Page 4 of Definitely Dead

No one could force a soul to accept their fate. With only a few strict exceptions, not even Hades could drag an unwilling spirit across the river to face judgment.

Enter Orrin. As the Guardian of Lost Souls, it was his duty to convince them to face the unknown—a tiresome, thankless job that he still found rewarding for reasons Tyr couldn’t possibly comprehend.

Most souls didn’t want to talk, especially not about the events that had brought them to the village. They wanted answers. More accurately, they wanted a solution to a problem that didn’t exist. As if they could change their fate with a phone call and some paperwork.

Those willing to talk, however, were usually willing to listen, meaning a higher potential for success.

“Young. A little arrogant.” The bench groaned when he leaned against the tall back. “He seems pretty unbothered about being dead, to be honest.”

Orrin hummed quizzically. “I wonder why he stayed.”

Every resident in the village had their motives, and Tyr had stopped speculating long ago. Some simply couldn’t accept their own death. Others feared judgment. A few wanted to move on, but they waited for loved ones to join them before taking the final leap.

He kind of felt sorry for the last group. While they waited for millennia in the Underworld, only scant years passed topside.

“Hello, Tyr.” The owner of the shabby diner appeared at the end of the table, an amiable smile stretching his thin lips. “Can I get you anything?”

Cian, the first resident, a guy so old he didn’t even have a last name. With his soft features and halo of sandy-brown curls, the guy looked pretty good for someone rumored to be as old as death itself.

While he didn’t say much, when he did speak, it was always with kindness. His welcoming personality drew people to him, making his little corner of the village a natural gathering place.

Tyr held up his cracked mug and dipped his head. “I’m good for now.”

“Just let me know.” His soft-spoken tone carried the hint of an accent Tyr had never heard in the mortal world, likely from a dead language that had been lost long ago.

“Will do. Thanks, Cian.”

“You like him,” Orrin said once the shopkeeper disappeared back behind the slanted bar at the front of the room.

He probably didn’t mean it as an accusation, but Tyr decided to take it as one anyway. “Everyone likes Cian.”

“You’re not everyone.”

“He’s a nice guy.” In fact, he was so damn agreeable that even accidental rudeness toward him felt like kicking a puppy.

The screech of unoiled hinges announced the arrival of another patron. And he didn’t have to look up to know who had entered the diner. The timing couldn’t have been more accurate if he had planned it.

“Is that him?” Orrin asked.

Aster didn’t skulk into the room with his head down like most new souls. He strutted across the threshold, chin jutted, and shoulders back like he had something to prove.

Tyr choked back a sigh. “That’s him.”

“He’s coming this way.” A quiet chuckle rolled from the elf’s lips. “I think you have an admirer.”

More like a parasite. And his cue to get the hell out of there.

Draining the last of his coffee, he placed the cup gently on the table, careful not to damage it further, and slid out of the booth so he stood waiting when Aster approached.

“Sit.” He pointed to his vacated seat. “Listen. Don’t be a dick. Got it?”

Aster’s gaze darted between him and Orrin, a frown tugging at his mouth. “You’re not staying?”

“No.”

“But—”

“Sit,” he repeated, adding a touch of warning in the form of a low growl.

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