Styx. The river of the Dead, the eldest sister of Lethe. It was a glass of death, just as sure as a random guy coming off the street and asking for a cup of rat poison. I chuckled at the dark humor and awaited the response, my hands sitting idle in the Well. It only took a moment before she began to speak.

"They killed him this morning. Fools. He was an artist, my Michael. A preservationist. He would go into the woods and find the fallen trees and turn them into art. Never cutting down, always bearing my honored dead from my lands and making them beautiful again.

"I came to him like this, deep in the woods. That smile... I will remember that smile while I drink. We talked of his work, and he offered to show me. Oh! Muses be praised, was his work beautiful. Ash and Thorn and Willow, they turned in his hands from dead wood to things of beauty.

"He was not perfect. He sought the sisters of inspiration in bad medicines. He would smoke as he sat on the tree stumps left behind by the loggers upstate, then it became powders. I loved him even then, knew I could fix him. I had bound the wounds of gods, what was a mortal artist's hurts to the pain of the Divine?"

She smiled then, a pained thing, and began playing with a necklace of wooden beads. A wooden cameo, her perfect likeness, played over her knuckles and she twisted and worried the thing.

"I found him in our bed this morning. Cold, the foam of his last breaths. I wanted to go with him, but I could not. It is not our way, is it? Those grand gestures. You are lucky, young one, to touch the soft veil between this world and the Divine, and not to sit wrapped in it, not mortal enough to die but not divine enough to live without hurt.

"I cannot die here by my own hand, but you are meant to serve. So serve me, wench, and let my time be done."

I wanted to tell her it would be okay. That the world was still young, that there would be other lovers. But that wasn't my place. How was I to understand the pain of a creature whose life had been measured not in years but centuries? If the trials of those endlessly stretching days had not broken her, then this was a harsh thing.

"I see it in your face. You want to tell me everything will go on. 'Oh,', you'll say, 'there will always be another lover!' I am not the Father of Olympus, dear sweet scion. Until Michael took me abed I had not been with man nor god in centuries. Our years together were the best of my life, and that life stretches before we came across Atlas' waters, before even the Shepherd hung on branches of our sacred trees.

"Asked thrice and done. Give me what I wish, and let me rest in His arms again."

Sometimes family traditions are quaint. Maybe you eat cabbage on New Years Day, or eat on the fine china on your half birthday. I'd love to be part of a family with fun little traditions. Hell, I'd take a white elephant exchange over being the barista to gods and monsters.

"Alex, I need you to pull a double. Greg's got a toothache and Shauna's battery died, I'm in the weeds here." I sighed as Tony laid out the reasons, as I already knew it was coming. You get a feel for it, the need to stay in place. It starts with a tingle in the palms and a heaviness in the legs, like you just grabbed an electric fence. There's a subtle change in the light, and you just know that within the hour one of them would walk in, and you would be asked to Serve.

The gig comes with benefits. I never need to worry about money, for one. I can't count how many times I've found by happenstance that I'd won a sweepstakes I never entered, or someone dropped a winning scratcher in my tip jar. Never a fortune, but always enough to get by. Tips for a Cupbearer, we honored descendants of Hebe.

It was thankfully a slow night, and I had been sweating covering my dog's vet bill. I'd had Service happen in a packed shops, bars, and once on the City Ferry. The gods keep their own time, and having to hurriedly mix a hot cocoa wrapped in a sheet while your boyfriend asks who was at the door isn't the most fun, but it helps me get by. A calm Sunday evening? At least it would be a distraction.

I felt her coming from a block away. So did the plants in the window. The sad potted things perked up as she walked towards the coffeehouse, new growth sprouting and tendrils of growth stretching away to the south like hands reaching for a lover in the night. Flowers bloomed in a riot of yellow and orange, rich green leaves unfurling as they were called to their mistress.

She was as beautiful as they always were. The Meliae were the nursemaids to the Greek divines, and wore faces as pale and lovely as the ash trees of their birthright. She was dressed conservatively for a nymph, a thin merino wool sweater unbuttoned over a sundress in muted blue and white. As she came closer I saw the worry on her face and felt a pang of sadness through the call of Service. This was a woman who had had a long day, a memorable thing in a life that had lasted for millennia. I began to call to the Void that existed for Cupbearers, feeling my hands over the invisible vessels from which we poured. I knew what she needed by that look, like any good Server does. My hands touched the tall carafe of Lethe, the water of forgetfulness. It was a common bitter draught these days among the divines. I turned my face to the spirit and put my best customer service smile.

"Well met, weary traveler. What is your desire?" The words tumbled out, like they always do. To anyone who overheard it would sound like a greeting, oh, the usual ma'am?.

At this distance I saw the worry. Whorls like wrinkles across that fine skin, the marks of some sickness pocking the perfect smoothness. Eyes the color of drowned leaves, and hair lank as grapevines at the first frost.

"Hail and well met Cupbearer. I have come to this land far from home and ask only release. Pour for me this day from the River Styx."

A whole prompt written in haiku but presented in prose could be a fun one.

It's been... a rough week in mtg. I'd say give them a bit.

Yep, that was the tie-in. I liked the idea of a sort of reincarnation vibe so I went there. If I had spent more time in the sprint I would have worked more out

Thanks! If you ignore my posts in magictcg you'll find a bunch of prompts, these are some of the last before I tuck in for nanowrimo

The Stranger's captive was no longer tied to the stone, and the bird that had been tearing at the captive's stomach had disappeared along with the arena. The wounds I had seen before were gone, replaced with a mass of scars across his chest and stomach. The captive curled into the fetal position, and I went to check on the man I just saved.

