Chapter 18

"Put me down, Michael!" she screeched with all the energy she had left in her body. She banged against his back, unable to squirm free.

"The fuck I will, Ms. Tucci! You said you'd help me, but you lied just like everyone else did all my damn life. I figure you owe me, and I'm gonna collect!"

Collect what? She could barely think straight, let alone figure out what he wanted to collect. She hit him in the back with her fists, kicking her legs, trying to get him to release her as he plodded along the exterior edge of the light, still bright and swirling with color.

This was how you got to Hell? By way of the light? What kind of twisted logic was that?

With the last burst of energy she had left in her, Ralph twisted in his grip, pushing off his lower back and grabbing a handful of skin at his waist, squeezing until she heard his scream.

"Ow!" he yelped, tripping on his feet and dropping her to the ground.

As Ralph scrambled to get up, she tripped, too, sliding and stumbling.

Man, the light's floor was slippery! Whoever mopped it was doing their job. Two thumbs up.

She'd only gotten a few feet before Michael was grabbing at her ankles, dragging her toward him, clawing her calves, digging into the skin.

"Get back here!"

She kicked at his hands, the effort nearly making her pass out. But Michael hauled her back anyway, pulling her across the slick surface until he was on top of her once more.

Gutted physically, Ralph pushed futilely against his thin chest as he held her tight. "Let me go, Michael!"

But he shook his head, his greasy hair, drenched in perspiration, hanging in her face again. "Not until my friend gets here," he said through clenched teeth, sweat beading his brow. "He's coming!"

Okay, so he'd killed her, and that was really bad, but now he looked as though he was in physical pain. He looked as bad as she felt, and even in her fear Ralph saw his agony…and she hated it.

What had happened that he despised her so?

Gripping his arms, she begged, "Tell me what's wrong with you, Michael? What's happening?"

His chest rose and fell, harsh, choppy breaths escaping his lips. "Withdrawal, you dumb bitch! I'm in withdrawal. I haven't transitioned all the way yet. I'm stuck just like you. That's why I need you. Not only are you gonna give me your power, you're gonna take my place in Hell."

Of course it was drugs. That she hadn't realized only spoke to her state of mind, but how could she give him her power? It made no sense. Did it automatically default to him in she ended up dumped in Hell? Or was someone going to steal it from her and give it to him?

"Michael, please, please let me help."

He gave her a hard, jerky shake. "What the fuck do you care, anyway? You don't care! You're just trying to save your skin. Shut up! Just shut up and stay still!"

But rather than yell at him again, Ralph decided upon a softer approach as he lay on top of her, anchoring her to the ground by squeezing her thighs with his legs, which, despite his scrawny appearance, were quite strong.

Bracketing his face with her hands, she searched his eyes, brushed his hair from his face with gentle, shaky fingers. "Michael, how did this happen? How did you get here?"

He grabbed her by the front of her shirt, hauling her upward so fast she thought her back would break. "You! You did this to me! You killed me!"

Well, wait one ding-dang second. The nerve of this little shit. Who'd killed whom? And to think she'd been so distraught over fighting back and killing him in self-defense.

But it would do her no good to get angry about that now.

So again, she chose a gentle approach, one she might have taken with one of her students when she knew they were wrong but wanted a confession, rather than give them a browbeating.

"But you killed me first, Michael," she huffed, her breathing labored as she held his face. "Why did you do this to me? To us? You were young, you had so much to live for…"

He yanked his face away from her touch with an angry cry. "I told you why that night, Ms. Tucci. I told you!"

Ralph frowned, still unable to remember a single thing about that night. "Tell me again, Michael," she encouraged, forcing her voice to stay calm, soft. "I can't remember what happened. Please, tell me again."

His grip loosened ever so slightly when he said, "You really don't remember me, do you? You made a promise to me when I was six years old. You promised if I ever needed you, you'd help me. But you lied. You lied just like everyone else!"

Ralph's mind raced with his words, when I was six years old… Had he been her student? "Were you a…a student of mine?"

"Now she remembers," he hissed in her face, his eyes bulging in mock astonishment. "Yes, Ms. Tucci. I used to be Michael Stevens, until my mother married that asshole of a boyfriend and made me change my name. The fuck who beat me every day of my goddamn life. You saw the bruises. You told me I could come to you for help!"

The memory of Michael's recollections smashed into her head.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

She scrunched her eyes shut to block out the memory of that small boy with bruises on his arms and legs, refusing to tell her what had happened to him.

She knew his home life wasn't a happy one. She knew that dark-haired little boy had suffered at the hands of one negligent parent or the other. His mother hardly, if ever, showed up for parent-teacher conferences or their class play or almost anything. No one did, and it hurt her heart to remember.

