Vicki Pettersson - The Taken

The first book in the Celestial Blues series, 2012

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Heres the thing. Every two-bit Tom and Dick on this glorified mudflat thought prostitution was legal in Las Vegas, but thats never been true.

Least, not when Grif was alive.

Maybe times had changed-plenty on the Surface had-but it was more likely that the johns were too lazy to trek out to Nye County for a sampling from the legal sexual menu. No, there was too much premeditation in that. But score a lay in some trucker-heavy roach-motel, and a man could tell himself he was the victim of impulse. Caught up in the moment. Just a little ol fly snared in Sin Citys glinting web.

Grif knew different. People created chaos, not places, and they were damned good at it no matter where they lived. And when this glittering gem of a city teamed up with the worlds oldest profession, fantasy piled atop fantasy; it could convince anyone that impulse was a virtue, not a vice.

Just one roll of the dice, he thought, checking the number on the warped motel door against the entry in his notebook. Just one sip, make sure to tip. Play hard, enjoy the ride, and be certain to take your secrets with you when you leave.

Nicole Rockwells last john, however, had taken a bit more.

Help me! she was yelling as Grif came through the door. Impressive, since she was missing her larynx. Theres been a terrible crime!

Cant argue that, Grif thought, gaze skimming the hem of her cheap vinyl skirt. You Nicole Elizabeth Rockwell?

Wh-what? She looked from Grif to the fresh corpse on the bed-her own-then back again. Yes.

Right. He shut his notebook, returning it to his suit pocket. Come with me.

Rockwell took one good look at his quasi-transparent form and promptly collapsed on the bed. Wh-who are you?

Griffin Shaw. Im here to help. He hesitated, then jerked his head at her remains. Sorry I couldnt get here sooner.

Her expression, blasted and constricted all at once, made his jaw twitch, but he shrugged it off. Guardian wasnt his beat. As a Centurion, he merely assisted the recently, and violently, deceased into the Everlast. Those whod been clipped early often had trouble getting there on their own. As Grif well knew.

He explained all of this to Nicole quickly, flatly, hoping it would keep the hysterics to a minimum. Given half a chance, females were always either jawing or at the waterworks. Dead or alive.

But I cant just leave, she protested when he was finished. Im going to a bonfire this weekend, the first one of the spring. And my best friend is waiting outside. Were gonna chill downtown at the Beauty Bar tonight. Unwind a bit, ya know? She glanced down at Grifs proffered cigarette. A calming tactic. Oh thanks, honey.

Something stirred Grif as he bent down and lit her smoke. Probably the shake in her voice, though she talked like a lady, too. Not like most of the rabble hed been picking up this decade. He snapped the Zippo shut. Look, Im sorry to be the one to tell you, kid. But youve been rooked.

What?

You know, you got the dust-off. Killed. Murdered. Clipped. Its a rough deal, but youve had some good times, right? Some wild rides? He gave a little hip thrust to illuminate the point.

Im not a hooker, she said evenly.

He let his eyes roam around the sex flop. Course youre not.

Blowing out a stream of smoke, Nicole returned his flat stare. So where exactly is this Everlast?

Now youre choosy? Grif muttered, glancing at his watch. He wouldve turned away, but the walls were mirrored and their reflections overlapped, her horrified heat wrapped over his impassive ice. Sighing heavily, he motioned her to the door.

Nicole didnt move. What if I wanna do it all over?

What over? he mumbled, lighting his own stick.

You know. Life. Earth. Humanity. Come back until I get it right.

Relax, sweetheart. Mattress time dont count against you.

That got her back on her feet. I told you! Im not a hooker! Im a photographer-

Wheres your camera?

Well, its not here, but I have this notebook- She pointed at the dresser bearing a crappy twenty-inch television and a Moleskine identical to his. Except for the blood splatter.

Sure, he said. A photographers best friend.

The fight drained from Rockwell then, and she slumped where she stood, falling so still the only sound in the room was the soft drip, drip of her arterial blood as it fell from the bed to the floor. But Im not done here.

Just take my hand, kid. Itll be all right.

She looked at him dubiously. Grif frowned. Sure, his suit was rumpled, but it was clean enough, and his pomade had held at his time of death, though it was hidden beneath the brim of his fedora. A little ginger stubble had sprouted-hed been offed after five-but if his eyes were hard, they were also clear. All in all, not too bad for fifty years dead.

Yet Rockwell remained unconvinced. How do I know youre not tricking me? You could latch on and suck my soul down to hell, like in that movie.

You mean Ghost, right? A couple of the younger Centurions had explained about that. Some sleeper flick that hit it big a couple decades ago. Now he had to explain himself to every corpse that walked his way. Look, Im not a demon, and Im no ghost. Im a gentleman.

Nicole blinked.

Lots of firsts for you today, eh, Ms. Rockwell?

Eyes narrowed, she crossed her arms. Piss off, Shaw. Im not going anywhere with you.

Grif fought not to grind his teeth. Hed get hell from Sarge if she took it in her mind to hang out here and haunt the place. And hed be damned-figuratively speaking, of course-if he was going to let her sully his perfect Take record. Besides, shed been dead all of five minutes. She didnt yet know what was good for her.

Grinding his cigarette beneath his heel, Grif said, What are you going to do, honey? Throw down the mnage in this joint for the rest of eternity? Though I guess it does beat sizzling.

Sizzling?

One wrong turn outta here, and He made a sound, trout frying in a pan. It was a rotten trick but it worked.

Nicole shuddered in her demi-cups, then stood and slowly glanced around. So, thats it, huh? Twenty-six years of-

Twenty-nine, Grif corrected.

-of mortal struggle, and this is how it ends.

Grif made another show of looking at his watch, while peering at Nicole from the corner of his eye. She didnt look like she was going to leak, he decided gratefully. Instead, she looked like she was going to kick something.

She did then dropped back to the bed, and put her head in her hands while Grif began hopping around.

Damn it, lady! He glared, cradling his throbbing shin. Ive had enough of this postmortem crap! Get your lifeless, flabby backside off that bed and follow me!

Now she began to cry.

The recently murdered were so sensitive.

Sighing, Grif lifted his hat and ran a hand over the top of his head. He could practically hear Sarges barked reprimand. Patch it up, Shaw.

Sorry, he muttered, stealing another glance at his watch.

Fuck you, Mr. Sensitivity! she yelled. Im not following your washed-out, B-movie, pseudo-Five-O ass anywhere!

Careful, peach. Look how you get to spend eternity. Grif showed his teeth, and though there wasnt any blood in her ethereal body, Nicole blanched. Then her outline began to shimmer. Not much time left. Thats right. Were all stuck in the clothing worn when we die. Kinda makes you wish youd overcome that latex fetish, huh?