His face was rugged. While the Stranger and his watchers' faces were handsome in their perfection, the captive's features were more primitive, carved from clay rather than marble. Lines marked his mouth, as if finally relaxed after a permanent scream. I rubbed his back as I had countless friends in pain before, and the captive relaxed, turning over on his back.

"Thank you, kind sir. You cannot know how long it has been that I was held there by the Tartarean." the free man whispered. "If there is anything I can do, any gift I can offer, I'd give it gladly."

"Heh, I don't think you have much to offer, friend, but th—"

He grabbed my arm and I looked into the captive's eyes.

"Fire. Knowledge. I have much to give. So, so many things... lessons from the Gods. Your people learned to harness the power of Zeus, to sail across Poseidon's great seas, to hammer out weapons that would make Haephestus weep and Ares slaver in jealousy. You have gained a way to transfer Gnosis through nets of fine wire, but why stop there?"

Then the visions came. A world without death. A world without want. A world perfect and ablaze with the passions of intellect.

And above them all I sat, sitting in a Throne of twisted bronze. But it wasn't me. The eyes, those cruel and vicious eyes

I felt Spot licking me through my torn pants, and it was the only thing that saved me. The captive had wrapped me in his embrace, his eyes wild and staring into mine, spittle running out of the corners of his mouth.

The blade slid in clean. His eyes clouded, and I let his body fall back to the slab.

I dug the grave shallow, my small trench shovel ill-equipped for the work in this gravelly mess. I wrapped his body in the shroud he had risen in as my lantern cast strange shadows in the clearing. I saw my fate in a thousand shadows, a hundred deaths, a hundred happy endings.

But each was mine.

There were three of the beastwomen, and it was just me and Spot. Don't get me wrong, Spot is a survivor. I found him hurt years ago, and the scars on his muzzle and flank told a tale of a bad life, but he'd always been a gentle giant of a beast.

But I'd never taken him as a fighter until that day. Spot stood firmly by my side. I never knew what they meant about hackles being up until I saw my sweet little boy ready for war.

We charged the shrieking birdwomen as they started flapping their wings, and I got lucky. A swift overhead strike, like you use to chop down a thick rope, and the first one was down in a pool of inky black blood. For my trouble I took a gash to the arm, and Spot circled to my back, barking and snapping at one of the beasts while I squared against the other.

The beast in front of me swiped at my face, forcing me to back away and trip up short of Spot. I spun and swung high, and caught the monster's clawed hand on their backstroke.

With a flick of its wrist the creature snatched the blade, and I knew I was screwed. I always though the whole life flashing before your eyes thing was a lie, then I saw it all.

my father hitting me, drunk and terrible, but it was better than hitting my little sister. This was the last time, when i hit back, not like..

the first night with Angie, drunk on strawberry wine, the demon not yet in me, her hands warm and hair so soft, smelling like...

dandelions, twined into a crown. She was dressed in a shift, no, a toga, a witch, the laughter of women in my ears, the sounds of the wind chattering like...

birds, in the trees. Running away, Kerberos at my heels, hot bread in my hands. A good boy, named after the spots across his back, after the three headed hound, a monster, like a hydra, like...

harpies. Monstrous women, cursed by Zeus. I went with my sword to dispatch them, to save the King and return home, prideful like...

a peacock, her favorite, the Mother of Gods, sending me to find the Fleece, to save the kingdom, her hands pressing

A sword. The harpy flapped away from me then, baring fangs and screeching.

It felt right. I knew the blade, every nick and worry from hilt to tip. Its weight felt natural in my hand, and I knew what I had to do.

My body went into autopilot, and I went to killing the harpies with a will. Spot was my shadow, keeping the surviving shade from me, snapping in all directions. We worked together, and made quick work of the challenge. And as the last fell I heard the Stranger scream, and then those screams were replaced by moans of pain.

The monsters poured out of the cave. They were cruelly shaped, long dark wings draped around twisted shoulders. Their faces were those of women twisted in ectascy or agony, and their legs were bird-like, fat thighs extending to long curved talons.

The Stranger and his prisoner disappeared in an instance, melting into the shadows. The clearing changed then, shifting to a view somewhere high upon a mountaintop. The fading sun of mid-afternoon was replaced by a blazing noon sun, and the chill October air became hot and dry as a desert in morning.

The hills surrounding the clearing changed into a stadium, and I saw tall men and women who looked like the Stranger looking down from the stands dispassionately. The only one who looked to me with a shred of kindness was not as pretty as the other women, nor as tall. She had the kind eyes of a mother looking upon her son, and I saw a brief smile flash across her face before she hid it with a fan of peacock feathers.

The Stranger sat separated from the other watchers, his seat just above the cave's mouth. His flannel and jeans had been replaced by a long black robe, and the woman who sat at his feet wore a dingy gray shift.

The Stranger bowed his head, and muttered in a language I did not understand. The faces of the crowd broke for the first time; hungry eyes from a beautiful woman, her heavy-muscled husband seated in a gleaming bright wheelchair. A young man, dressed in a breechclout and strange hat, tilted his brim towards me. A man who could have been the Stranger's twin, dressed in a bright blue robe and wearing a shell necklace, looked to me as if I was condemned.

The Stranger lowered his hand, and the monsters attacked.

