up from a hell divide in Manhattan and swerved out over U.S. territorial waters to where almost a hundred ships, schooners, and sea vessels swarmed with humans. An angel in a dress of wavy gray material flapped in the skies above a single boat with the words, Marie Celeste painted in huge on the side.

We dove for the Marie Celeste, odors of salt and dead fish wafting up from the sloshing ocean surface. The Reaper put his back to the shining sun while he flew and I did the same, so we could actually see the stick-thin brunette angel and her sand-colored wings. She slipped the bodice off of one shoulder to reveal the VGA patch-a golden ring with “Volunteer Guardian Angels” stitched around the rim-sewn into the dress’s underside. “Reaper, sir. I am Lyndsarial, the Manhattan volunteer.”

“Please tell me there’s only one Septuplet down there,” I groaned, double checking my trenchcoat pockets and finding the Blood Magic folio and haloxite knife I usually carried. 

The Reaper hovered closer to Lyndsarial and hissed, “The Pneuma Coalition is using watercraft to steal souls now?”

“Not the way you’re thinking,” the volunteer replied. “A fallen angel and a Septuplet have been in and out of this area. They’re meeting in private with a rum runner.”

I held up both hands. “You mean they’re not killing humans? No demon thieves either?”

Lyndsarial shook her haloed head. “No deaths caused by demons, or Septuplets.”

Reap’s voice was metal on metal. “Demon thieves were recently banned by the Acheria Board. Since I destroyed Rage, every being on the Board forbid hostilities between Septuplets and Soul Fountain representatives.”

The ostentatious courts of the I.R. Conference Chamber in Acheria flashed through my mind. When the Great War ended, The Lucky Seven-the virtues embodied-had ordered a gathering in Acheria to address the Pneuma Coalition’s organized crimes and The Reaper’s slaying of Rage. I still didn’t know what The Reaper had seen Rage change into before he killed him at the Battle Of Amiens in 1918. At least Reap’s new leg surgery in Eden had gone smoothly.

Politics and laws pissed me off, but six of the seven Acheria Board members had agreed on a three-piece Theft And Violence Tenant.

T.V.T. One: No Septuplet or demon could steal life force from a dead soul.

T.V.T. Two: No Soul Fountain representative could harvest souls in a Septuplet’s or a demon’s presence. 

T.V.T. Three: SPD and/or VGA angels could go anywhere, anytime to find and prevent theft and harvesting that could lead to violence between demons, Septuplets, and Soul Fountain representatives.

I looked Lyndsarial down and up, then smiled. “Thanks for interpreting the T.V. Tenants the way you do.”

She beamed at me, all innocent and formal. “The SPD helps the Board however they can. It was the Chief Seraph herself that added the T.V. Tenants to Heaven Law. They make up the thirteenth Tenant now.”

Waving a hand to blow away the political stink, I said, “I meant it’s hilarious how freaking angels twist the law in their favor. You and the SPD literally chase the Pneuma Coalition away whenever we show up.”

Reap raised a finger, like a wise old man without the beard. Or skin. Or hair. “Heaven is helping demons do benevolent work. I can taste the irony.”

“You don’t even have a tongue,” I snarked. 

“Think about that,” Reap rattled, “while Lyndsarial sends the Septuplet away. How many did you spot?”

“One,” she replied. “Let’s board the Marie Celeste and get to work.”

We swooped closer and flapped alongside the Marie Celeste, invisible to the humans on board. No surprise there. Bootleggers praying to angels or summoning demons? They had guns and factories now. Not much need for us.

Lyndsarial boarded first and crossed the decks, then pulled open the boat’s cabin door. Moments later, three figures emerged. A man in a white button-down and a floppy hat carried a case of irish whiskey in both arms. He carried himself like the ship’s captain, and humans on board greeted him with shouts of, “McCoy,” and “Shots for the captain.” 

McCoy's no-thank-you reply ceased to register when I saw who emerged from the cabin next. Apathy came out right behind him, his bald pate and stumpy horns standing out like a satyr at a soiree. 

Apathy’d gotten chubbier since I last saw him during the Battle Of The Somme. He wore slacks with no belt and a plaid shirt that clashed with every fashion that existed both then and now. Jack Te-Konos followed close behind them, his slicked-back hair, ripped blazer and pants clearly designed to make him look like a business angel who'd just won a bar fight. 

Jack’s crimson halo and tar-black wings snapped out to the sides and he shot me and Reap a sneer. “You’re flying into a hurricane, miss Vasaga. No law can stop the Coalition.”

“Good idea,” I snarled. “Talk smack to the woman who wrecked you last time. Why don’t you throw a spell?”

Jack nodded toward Lyndsarial in the cabin, tapped the side of his head next to his eye, then launched off the stern a second later. Apathy ignored us and flapped his grease-gray wings behind Jack, flying into the sunlight after him.

I threw an arm in front of The Reaper’s rib cage. “We can’t look for souls to harvest yet. Those two could lie in wait nearby and ambush us in an area with no souls, Seraphs, or Volunteers.”

Reap cackled. “Do not worry, Avaline. Our exit strategy is better than theirs. Ready your Blood Magic.”

I whipped the knife and folio out of my trenchcoat’s inner pockets just as Lyndsarial emerged. “Apathy was silent, like he always is. You do your job. I’ll see if I can track him and learn his ties to the Coalition.” She waggled two fingers to indicate she’d fly nearby and observe, then leapt into the sky and flew into the glaring afternoon sun.

