Page 37 of Hot Ghoul Summer

Chapter Ten: A Reaper’s Work

is Never Done

“HELLO? HELLO, I’D LIKE to leave a message for Shop Steward, RMGA Local 17. I need an Emergency Intervention Permission for Mortals for a soul that belongs to Local 49 of the DHR.”

The voice on the other end of the line is loud and crisp. Probably a guardian angel on desk duty. “Is this Toby from Local 17? You just filled out an ECNUR on a soul from RMGA Local 17 and... yes, it’s been approved. You know these things can take three to five mortal days. Reapers are so impatient,” the voice sighs.

“No. That was for Nicky Cross. This is for Theo Cross. Same family. Same target. I need an intervention to scare him off of this girl.” So I don’t have to kill him. “This calls for the big guns. Hellhounds, Guardian Angels, a full staff of Reapers.”

“Hellhounds? That would require an interagency cooperation mediation. Is this woman a dignitary? Politician?”

For a moment, we chuckle. There have been very few politicians coming up our way lately, and even fewer who would make different unions cooperate. (We can get very territorial.)

“She’s a nurse. A beautiful, young, innocent woman. She doesn’t deserve what Theo Cross and his gang will do to her.”

“God, no. Okay. Uh... I mean... We can try, but you know these take time.”

“How much time? I have three weeks according to her scroll.”

“Is this the Martina girl from the ECNUR incident? She’s not a client of Local 17! You looked at her scroll?”

“Look, don’t hang me for nicking a biscuit when I was taking the whole barrel!” I spit.

There’s silence. “I don’t see any biscuit references.”

“Angels have a stunted sense of humor,” I mutter.

“I don’t know how much time. It could take a few weeks.”

“This is urgent!”

“All mortals think their lives are urgent!”

I can’t make this bloke understand that to me, Molly’s life really is urgent. I pace. Musketeer, now in his smaller housebroken form, trots after me, hoping for treats.

“Did you fill in the paperwork for an interagency cooperation mediation?”

“No, but I submitted the EIPM. Just a few moments ago. I wanted to talk to my shop steward though, push the paperwork along.”

“I see.”

I can tell that Wing Boy doesn’t like how I’m working the system, but I will say that angels try very hard, much harder than us Reapers, to abide by mercy and kindness as much as the rules.

“Let me pull up—now, wait a moment. We’ve got two EIPMs here, one for a Gary Garmin and one for a Theodore Cross. You’ve marked both as urgent.”

“They are both urgent.”

“Garmin isn’t even assigned to DHR 49! That’s going to be another ICM form.”

My pacing turns to pummeling. I’m in the basement of the beach house, which looks a lot like a rec room or man cave (at least when I’m here). Big television. Speakers. Pinball machines. There’s a punching bag in the corner that I attack as the flames start to tickle under my skin.

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