"I don't quite remember you, sir, but I think we need to talk about your friend and that bird there."

The tall dark stranger stared at me with those piercing eyes. Then he laughing, laughing hard and long, and the air shook with the thunder of it. When he stopped he turned to his captive.

"Did you hear that? We're friends, you and I. They do not teach their children well here across Atlas's sea."

"I was never much for school, sir, but I know a murder when I see it. And you best to better understand that I won't be leaving until you let that man go." I reached into my backpack as the stranger watched with those eyes, finding the machete I used to cut trails when Spot and I found ourselves too deep in the woods.

"Ahh, heroic. As is fitting your name. I fear you and I would be an unfair pairing, but I do know a more something that seems," the Stranger paused, smiling, "fitting."

From the strange cave came noises, a cross between the screams of dying women and grating metal.

"Your namesake fell them once, and so they are mine now to command. Fare well, and we shall see to my friend on the stone."

I started hiking to keep away from booze.

First, there's no bars in the woods. Second, when you finally decided you hit rock bottom and need to get clean? The guys you thought of as your friends turn out to be roaches. The Professor, this guy at my meetings? He says it's Kafkaesque. I don't know this Kafka guy, but I think he's onto something.

Out here it's just me and Spot. The old boy's been with me through it all; the marriage, the bottle, the divorce. We slept on a lot of streets together during those years, but none of them were as comfy as a good bed of pine needles up here.

We spent most of the time we had up here, but today was gonna be a send-off. Three years of sobriety meant getting clean and a good work history, and Prof knew a guy out west who needed an apprentice. Locksmith. Heh, not a bad gig, and maybe learning it legit after so many years getting away with it wasn't a bad idea.

Spot tore off into the deep woods and I started after. Spot was a big bull mastiff, and as he ran he left quite the trail. The birdsong and rustling we normally heard died as we trekked deeper, and I started to worry about getting back to the trail when my foot slipped on a small rise, sending me sliding down to a pit of soft slag rock and a quiet clearing.

The clearing was strange this far out. A cave lay just a few hundred feet away, its dark entrance carved in the style of a courthouse's steps. One man sat on a stone, petting Spot.

Another lay sprawled and tied to a large rock. Blood ran down his sides and over the stones, and a large dark bird sat on his chest, pecking at his belly.

The seated man stood and the whole clearing seemed darker, more real for a second. A few fun nights during school creeping back up? No, there was something about the man. He was fit, built like a man who took care of himself, his flannel shirt tied around his waist. Long grey-streaked black hair fell from his head, and while his smile beamed, his eyes were the cold dark of night, of deep places where secrets and treasures lie.

"I like your dog, Jason. But this is not a place for you or he to be."

Now the kitchen? I'm comfortable in a kitchen.

Kitchen work is one of the easiest things to get into when you're on the run. Not a lot of people care too much about things like your real name, age, or criminal record when it comes to scrubbing pans. After some dishwashing you move to prep, then prep goes to working on the line. I could handle my own.

The kitchen was abuzz with three men furiously preparing the meal. All of them were broader than I was, though Theo and Phillip were the big guys. They looked like two statues, Theo carved in the bronze of Greece, his brother-in-law pale as cream. Andrew was the odd man out, a short Black guy, his big belly covered in flour as he rolled dough, smoking out the cracked window and humming along to the Greek music out of a cracked old radio/cassette player.

"Take off that jacket! So formal! We have work to do Gabriel!" Theo bellowed, shoving a knife and vegetables into my hands and making me prep the salad. I got to laying waste to some cucumbers and tomatoes, and the uncles began chatting. They spoke in Greek, but one of the gifts of being me is the gift of tongues.

είναι αδύνατος, isn't he? *Your little cub wants a cat. But he's nervous... Look at him, I could floss with him, Phil

"I'll get stuck in your teeth."

The uncles stopped, turning to me. Oh, oh I fucked up.

Andrew broke the ice. "Oh come on now. That's funny. You assholes made me learn it before you'd let me date Thali, so he's just ahead of the game!"

The two giants glowered, looking between my scared ass and my powdery savior, then started laughing. Theo pointed the spatula he had been flipping cutlets with, grease dripping off the handle, and smiled.

"Oh, you'll do. You'll do nicely. Now, finish up those angoúri and we'll get this on the table before my Alexandria gets home from the presbytera meeting."

"Presbytera?"

I knew I screwed up as soon as it came out.

"Oh, did you not have a married priest at your Church?" Theo waited, giving me time to slide the cucumbers into the bowl and think.

"Well, I'm uhh, not really religious."

Theo's anger rang across his face, then faded, a goofy smile on his face.

"Oh, Ali is in trouble..." He chuckled, grabbing two bottles of wine between the fingers of his left and a platter of appetizers in his right. "But nobody is perfect, yes?"

[[Life happened, I'll be wrapping this in the morning]]

I'll give the Greeks one thing: they love columns.

The rowhouse of Father Theodore Antonopoulous was squeezed at the end of the block, and my wonderful girlfriend was waiting for me. I almost introduced my tail before I heard the flutter of wings and a loud pop just behind my right ear.

"You've had me waiting here five minutes too long. We're late!"

"I saw a pigeon." I said looking down at my shoes. "Hey, uh, did you fail to mention anything I should know before we go in?" I looked at Ali patiently, spritzing the little travel cologne she liked me in and handing it back for her to purse it.