“She should have brought more angels,” I said, glancing at a hundred-foot yacht approaching. Over a hundred humans yelled and cheered, guzzling illegal liquor and dancing amidships. A few dozen ghosts already robbed of their life force lingered among them, where a demon darted through the air among the humans. His beer gut jutted out from the waistband of his plus-size slacks, and stains peppered his shirt front and smoking jacket. Two short, thick horns curved up from the top of his head, and his mullet flopped like a tentacle each time he swerved in mid-air to steal the last of the life force from a soul onboard.

Not only was he stealing life force, he was screwing with the humans’ drinks. 

Case 6 - Ep. 1: Mass Produced Soul Destruction

Fallen Fisticuffs by Beki Yopek

Contressa Vexus jammed a flask of Devil knows what into her too-tight jeans, then spread her leathery bat wings and launched off The Reaper’s office balcony. From underneath it, I watched her and her wispy hair flap toward the red, green, and blue traffic rings above the dividing line between North and South Fountainia. She blended with the flight traffic in the hellbound bottom circle and flew through an iridescent hell divide. Once I knew she wasn’t coming back, I swung out from under Reap’s office balcony, gripped the railing, and twisted to land like a gymnast. 

The Reaper emerged and slammed his newly repaired office door the second I touched down. His hood was up, and he squeezed Seversoul’s haft over and over. I checked my Hades watch-2:05pm-and dusted off my pinstriped blazer and grey blouse. "I know it’s Saturday, but was Contressa drinking on the job?"

His grunt was the grinding of an engine. "That flask of hers is a component in Surface Magic similar to your folio. Didn’t you go to Styx Academy Of Sin with her?"

I grunted right back at him. "Phlegethon-U. I double majored. Blood Magic and Assassin Combat programs."

"Oh, right. I must have forgotten. When did you tell me this?"

Crossing my arms, I eyed him the way Nia eyed me when I’d brain farted. "Job interview, 1880, after the Acheria Conference. Your brother Death interviewed me late in the day and you and I started work right away. Well, among other things. Nia was there. How could you forget her?"

Reap chuckled the way dry leaves scraped together. "Pardon my absentmindedness. Prudence’s fall means you and Contressa will be working four hours of overtime a day."

"Until we find a new bodyguard. How about we ask Nia to hook us up? Or maybe Hildariel could jump in as a temp."

"Nia’s bouncer?"

"That’s right. I used to spar with Hildariel when she visited Phlegethon-U."

"Can she handle hundreds of demon thieves at once?"

"She’s a go-for-the-kill type. I admit she’ll bide her time in a fight, but that’s just because she doesn’t grapple or strike unless it’s a finishing blow."

"And her magic?"

I glanced around to make sure none of the banker angels from the Soul Fountains below were flying up toward us. Then I leaned in and breathed, "Brimstone Chemistry. She loves her weapons, and she has connections on the Vice Market."

The Reaper harrumphed. "So she spends motes on weaponry and makes them explode?"

"It sounds so insignificant when you put it that way," I said, mimicking his voice. " 'Oh, Hildariel only blows demons up. When I interview her, will her job history be all splodey splode splode?' "

Reap’s cackles filled the air, echoing off the Motery Center and the dozen skyscrapers and pyramids in the near distance. "As long as she doesn’t use firearms, I would be content to interview her. Perhaps we should visit the Down South Lounge again soon?"

"For the interview or a stiff drink?"

"Both sound appealing. Now let us begin writing. We will be too fed up to care about it after our shift, so now is the time." 

Reap opened the door for me and I strode in. I dug new folders, paper, and pens out of the file cabinets along the walls, then took a seat across from his glass-topped desk. He placed Seversoul on the desktop, then sat in his carved-out chair and spun it so he could gaze at the Soul Fountains below us. Bone scraped bone as he rubbed his hand back and forth along his forehead. 

I breathed deep and thanked whatever lucky things I had that he hadn’t asked why Hildariel and I stopped sparring. I had a new partner now, and I chased thoughts of him out of my mind by asking, "Have you ever thought of updating your wardrobe?"

The Reaper shrugged and plucked at his hood. "What’s wrong with my robes?"

"A handsome, professional look with the right dress clothes attracts potential employees."

"But if one robe gets destroyed, I can acquire another from home."

"I can ask Nia to pick out a few classier outfits that would fit you."

"I’ve got three dozen robes at the Vault Cabins in the Sixth Circle."

"We’d have to go the big-and-tall route," I said, sizing him up.

"We are both of us digressing."

"But this is for the Soul Fountains, Reap. That getup screams medieval wrestler monk."

"It makes me more frightening. A thick, flowing robe announces my presence and sparks fear."

I tilted my head at him. "Until a demon thief grabs it and drags you around."

The Reaper seemed to realize he wasn't going to win this one. "Ready your pen, Avaline. It was well after World War One and we had just finished building the Volunteer Guardian Angels." I grinned at his silent surrender as he continued. "While they patrolled big cities and battlefields to report on Pneuma Coalition activity, you and I were visiting Rum Row in New York for news on their newest recruit."

Oh great. Prohibition. That era wrecked demonkind almost as badly as the Industrial Revolution. Not to mention The Reaper fired me that day.