Secrets of the Hanged Man (Icarus Fell #3) (An Icarus Fell Novel) by Bruce Blake
Authors: Bruce Blake
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between my knees, the cap on, the seal unbroken. No matter how long and hard I stared at it, my situation remained unchanged.
And my guardian angel remains in Hell.
Beating myself up wouldn’t bring Poe back or ease my guilt, I knew that. Nothing would, except possibly the alcohol sitting on the floor between my legs, and that only for a short time. I stared at the blue plastic wrapping covering the cap to ensure no psychos slipped poison into the world’s best-tasting vodka, watched the v-shaped flock of tiny geese to see if their wings might flap, carrying them off the label to head south for the rest of winter. If they did, it might be enough miracle for me to believe things would be normal again someday.
But enough to believe I didn’t make one of the biggest mistakes of a life filled with monster fuck-ups?
I raised my eyes and looked across the motel room at Dallas—sorry, Dido—asleep on the bed and I shook my head, as surprised as anyone to find out a disembodied soul needed sleep. But she did, and she was. She lay on her side, one hand under the pillow, her shoulder rising and falling with her breath, and it struck me how she looked smaller, younger than earlier in the day. A trick of the light.
What do I do with her?
This whole death thing had proven difficult enough without baby sitting, too. After the trouble I had taking care of myself, how could I manage her as well? Most of the time, I had a guardian angel to ensure I didn’t do anything too stupid, and that never seemed to help.
Stop thinking about guardian angels.
I absently stroked the side of the bottle, my fingertips caressing the smooth, cool glass as my brain whirled through eight-year-old girl spirit possibilities.
1. Leave her where she died to scare the next people who buy Trounce house.
2. Ditch her. Where? Anywhere.
3. Pawn her off on Gabe or Mikey. Yeah, that’s going to happen.
4. Hang on to her and make sure she’s okay until I figure out how to get her to Heaven.
She shifted, sighed a sleepy sigh, then settled. None of the options struck me as the right one. I couldn’t see how to keep her with me, but couldn’t imagine abandoning her to an afterlife alone. Since it happened sort of that way for me, I didn’t wish it on anyone else. Am I getting soft in my old age?
No...lonely.
My bladder interrupted my contemplation of baby sitting and the condemnation of guardian angels with an urgent request.
“ I’ll be right back,” I said to my vodka. None of the geese honked in response.
I climbed to my feet and found a knot in my calf insistent that I hobble a few steps before stooping to give it a rub. Fuck, it hurt. I rolled up my pants leg and found no wound, no bruise, no welt, just the usual hair, and flesh in need of sun.
Weird.
The pain resided in the exact spot where a creature bit a chunk out of me in payment for entering Hell. Some people get cramps, I get bitten-by-a-denizen-of-Hell pains. Happens to everyone, right?
I flexed my ankle a few times and worked the pain out enough to get to the washroom with a minimum of limping. While a hitch in my giddy-up seemed a cool conversation starter, my current profession harvesting souls sometimes required I beat hasty retreats from some pretty mean nasties; having to do it like a man with one leg shorter than the other might be a definite disadvantage. I made a mental note to ask Gabe about it the next time she visited.
I shuffled to the loo and had my fly unzipped before I remembered the necessity of closing the washroom door. Years on the street and living alone broke me of the habit and, in my afterlife, I’d enjoyed the freedom of leaving the door open. Guess I’d have to resume the habit if Fido Dido was going to hang around.
I went back and closed the door then, because I was one of those well-to-do gentlemen able to afford to pay monthly at a motel where the cleaning staff dropped in once a week, I stepped over a heap of used towels on my way to the toilet.
And my guardian angel remains in Hell.
Beating myself up wouldn’t bring Poe back or ease my guilt, I knew that. Nothing would, except possibly the alcohol sitting on the floor between my legs, and that only for a short time. I stared at the blue plastic wrapping covering the cap to ensure no psychos slipped poison into the world’s best-tasting vodka, watched the v-shaped flock of tiny geese to see if their wings might flap, carrying them off the label to head south for the rest of winter. If they did, it might be enough miracle for me to believe things would be normal again someday.
But enough to believe I didn’t make one of the biggest mistakes of a life filled with monster fuck-ups?
I raised my eyes and looked across the motel room at Dallas—sorry, Dido—asleep on the bed and I shook my head, as surprised as anyone to find out a disembodied soul needed sleep. But she did, and she was. She lay on her side, one hand under the pillow, her shoulder rising and falling with her breath, and it struck me how she looked smaller, younger than earlier in the day. A trick of the light.
What do I do with her?
This whole death thing had proven difficult enough without baby sitting, too. After the trouble I had taking care of myself, how could I manage her as well? Most of the time, I had a guardian angel to ensure I didn’t do anything too stupid, and that never seemed to help.
Stop thinking about guardian angels.
I absently stroked the side of the bottle, my fingertips caressing the smooth, cool glass as my brain whirled through eight-year-old girl spirit possibilities.
1. Leave her where she died to scare the next people who buy Trounce house.
2. Ditch her. Where? Anywhere.
3. Pawn her off on Gabe or Mikey. Yeah, that’s going to happen.
4. Hang on to her and make sure she’s okay until I figure out how to get her to Heaven.
She shifted, sighed a sleepy sigh, then settled. None of the options struck me as the right one. I couldn’t see how to keep her with me, but couldn’t imagine abandoning her to an afterlife alone. Since it happened sort of that way for me, I didn’t wish it on anyone else. Am I getting soft in my old age?
No...lonely.
My bladder interrupted my contemplation of baby sitting and the condemnation of guardian angels with an urgent request.
“ I’ll be right back,” I said to my vodka. None of the geese honked in response.
I climbed to my feet and found a knot in my calf insistent that I hobble a few steps before stooping to give it a rub. Fuck, it hurt. I rolled up my pants leg and found no wound, no bruise, no welt, just the usual hair, and flesh in need of sun.
Weird.
The pain resided in the exact spot where a creature bit a chunk out of me in payment for entering Hell. Some people get cramps, I get bitten-by-a-denizen-of-Hell pains. Happens to everyone, right?
I flexed my ankle a few times and worked the pain out enough to get to the washroom with a minimum of limping. While a hitch in my giddy-up seemed a cool conversation starter, my current profession harvesting souls sometimes required I beat hasty retreats from some pretty mean nasties; having to do it like a man with one leg shorter than the other might be a definite disadvantage. I made a mental note to ask Gabe about it the next time she visited.
I shuffled to the loo and had my fly unzipped before I remembered the necessity of closing the washroom door. Years on the street and living alone broke me of the habit and, in my afterlife, I’d enjoyed the freedom of leaving the door open. Guess I’d have to resume the habit if Fido Dido was going to hang around.
I went back and closed the door then, because I was one of those well-to-do gentlemen able to afford to pay monthly at a motel where the cleaning staff dropped in once a week, I stepped over a heap of used towels on my way to the toilet.
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