"Like what? There's nothing surprising. I'm not gonna have a crazy Uncle or some big secret to spring on you!" She laughed, putting her arm through mine to walk up the stairs to the front door.

"Yeah. I guess that's true." I knew I was stuck, but maybe it wouldn't be all that bad.

There was a crucifix in the foyer. Tasteful, but definitely a sign. I could also hear the chuckling as I hid my startlement and started to take off my shoes. Ali pinched me, making sure I knew that was a no-go before slipping out of her heels into a set of slippers with a fancy trimmed A on them.

"You're a guest. It's rude to take your shoes off."

"And you get slippers?"

"Of course. Why do you think I'd wear those heels the whole night?"

I snuck a kiss on her cheek just in time, as two older Greek women, one thin and waifish, the other more in the shape of my date, came to greet us at the door. Ali laughed, rushing to hug and be kissed and prodded by the women, as each looked over her to stare appraisingly at me.

They made small talk as I stood there, feeling a bit like a chicken on display. The thin one looked me up and down like one of those bobbing water birds while the more shapely one measured me like she was taking notes.

"Gabriel! These are my aunts, Thali and Daphne." Ali pulled me to them, and I was given what I've come to call the Once Over. Rapid fire questions, expecting few answers, and a general poking and prodding of my physical, mental, and spiritual development.

"What are you studying? Oh. Art is nice. Medicine, Law? Those are real lessons." "Where are you from? Ahh, no settled place then." "Alexandria had told us do little about you..." "Are you working? Ahh, must be nice to not work during college." "What is your birthday? Ahh, I see, a Capricorn."

Then the one I had been dreading.

"So, what does your father do?"

I froze, not sure of how to answer, before a man the size of a bear came to my rescue. He had his sleeves rolled up, wiping his hands on an apron that said φίλα τον μάγειρα across the chest.

"Let the boy breathe. Come now, Gabriel isn't it? I need assistance in the kitchen. My wife, she is late, but the work of food is done by men as well as women in my house!"

I felt my feet almost leave the floor as the bear that seemed to be Ali's dad dragged me into the kitchen, from the fire of the nosey aunts to the little frying pan.

"I'm just going to warn you, my family is a bit... Greek."

I zipped her up as she held those dark curls away from the catch, my nose catching the scent of sandalwood, poppy, and clean skin.

"It's okay. It'll just be weird to see you clothed in a room of people for once." I deserve the playful slap as she turns, those rich brown eyes glinting with mischief.

We met at a figure drawing class. I had decided I wanted to create something, something truly beautiful. She came in, tall and curved, laying supine, arm across her chest.

It took three weeks of asking, a week of begging, and a nice bottle of rose after a walk in the Park, but a few months along? It was going great.

"Really? Alexandria Antonopoulous? Always thought that was an Irish name."

I dodged the lobbed stuffed bull I had brought her from my trip to the Iraq. I grabbed her waist, about to go for the kiss before I backed away.

"What is it with you and this thing?" She smiled. The thing was a pendant she stopped wearing when we started dating, a gift from her grandmother. A silver circle with a lapis eye inlay.

"I don't know, it's just not my thing. Gives me the creeps." I hated lying to her. I knew exactly what the problem was, but talking about how your dad's the Devil is usually an engagement ring level conversation.

We went over the names. So many names. Being an only child I always loved hearing about families. All those minor squabbles and petty beefs, the little family rituals. It hadn't been like that with Mom, especially after we started moving ahead of the cults, madmen, and covers that wanted a piece of me.

I was nervous. Me. Nervous. We rode in the Uber across town, Ali checking her hair and makeup, me wishing I could smoke. It's a terrible habit, but the nerves were really rattling me, and my pack was digging into my side from my suitjacket pocket. I felt overdressed from my usual jeans and a t-shirt, but I wanted to make a good impression.

I fidgeted with a coin in my dominant hand, making the silver dollar dance across the knuckles of my left, vanishing and reappearing. It was my little bit of stress relief, and I knew I had to be on my best behavior.

"You're not even listening, are you?" Ali snapped, those eyes digging a hole in me.

"Aunt Thali and Daphne, married to Andrew and Phillip respectively. Your mother is Alexandria, but you're Ali to the family, your father is Theodore."

"That's better. Jesus, you need a cigarette. Get out a block down, smoke as you walk, I'll wait for you and spritz you before we go in." She never liked me smoking, but since she liked the rest of the things I did with my mouth she never really complained.

She must have seen the grin, as her hand came up to grip my cheek. "Don't screw this up, Gabe."

She kicked me out down the block and I started walking. I was about fifty feet in when I felt him come up on my left side, and smelled the scent of ozone.

"Hellspawn." "Watcher."

My Namesake had decided, from an early age, to keep his eyes on me. For that purpose he used the grigori. Most people don't even remember their existence, but the Watchers like it like that. The guy walking with me as I puffed away was sent down millennia ago to keep an eye on my Grandfather's flock, and make sure the Truce was kept between the City and Down Below.

"You are going to the house of Theodore Antonopoulous this night, are you not?" that voice, clear as a bell and twice as annoying. "What business does the Fallen have with one of our Father's anointed?"

I stopped in my tracks.

"You're fucking with me."

"Even if I were to have the means to, I do not find filth appealing."

"Christ, you're all so damned literal. Ali's father is a priest?"

For the first time since they started pestering me a Watcher smiled.

"Oh. Oh my. This will prove a pleasant diversion."

Check my profile, as I'm stretching for Nanowrimo by picking up several prompts/day!

