Tide of the Grave

The air in the parlor smelled of stale lavender and the damp, metallic tang of the afterlife. Vesper Drake sighed, rubbing his temples as he looked at the translucent, flickering form of Old Man Gable, who was currently floating three inches above a mahogany side table.

"Look, Mr. Gable, I’ve told you twice already—you’re dead. The inheritance went to your cat, and honestly, the cat has better judgment than your nephew," Vesper muttered, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted his apron.

"I just think it’s unfair, Vesper! I worked forty years in those docks!" the ghost wailed, his voice sounding like dry leaves skittering across pavement.

"Yeah, well, you’re currently a spirit trapped in a mortuary, so maybe focus on crossing over instead of the cat's new parlor rug?" Vesper retorted.

"You’re a real piece of work for a mortician, you know that? No respect for the departed," Gable huffed, crossing his arms—or attempting to, at least.

"I have plenty of respect. I respect the fact that you’re dead and you’re keeping me from my tea," Vesper said, reaching out to light a votive candle, his fingers glowing with a faint, sickly green luminescence that he quickly hid behind his back.

Just as the ghost opened his mouth to deliver another complaint, the front door of the parlor groaned and then splintered inward. The heavy oak slammed against the wall with a thunderous crack, sending dust motes dancing in the sudden shaft of afternoon light.

Three of Magistrate Sterling’s men stood in the threshold, their breastplates gleaming with an aggressive, polished shine. They looked like they hadn't slept in a week and were currently compensating for it by being as loud as humanly possible.

"Right then, Drake! Hands where we can see 'em!" the lead guard bellowed, his hand resting menacingly on the pommel of his sword.

Vesper jumped, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Gentlemen? I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake. We’re closed for the day. Unless you’re here for a funeral arrangement, which, in that case, you’re very early and I’m very concerned."

"Shut it, mortician," the second guard spat, stepping into the room. "The Magistrate wants to know where the pirate’s gold is buried. Rumor has it you were doing some 'special work' for that old sea dog before he kicked the bucket."

"I bury people, I don't bury treasure," Vesper said, his voice hitching. "Why would I know about pirate gold? I deal with bodies, not bank accounts."

"We’ve heard the whispers, Drake. You’ve got a knack for getting people to talk—even when they’re cold in the ground," the lead guard sneered, stepping closer. "Tell us where the captain’s stash is, or we’ll find out just how much of a mess you can make before we string you up for necromancy."

Vesper’s eyes darted toward the corner of the room, where he had foolishly left a skeleton he was prepping for a client’s viewing. He turned to block their view, but his foot caught on a stray rug. He stumbled backward, his heel slamming into the skeleton’s shin.

The bony limb clattered loudly across the floor, the radius and ulna sliding directly between the lead guard’s armored boots.

"What in the blazes—?" the guard looked down, then back at Vesper, his eyes narrowing to slits. "That’s a skeleton, Drake. A moving skeleton. We just saw it slide."

"It’s... it’s an articulated display model! For anatomy lessons! Very educational," Vesper squeaked, his palms beginning to sweat profusely.

"Educational? You’re a necromancer, you rat!" the guard roared, drawing his blade. "Grab him!"

Vesper didn't wait. Panic, cold and sharp, flooded his system. He scrambled back toward the supply closet, his mind racing. He couldn't fight them, but he could certainly make them regret their life choices. He reached into the dark, his fingers brushing against a worn handle.

"You really don't want to do this, boys," Vesper said, his tone shifting into a weird, frantic bravado. "I’m having a very bad day."

"Kill the freak!" the guard yelled.

Vesper pulled the closet door open and channeled every ounce of the buzzing, necrotic energy in his veins into the stack of cleaning supplies clustered inside. The mop heads stiffened, the bristles turning into jagged, straw-like claws. The wooden handles began to vibrate, clicking together like the teeth of a giant beast.

"Clean up, gentlemen!" Vesper shouted, snapping his fingers.

The bucket of mops surged forward, a chaotic, sudsy mess of gray wooden handles and dripping, filthy strings. The mop heads began to flail, slapping against the guards’ helmets with the rhythmic, wet thwack of an angry octopus.

"What is this? Get it off me! It smells like rotten eggs!" the guard screamed, flailing his sword uselessly as a mop head shoved itself firmly into his visor.

"Go! Run! The cleaning supplies are possessed!" the second guard cried, ducking as a heavy bucket launched itself at his head.

Vesper didn't wait to watch the carnage. He scrambled behind the workbench, grabbed a heavy iron grate, and yanked it upward. A dark, narrow chute revealed itself—the old coal slide for the basement.

"You’ll never get away with this, Drake!" the lead guard hollered, his voice muffled by the mop currently being pressed against his face by a vengeful cleaning rag.

"I’m literally getting away with it right now!" Vesper yelled back, throwing himself into the chute.

The descent was anything but graceful. He tumbled through the dark, bouncing off hard stone walls and scraping his elbows against rusted metal, until the chute ended with a sudden, jarring drop. He hit something soft, skidded across a polished wooden floor, and came to a violent, tangled stop.

The world was spinning. His head throbbed, and he was vaguely aware that his apron was ripped to shreds. He blinked, trying to focus his blurred vision.

The first thing he saw wasn't the basement floor, but a pair of leather boots—sturdy, worn, and clearly belonging to someone who spent a lot of time walking. He looked up, his breath hitching in his throat.

Standing over him was a woman. She was tall, dressed in a sharp, salt-stained coat that looked like it had seen a dozen storms, and her hair was a wild, glorious mess of dark curls tucked under a tricorne hat. She stood with a casual, dangerous grace, one hand resting on the hilt of a cutlass that caught the dim tavern light.

Her eyes, sharp as a winter gale, scanned him from head to toe, lingering on his torn apron and the faint, glowing green residue still clinging to his fingertips.

"Well," she said, her voice smooth, low, and carrying a hint of amusement that sent a strange, electric jolt straight down Vesper’s spine. "You don't look like the usual lot that crashes into my tavern, though the dramatics are appreciated. Are you going to keep staring at my boots, or are you going to tell me why you’re dripping with swamp water and necrotic mojo?"

Vesper felt his face heat up, a feeling far more intense than the fear he’d felt seconds ago. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a pathetic, "Um."

The woman tilted her head, the corner of her lip curling into a smirk. "Eloquent. I like it. Get up, mortician. You’ve got a tab to pay, and a story to tell."