He'd sobbed that day when Ralph had approached him, raw and broken, shaking and frightened as he'd told her nothing had happened. Michael claimed he fell…and without anything other than her concerns, no one would look into it.

But she'd known then someone was abusing him, and it had once kept her up at night. Then he'd quite suddenly moved away without a forwarding address, and she'd lost track of him.

This was the sweet, small boy who'd sat next to her after story time, crying as she bucked all the rules and held him in her arms? He'd turned into this monster?

Ralph's head had begun to throb, almost harder than her heart, and she felt weaker by the minute. "I did promise, Michael. I still want to help you. Let me help you now. Please…"

He clenched his fists as he grabbed up more of her shirt and shook her like a rag doll. "You want to help me now? Now? You didn't give a shit about helping me that night! Why do you care now?"

She couldn't wrap her head around how she could've helped him the night he'd murdered her. "Michael, what did you want that night? How could I have helped you?"

Michael lifted his face, letting his head fall back on his shoulders as though he were in agony when he wailed, "I needed money! I needed it bad, but you wouldn't give it to me."

How random did it get? How had he decided he'd rob her, of all people, after all these years? How had they crossed paths after all this time?

Frowning, she kept her tone gentle and calm. "Talk to me, Michael. I don't understand why after all these years, you sought me out for money?"

He scoffed in her face, spittle forming in the corners of his mouth. "Call it fucking luck. Call it karma, call it whatever the fuck you want, but your promise stuck with me. I saw one of the flyers for your store with your picture on it, and I remembered you. They were hanging all over the place, and I thought, Ms. Tucci will help me. Pretty Ms. Tucci. The teacher who a long time ago promised to help me if I just told her what was wrong—where I got all those fucking bruises. So I paid you a little visit. But you didn't help me at all!"

In his drug-addled brain, he'd somehow translated a promise made years ago to her giving him money for drugs…

She felt herself beginning to fade, his voice becoming muted, but she couldn't afford to black out now, not when someone was coming to take her off to Hell.

Blinking, Ralph tried to focus on his insane rant, keep herself aware, at least try and fight back. "But I didn't help you? Why didn't I help you, Michael?"

His face went ugly, distorted. "You said you weren't going to let me get high with the money. Sure, you offered to help, but it sure as fuck wasn't the help I needed. You wouldn't give me the money in the cash register!"

Like a bad dream, that night suddenly came into view—crystal clear, crashing into her head with the clarity of a television screen.

She'd been unpacking some boxes of inventory when the bell on her shop door rang. One of those boxes held Nina's velvet painting of Elvis. She'd been looking at it when she heard the bell.

Michael had been almost hysterical when he'd burst through the door of her shop, pacing, crying, desperate and sweaty, clearly on some kind of drugs. He'd ordered her to open the cash register, to give him all her cash. He'd ranted that she'd once promised to help him, and he was going to force her to make good on that promise.

Ralph hadn't recognized him as he babbled, his words about some promise she'd allegedly made scrambled and unclear. But she had recognized he was completely wasted and in need of another fix. She'd begged him to let her call someone, but he'd become so agitated, he'd pulled a gun from his jacket and started waving it around.

Now that she remembered, Ralph would never again forget what she'd done next.

The utility knife still in her hand, she'd told him there was nothing in the cash register, but he'd flat-out refused to believe her.

He'd come at her like a raging bull, the gun aimed right at her. They'd fought, scuffled, and she'd reacted, trying to keep the gun away from her, slashing at him to keep him at bay, begging him to stop—and then he'd pulled the trigger.

Ralph groaned at the memory of the hot burst of pain in her chest, at the crack of her head against the hard floor when she fell.

Swallowing, Ralph looked into his eyes, glazed, hot with anguish and fury. "Look at me, Michael. I didn't remember you that night. I'm sorry I didn't remember you, but you're a fully grown man now. Please, let's stop this, and I'll help you now."

"Noooo!" he bellowed in her face. "Fuck no! It's too late! I didn't mean to shoot you, Ms. Tucci. I swear, it was an accident. But now he's coming, and he promised if I gave you to him to take to Hell, he'd give me my fix. Said he'd give me all the fixes. The best fix ever, and I'm not gonna let you fuck that up again!"

She strained to look around to see if anyone had arrived to do this dirty deed Michale spoke of, but there was no one. Nothing but the glow of the inside of the light.

"Who is coming?" she asked, her terror rising like high tide.

"Me!" a disembodied voice roared. "I'm coming!"

"I told you he'd come," Michael said, his words rife with sarcasm.

Out of a shimmering hole in the light, a form appeared.

A form with horns.

And a tail.

Did she say horns?

And a tail?

* * *

"Are you fucking kidding me? Glow Stick wasn't supposed to be a ghost at all? She was supposed to go straight to psychopomp, do not pass fucking go? She really was an accident?"