Your Honor, don't take this moment from me. It's like when Kingofboobs told me he wasn't a monarch on my story of royal intrigue.

Thanks for checking in! It sometimes feels a big weird and lonely writing on WP as noone comments on half of my stuff.

That's high praise coming from a judge. Thank you!

The room exploded, and the objections flew. I stood there smiling, knowing I had just got my father settled. After the dust settled and the required products were produced, Lauren cleaned her face and showed Judge Halloran an empty mirror, only his own face staring back at him.

"The Court has seen the evidence. While United States v. Harker established precedent for the handling of sangrophagic entities as full and living citizens, it did require a renunciation of all claims to material assets in perpetuity for all claimants under the Harker Acts and registry with the State Depatment as a sangrophage. Miss Savoy, by not conducting herself in that matter, has broken countless laws, the most germane to our proceedings today being in the entry into marriage with one Marvin Entwistle without filing required paper establishing their blood status and renouncing rights to all assets held under said contract."

"Miss Savoy entered unlawfully into any prenuptial or postmortem agreements with my client. As my client, through no fault of his own, was put into this untenable position? He cannot be held to those contractual obligations."

"Objection! Your client attempted to kill my client, and acted under the assumption he had!"

"While that is true, you have produced living, if not breathing, proof that Miss Savoy was not harmed. While my client has been put beyond the reach of criminal law due to misadventure by his own hand. This puts him beyond the reach of criminal court for his actions, and civil penalties for the death of Miss Savoy cannot be levied as Miss Savoy never died in the first place."

You could hear a exsanguinated pin drop in the Court. After that? It was all just cleanup.

I gathered my claim ticket from Judge Halloran. The sum after a bit of negotiation in chambers was enough to cover my rent for a year and put Dad to Rest. And a little bit besides.

"Well, that was a hell of a case Jake." Mort said, putting up an umbrella to the rain and letting me stand beside him underneath it. "Savoy will fight it, but she's going to get tossed back to whatever hole she's been retreating to."

"And I bet the police there will have a talking to her. I get why she came over. They're not really liked over there, and she'll probably be burned for it by the Euroquisition." I felt bad, but she was a killer. There were cases dating back decades in the area, and it wouldn't take long for the cops over there to put it together.

"Hope the families will find justice." the Stiff finished for me. "Wanna go grab a drink? I could watch you down a few."

"Sounds good." I started walking towards the Gravedigger. "Why did you decide to come watch my case?"

Mort chuckled, putting his arm around my shoulder. "I like you Jake. And someone had to keep my brother honest."

The first hour of legal fencing after the recess was, honestly, just relaxing. I had the case in the bag since the plaintiff's attempts to whammy me while I was in the restroom. Mort's searches of public records went quick, and we got the prints done just ahead of the call to return.

I was almost giddy.

We got to the meat of the case after the last attempt to dismiss outright failed, and the deposition of Marvin ran long. He wasn't exactly the best at speech, due to the missing top of his head, but we all got through to the best of our ability and I sat palming the smoking gun as I watched my case fall to pieces.

A case I didn't even care to defend, to Judge Halloran's chagrin.

"It is quite an unusual stroke of genius or madness to not refute the mountain of claims made by plaintiff's case. Surely you should mount a reasonable defense of your.." the Judge paused, trying to cover his disgust. "Client. I will not have this Court be claimed prejudicial due to your failure to provide a robust defense, Counsel."

"Your Honor, I believe that my case will be best served in examining the statements of the plaintiff on the matter."

Halloran paused, looking at me, then back at the slowly deflating head of my client.

"Well then. It's your ball game counsel."

The former Mrs. Entwistle-Savoy's questioning was even longer. I feared Halloran would move towards continuing until tomorrow. I don't know whether it was the insanity of my first play or the desire to get this over and done, but the Judge decided to push forward and see where we were headed.

I palmed my case-winning charm and started into mh questioning of the aggrieved.

"Miss Savoy, our records show you were 37 at the time of your passing. Is that correct?" I looked down at my notes, miming checking for my next move.

"That is correct. "

"And you are, as your birth certifacte shows, the daughter of Leonard and Sheila Savoy?"

"That is correct."

"Your State Department shows regular visits abroad, notably throughout your youth as well as yearly travels after."

"Yes. I was at boarding school from a very young age, but still go back every year to see old friends and visit my family's estates."

"Interesting. Now, on these trips, what exactly do you do?"

"Oh, I visit, shop, go out to dinner. As you do when you catch up with friends and family."

"Yes, yes. Do you have records of these travels?"

"Objection. Relevance." one of the Vulture twins hopped on that.

"I'll take that back. You are known to travel abroad on a yearly basis. Clubs, outings. You live a full life, a socialite in the circles you would travel as a alumna of the prestigious boarding schools you attended."

"Yes, I would say there are many who know me from my time there."

"Ahh. Yes. And plenty of photographic evidence of your travels, surely."

Lauren's calm broke. Her lawyer, seeing her discomfort, called for a further objection, and I switched tactics.

"You are aware of the longstanding history of your family both here in the United States and abroad."

"Yes. We have been in the funerary arts for centuries."

"And it was during the time when the dead began to rise that your family became the purveyors of these arts to an elite clientele."

"I would assume so."

"And during those centuries you have done well."

"My family has, yes."

"I know that this is unorthodox due to the nature of these proceedings, but the defense would like to present further evidence which has come to its attention over the period of our first recess."

There was a bit of a legal row, but I knew what I was doing. Even though Halloran was a hardcase and a bigot, I knew if I played up the idea of this new evidence he would have go along. The Hail Mary worked, and I brought out our evidence.

"The exhibits I have to present to the Court are labeled G-K. Starting with G, Miss Savoy, can you identify the woman depicted in this image?"

The woman was a deadringer for the plaintiff, decked out in full Elizabethan garb.

"I believe that would be my ancestor, the Duchess of Malfi."

"Yes. And exhibit H?" an image of a woman looking quite like Lauren Savoy, this time in the French style of Chardin.

"This is Lauren Savoy, my many great grandmother."

"I see. And exhibit I?" A watercolor, a noblewoman in repose in clothes from the 19th century.

"This would be my... great aunt? Lilian Savoy-Harper."

"Yes. And Exhibit J?" a 20th century print, depicting a nude in charcoal, looking much like Lauren.

"My grandmother, Eloise Savoy."

"There is a striking family resemblance, wouldn't you say Miss Savoy?" I asked, and saw the realization come over the 30something before me.

"And for exhibit K..." I smiled, producing my smoking gun. A clamshell powder makeup case, the mirror buffed to a high polish. "Could you please wipe that expensive foundation off your face and let the Judge see your reflection?"

We recessed shortly after the last motions were slapped down, and I'd say we were still doing alright. What had started as a route became a horse race when the changes of venue, requests for experts, and a long-winded speech on victims rights fell hard in front of Halloran. Like it or not, I was glad that Justice was not only blind but tone deaf in the morning.

The coffees had done their work and I was standing at the urinal running through my questions for the inquest when she crept up behind me. Bathrooms have become unisex in the age where the Dead outnumber the living, so it wasn't odd to hear heels on the tile. I just hadn't been suspecting the lady of the hour to creep up on me.

The late Mrs. Entwistle-Savoy was a knockout. Don't get me wrong, she was dead. And no, I'm not faulting Sandra and Donny from their relationship. Love is love, no matter the color of your skin or the content of your bloodstream. This wasn't a romantic observation either. I was taking in Lauren from an aesthetic perspective. Whatever hands had done the work to put her makeup on had been amazing, the life they had been able to touch into pallid skin made a flawless approximation of flesh, even if it was a bit pale. I turned to her and saw a woman, not a Stiff trying to approximate what it had been in life. Even the smell of her was light, lilacs and a small coppery tang, not like the rotting miasma that still clung on even the best prepared Stiffs.

"Mr. Smith. Can I call you Jake?" she asked, a soft proper tone with just the hint of some European accent I couldn't quite grasp mixed in with her English.

"Here? I'd prefer you let me finish my business and then we can talk."

"Ahh. Yes. Sometimes I forget how inconvenient it was to be alive. My apologies." the ex-living ex-wife of my client backed away, moving gracefully to the corner of the restroom as I wrapped up my business. "I just felt it was time to discuss the arrangements you have made with my late husband."

"Arrangements? Ma'am, I just work the cases I receive, with as little judgment as possible. I can't afford to dig into the moral ramifications of the actions of my clients." I washed my hands, scrubbing as I waited for her next move.

I hadn't expected the move to be sliding behind me, or putting her hands around my waist.

"My family has been here for some time, though I spent much of my youth abroad. I know that the life of American barristers is usually much more, what is the word? Lucrative than what you must be making." She tightened her grip on my hips, making me stand fully and look at her in the mirror. The look on her face was one of someone who knew how to get her way.

"I do well enough. And my work lets me pay the bills."

"Oh, but it could be better. I am willing to make it so, if you would do just one small thing for me. A tiny, teensy favor." Her hands began... well, it's been a long while, but I'm above such crude attempts at persuasion. I put my hands over hers, and hoped I was about to make the right decision.

Then I stood quick and slammed my head into this creepy dead seductress's face. I'm not gonna lie, the crunch of her nose was very satisfying.

"Mr. Smith! That was uncalled for! I will have your License revoked!" Lauren put her hands to her face, a sickening twist and the sound of bones sliding back into place echoing in the tiled room.

"Bribing or making an advance to seek favor on a duly appointed member of the Court is a criminal matter, even for the Dead. I'm protected, and it will be a he said, dead said case. Think for a moment, Miss Savoy, before you continue this line of questioning." I watched her in the mirror, my hands shaking as they held a death grip on the sink. As I took her in, I saw the way to win our case written clearly across her disbelieving face.

"I would never. How dare you accuse me of —

"Get. Out. I will see you in the courtroom, Miss Savoy." I waited until she gathered herself, and gave ten seconds for her to leave before I sprinted back to Mort at the pit.

"I need everything you have on the Savoy family." I demanded, catching my breath and trying to will my heartbeat back into my chest.

"Pulling all of those case files in an hour would be murder, Jake. I've got to..." I cut Mort off.

"I don't need case files. Pictures. Portraits. Hell, oil paintings if you can find them. All female descendants of the Savoy line, go back to before they came across the Pond."

I smiled as Mort started working, looking down at the pale flesh tone makeup covering my palms.

I looked on as the bailiffs slid the placards for assignments onto the big board, and winced. I was going to have to make the case before Halloran, and I wondered if Dad could afford to wait another decade or two for his Rest.