George nodded, her glossy hair shining under Nina's kitchen lights. "That's right. When Ralph was dying, she touched that painting of Elvis you love so much, which was on the floor of her shop. Your supernatural-fu is strong, Vampire Lady. Like, you crossed realms and planes with your charms. Somehow, some heavenly signals were crossed, and when this kid Michael showed up, guess who approached him and made him promises they'll never keep?"

"A demon," Darnell spat, clenching his big fists. "Bastards, every last one of 'em!"

George nodded, her eyes narrowing. "Yep. Because she never made it to the afterlife, Ralph defaulted to ghost, but her psychopomp is as strong as your charms, and her true nature couldn't stay hidden in the shadows for long—even if she wasn't flying the plane with both engines, she still managed to go full throttle. She met her calling head on. But that's the reason she grew so weak after crossing someone. Not for any of the reasons we thought, but because Ralph's stuck between two planes. Earth and the afterlife. It's dimmed her power as a psychopomp."

Dex nodded. "Ralph's weak after a crossing because she's not fully transitioned, but it has nothing to do with Michael. Though I'm sure the demon who made promises to him wants him to believe that'll be his reward—that and eternal life. I'm sure the demon explained in great detail all the perks of being a psychopomp. In reality, the demon merely needs Michael to get hold of Ralph so he can drag her to Hell and steal her powers for himself. He'll discard Michael somewhere in Hell like so much trash when he's done with him. But Ralph is the ultimate prize."

"So this demon…" Shamus said, clenching his jaw to keep from punching a wall. "He made a bullshit deal with this kid Michael to give him all of Ralph's powers, which would allow him earthly privileges if he'd help him nab Ralph? Because dragging a psychopomp to Hell is a major score."

"Exactly," Dex said. "So this kid's sprit has been roaming around aimlessly while he looked for Ralph, with the promise of eternal life when he handed her over. The demon can't give him Ralph's powers, Shamus. That's a complete lie, but he's just a kid who doesn't know any better. A meth-addicted kid who needs a fix, and will continue to need a fix because the demon's kept him in a state of flux, and he'll believe anything if the end goal is more meth."

Fuck. Fuck and more fuck.

Yanking his hat off, Shamus ran his hands through his hair, his chest tight with worry, his mind racing. "So what the hell do we do?"

George put her hand on Shamus's arm, giving it a squeeze. "We're going to go get her. Someone up there's trying to locate Titus with a 9-1-1, but Dex and I think we can handle this if he doesn't show."

Shamus's eyes searched hers. "How? How do you even know where she is? One minute we were getting up to come see you two, the next, she was gone."

George snapped her fingers, making wings appear out of nowhere. Magnificent, glorious, almost painfully beautiful wings.

My God, the afterlife was indescribable.

She pointed to her wings as they almost hummed, like a butterfly resting on a flower. Their opalescent feathers shimmering. "My wings will help locate her. Don't worry about that part. We think we can find her. But we also have a plan."

Marty and Wanda had remained silent for most of their conversation, holding each other's hands, their expressions fierce. "Tell us what you need. We're all in," Wanda assured, to the tune of Marty's head nodding firmly.

"Whatever the fuck it is, you know I'm in, Wings. Hit me with what you need me to do."

Dex smiled. "As if there was ever any doubt."

Nina grinned at him, wrapping her arm around his neck and ruffling his hair with her knuckles.

"So what's next?" Marty asked, rolling up the sleeves of her bulky sweater, her eyes that of a warrior.

George winked. "First, we need Darnell to find out who the demon is, making all these false promises to Michael. And then we need the big guy to plug up a hole. You up for that, my friend?"

Darnell grinned. "Nothin' would make me happier."

As they quickly hashed out Darnell's next move, Shamus noticed he wasn't included in rescuing Ralph. "What about me? I'm not just going to wait here while you guys do all the dirty work."

"What the fuck are you gonna do? Stab 'em with your pointy ears? Shoot 'em with your gamma ray gun?" Nina quipped.

Wanda pressed her fingers against Nina's mouth with a frown. "Can it, Vampire, and use those listening ears for good."

No, he didn't have super-strength or speed. He couldn't disappear, not without ending up halfway across the continent (phew, had that been wild), but he'd come to accept that years ago. As a paranormal, his skills were limited—but no way was he staying here and waiting this out.

He held up a hand. "It's okay, Wanda. I'm used to it, and I came to a place of acceptance long ago. No harm, no foul. But I'm still not staying here while you guys do all the work."

Dex slapped him on the back. "Then gather 'round, kiddies, and let's get the show on the road."

Shamus listened intently at how they'd approach getting to Ralph, the entire time his heart pounding, his throat tightening.

He wanted her to have the afterlife she so richly deserved for being the amazing human being she was, and he really wanted to be a part of that life.

He really did.