Judge Halloran. Shoot First and Don't Ask Questions Halloran. If this was a few centuries back Halloran would have been a hanging judge, but these days he mostly covered for cops who had been 'bit rough' with a stiff. As the rights of the Dead were civil and not criminal in these cases the old viper got away with legal murder as much as the police he helped get away with it.

"I'll go with you." Mort said, putting a heavy hand on my shoulder. "If you're gonna lose, lets do it in style."

My client was led into the court by Shaky, the Stiff bailiff aid that shuttered around and touched the dead when they got rowdy. Whoever put Marvin back together had skimped on the replacement parts. The poor Stiff's head was wet from the drizzle outside, the papier-mâché and cotton batting clumpy and already giving off the odor of cheap embalming fluid. The Stiff had obviously dressed himself, missing a few buttonholes, the tie half-Windsored, and two different colored dress shoes.

"Yuh betherr bu ghuud." the remnants of Marvin's palette demanded, his body falling into the seat after finding the armrests.

Lauren Savoy, in contrast, was the fear of the uncanny Valley manifest. She walked into the room with the swagger of a woman ready for war, not a hitch or stumble as you see in most Stiffs. She wore funerary black, a long veil covering her face and her hands in lacey gloves, the whole ensemble looking like a couple month's salary. Her lawyers, two young guys who looked like pale slumming European aristocrats, came behind as royal retainers, pulling out her chair as they were seated.

You don't care about the preamble. Legal stories are all about the juicy bits. I'm not going to waste your time with the mumbo jumbo, the addressing of pre-trial motions, the briefs, the feints and parries that lead up to a satisfying conclusion. It's boring, even to me, to think of the tap dancing I had to do to dodge the hour of legalistic bullshittery that the fine folks at 3G threw my way.

I'm good. And once they realized that? We were ready to continue.

I tried not to think of how screwed my client was as the hot water washed over me. I scrubbed my skin not for the first time wondering if I should wrap up this public defense nonsense and start chasing hearses. Big civil settlements, a cushy spot for me and Dad, maybe even a nice suit or two. Not having to live in a place where I was cheek to cheek with rot every day. Get Dad wrapped, maybe a full jaw replacement.

No. While I'd miss him, this case would finally clear him to go into the ground. Public defense of necro-civil cases wasn't glamorous, but we split the judgment with the Court, and 50/50 of a fat case like Entwistle v Savoy was better than 80% of chasing down penalties like the one Dad had earned in his accident.

I did what I could to look presentable, scrubbing and rinsing, drying and shaking out my clothes. If I hadn't have helped that Stiff vet outside I would have gotten another coffee, maybe a pan dulce from the sweet old woman who ran the commissary Cafe in the courthouse. I adjusted my badge declaring myself a Defender of the Dead and shambled to the Pit to collect my notes and rub elbows with my fellow civil servants.

The Pit was a large open office, and at this point in the morning it was just starting its day. I nodded to my fellows, and the two or three folks still practicing public defense of the living. After the Government removed that pesky right to an attorney if you were still breathing the public defenders had unioned up, and the more masochistic among any class decided to work their fingers to the bone doing the Lord's work to keep the living safe from hearse chasers and cops who wanted to put them into a situation where being a Stiff was a better option. There were a lot less criminal cases amongst the breathing sect these days, since you could just pop whoever was giving you trouble and hope the Stiff had enough debt to make prosecuting their murder too expensive to worry about.

"Another day, another dead guy." Morty quipped, sitting a cup of coffee and a cream-filled donut in front of me. "Entwistle is on the docket early today, figured you wouldn't have any creds left after passing through the sob stories outside."

Mort was good people, a defender who went down at his desk due to overwork and never stopped working. Since our License gers pulled when we turn room temperature he couldn't practice, but now that he didn't sleep he was our own little necrolegal bulldog. Mort spent his death filing briefs, keeping the paperwork legit for the pool of suffering legal vultures and making sure we were fed and ready. In return we kicked what little we had into keeping him in good shape. Hell, if it weren't for the Stiff collar he was forced to wear in the courthouse most folks might think Mort was just pale and had a heavy hand on his aftershave.

"Yeah. The Greys have got me by the shorthairs on this one. The guy definitely popped three wives, but he's still got a right to defense. Every person —"

"Whether breathing or not should be entitled to fair and equal treatment under the law." Mort chimed in, finishing off the line. "I think dying really liberalized Roberts. Death can change your perspective, let me tell you."

We sat in a companionable silence, me writing notes and Mort checking over them, suggesting precedents to point out here, a juicy line of legal reasoning to slip in there. Stiff's memories were just better than living grey matter, and Mort was a lifeline for those of us trying to keep the peace between red and dead.

"You gonna have enough to put your Dad to Rest after this, right?" the old Stiff asked, handing me back my legal pad after adding some notes.

"That's the plan. I just need to win this case, but we'll see."

I saw the sad smile creep onto Mort's face in a wave, the slow reaction of dead flesh as it fired the muscles and nerves to put it all back in perspective.

"You're a good kid, Jake. Don't let anyone tell you different."

Marvin Entwistle was a member of the Church of Eternal Love. He was also pretty unlucky when it came to spouses.

I read the list as the Hack's team drew me on dead legs to my destination. Shirley, young and beautiful, his first love. Dead by 23, drowned in her bath. Then there was Elizabeth, a bit older, had some money, died of falling down a flight of stairs during the Drop. Lauren, an heiress to the Savoy clan of embalmers, died of misadventure on their honeymoon.

It was Lauren Savoy who had been the nail in his coffin. Marvin, in his middle age, had gotten sloppy. Like so many pricks who decided to put their hands on their women, he had left some marks that they had found when Lauren was shipped back to the States. Down in the Islands it was easy enough to pay someone off and write whatever you wanted on the death certificate, but the Savoys had a full forensic done, and then when Lauren was Raised she gave the whole story.

Our boy Marvin was a busy bee. A lonely hearts killer, who hadn't read the room. He has moved towards having his other loves quickly written off and Finaled before they could say anything. But Lauren, clever woman she was, had a prenup, a postmort, and a paid package for representation by Gray, Grey, and Gris for legal issues caused or arising from her demise.

Marvin had seen the writing on the wall and decided to add to it with a bright red underline, going for a twelve gauge pen down in the Crypts. His neighbor had heard the commotion and, hoping to gain a Stiff who didn't have any loved ones to claim him, contacted the Morgue and requested a Raise. Marvin hadn't accounted for there being enough of him to come back from his brilliant exit strategy, and had been patched up, run through the records, and found to have a hefty civil lien on his immortal person for his role in Lauren Savoy's demise.

I got to the Morgue with two hours to spare. The courthouse's cold marble steps were a great place for homeless Stiffs to keep themselves chill overnight, preventing some rot. I saw one Stiff in ragged Army surplus begging for credits to get a leg swapped out under the statue of Columbia striding over a pile of Stiffs. The plaque beneath it was in Latin: in morte servimus.

"Spare a bit, sir? I was at Halifax, during the Czar's invasion? Lost my paperwork, but if I could get some cash I could get it and maybe get my Service closed out." the Stiff's glassy eyes and dragging leg made me feel sorry for him. I slid my card through his reader, wincing as I was worried about paying rent this month. But nobody deserved to serve and then Serve because of those damned contracts. He was probably born in the Crypts or some other necropolitan hellhole, and just wanted to Rest.

"Bless you, sir. May you find Rest."

I would, just as soon as I sorted out this Entwistle case.

Marvin Entwistle had been a very busy man in his life. In death, he has brought me nothing but headaches.

I woke up to sixteen missed calls and a voice-mail from a client moaning into the mic. Dad, probably lost his jaw again. I made a note to send one of the boys over to check in.

I had never planned on life as a Bonehead. Nec-Law wasn't a specialty most entered into if given a choice, and I had been studying for handling common probate cases and real estate claims when I got out of law school. Then my roommate had decided to get involved with Sandra, she had a client who needed a bulletproof postmort, and I learned something about myself.

I loved working with the dead.

I had grown up in the Crypts, where most living folks came when they were financially dead to wait for the end and mingle with the mold and mildew crowd. My dad had had the bad luck of getting into an accident that put him into severe debt to a well-known if not well-liked family of hearse chasers, and so he brought my sister and I down with him. We didn't even have enough to bring Mom back, but we had enough to get her cremated and file the Rite of Finality, making sure she wasn't punished in the Hereafter for her husband's inability to yield at a merge.

Sandra looked worse for wear as she made coffee, her ratty robe belted and barely hanging on. As a State sponsored Raiser she usually had good leads on cases, but my load was taken off fully with the Entwistle backlog and I was hoping to get a fat check and finally clear out Dad's last bit of remaining debt ahead of the compound date.

"You look terrible," she said, slapping jam on a scone and sliding it across the kitchen island. I wolfed it down while I read the news of the day. PM York was up for his thirty-ninth challenge in two hundred years as the Finalists pushed for a return to 'life-centered politics'. Protests at the White House over military death servitude, the living requesting the removal of the Greys from payroll. The Czar threatening sanctions on the satellite states for attempting to part from the Coalition of Risen Kings.

"I've been better. This Entwistle case is just, it's killing me." I took a tall coffee and slammed it down, checking sports as Sandra went to wake the roommate.

Donny had seen better days. While the rich could pay for the best embalmers and proper Preservation, guys like us in the Crypts got what we got and didn't complain. Donny shrugged into a sweater at the table, and I could see the staples and Bondo that held him together these days.

"We're... out of... milk..." He whispered, his glass eye point in one direction while his other stared hazily at me. "I'll... pick some up... when I'm off shift."

Donny worked the kind of gigs Stiffs could get anymore. Mining, digging through the heaps of trash for recoverable trinkets, and when the money was tight he'd sign up for the Underground. Even with the population of living dwindling we loved our bloodsport, and watching a Stiff get mangled by a chainsaw or lit on fire got the rich folks to pay big, even for kids from the Crypts. Poor Donny could land six months of rent for this firetrap for a night of punishment, feeling about as much discomfort as having a tooth pulled, but it wore on a body.

I had my money saved to Check Out before I got out of law school.

"Thanks Donny. I gotta get going, but you two have a better day." I'd get a shower at the office, and head on my way.

The Hack that pulled up to take me was a new guy. Some young kid who had scraped up enough money to buy out a few ragged Stiff's contracts to tie them together like mules to get anybody who could where they were going. After cars got too expensive and the PM shut down all public transportation during the time of Drop Sickness the Hacks had filled in the gap and held on for dear life. He looked me over, seeing the threadbare suit and skull and balance badge I wore as a member in good standing of the Court, and I saw the wheels start spinning.

"Off to the Morgue then, boss?" the Hack asked, sucking on a piece of hard candy. "Rate's gone up overnight."

I sighed, handed him my card, and got in the back to sort this Entwistle case out. It was going to be a long day in chambers.