Sitting in the back of the tiny cart as it made its way deeper into the city, Remoulade fought its gentle swaying. The old wagon seemed determined to communicate every contour of the road. Glancing at the hunched form of Crispin sitting up front and guiding the cart along while monitoring the device she had given him, Remoulade felt the tiniest speck of guilt.

The young man was clearly out of his depth. Perhaps shooting him without any warning had been a little harsh. But, Remoulade reasoned, time was of the essence, and the shock of her actions had only helped to speed Crispin’s return to his body’s last resting place. Still, there was the tiniest bit of guilt.

No, Remoulade concluded, if Crispin wished to blame anything, it should be the creature they now hunted. Remoulade’s working theory was that Crispin had caught the attention of some spirit or entity.

Something in the young man had warned Crispin of the night terror that stalked him. He’d run, fear disorienting him straight into the cart of one industrious Giuseppe the Elder, a well-respected teamster and moonlight smuggler.

Giuseppe, being a practical working man, decided to relocate his unintended victim to a shallow grave beyond the city limits. Matters may have ended there if not for Crispin’s horror. Following behind the unknowing smuggler, it was just too sweet an opportunity—an unattended body just lying there.

Why not climb into the young man’s dying form? So what if the soul was still home? Pull it up like a weed, tear the mortal’s coil. Who cared if he had yet to fully grow cold? and the carter, well....

It was just a theory—a good theory. Remoulade’s curiosity rumbled in her stomach. With some luck, she thought, she’d find out if her deductions proved true.

Running a hand over the rough, cracked wood of its frame—now caked in slow-drying blood—Remoulade took in the sights and sounds of the city.

Late as it was, the city was far from silent. Lanterns kept the main thoroughfares bright. Shoppers and merchants clogged the bridges that stretched over the canals far below. The city was wealthy, undeniably so. This fact beat at its center.

There was a breeze—a quiet little thing. It carried on its currents salt from the coast and the hint of a rising storm. As if sensing this, Wingyatt, sleeping and nestled at her side, raised his wing to envelop Remoulade in a warm feather-blanket hug.

So close. She could smell the spirit on his breath. “You’ve worked hard,” murmured the clerk, as a wry smile spread across her face. “I have, haven’t I?” slurred the bird, eyes foggy with whatever he and Charles had consumed.

Noting the close embrace he held her in, Wingyatt clumsily readjusted himself before speaking. “So, miss, I was a bit addled when I landed. Care to catch me up a bit?” “Wingyatt, the last time I saw you that shit-faced, you tried to fly through a rock.” “Well, I—mean, you’re not wrong, but isn’t that a bit off-topic?” “It’s shelved for now,” Remoulade replied.

“Anyways, what’s been happening?” “Well...”

**

~The events that occured while dear Wingyatt was passed out~

Blood and far less pleasant things splattered over Crispin. Remoulade herself barely managed to dodge the sanguine shrapnel. Cackling at the look on the half-ghost’s face, Wingyatt took three wobbling steps forward before collapsing into an inebriated heap.

Remoulade was glad Wingyatt had been able to break away from Charles and make his way to her, but it would have been nice if the vulture hadn’t gotten so sauced first. At the very least, he could have brought a little bit of Nasties’ fine brandy with him, Remoulade thought as she shrugged off the night’s cold.

Thinking to let some work warm her body, Remoulade jumped up onto the cart and began to lift the driver’s corpse, only to be interrupted by Crispin.

“What do you think you’re doing?” said the young man, unexpected heat in his tone. “Since we could use the cart to catch up with your body, so...” she replied with a casual shrug as she hoisted the dead smuggler over the side of the cart.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Isn’t it your job to take care of the dead, though?” “Process,” Remoulade corrected. “No care required. Even says so in my contract. Besides, I already saw to him.” Noting Crispin’s confusion, Remoulade clarified, “I think his name was Giuseppe the Elder or something. Anyways, he showed up in my line well before you.”

“He was surprisingly polite and concerned for the state of his eternal soul, considering his line of work.” At this moment, it dawned on Remoulade that the driver’s concerns might have to do with the unintentional murder of the young man glaring up at her.

Letting out another long, prophesied sigh of agitation as Crispin continued to glare, Remoulade bent down and threw a bundle of clothes at him. “If you’re not going to help, the least you can do is put something on.” “What? Oh, Lady bless me! Where are my clothes?”

With the mists of Remoulade’s office no longer there to lend Crispin a modesty cover, the unfortunate young man had finally realized he was naked as the day he was born—at least, Remoulade assumed humans were born naked. It said so in one of her books.

Grabbing the garments she had flung at him, Crispin dashed toward the nearby copse of trees, already trying to slide on the pants as he made his retreat.

Remoulade wondered if the young man realized how lucky he was that old Giuseppe had been kind enough to undress him before dumping his seemingly dead corpse in a shallow grave, but judged Crispin might not be in an appreciative mood.

Rifling through the carter’s personal effects, Remoulade found a few old blankets and, using one, began to wipe away what she could of the blood before relocating her unconscious assistant to the back of the cart.

That done, Remoulade’s ears perked up, and turning, she realized that Crispin had returned. Once more dressed, the young man was attempting to drag the mangled corpse of the cart driver toward the ditch.

Crispin’s expression was tight, somewhere between nauseous and heartbroken. Jumping down from the cart, Remoulade grabbed the corpse’s feet, and together they placed the old man as gently and with as much solemnity as they could to rest.

With that done, Crispin began rolling his shoulders as he walked back to the cart. Curious, Remoulade watched the man as he began to inspect the cart.

Making a slow circle about it, and dodging away from the now calm cow’s affectionate tongue, Crispin crouched down to inspect the wagon’s wheels, all the while talking to himself.

Wiggling his way under the cart to check its shaft, Crispin muttered, “I might be a poor carpenter compared to my cousins, but....”

**

=="And then he says 'I still know my way around wood" finished Remoulade.== “Does he then?” asked Wingyatt, casting a quizzical eye at the back of Crispin’s head. “Well, he got this old, rickety thing rolling, didn’t he?” Remoulade replied. “I suppose he did at that,” agreed the vulture, somehow sounding proud though he had nothing to do with the cart’s repair.

“Anyways,” continued Remoulade, “once Crispin made his peace with the passing of old Giuseppe, we were able to get the cart hooked up to the big brute,” gesturing to the gentle giant that pulled the tiny cart. “And then we just drove down into the city. Guards didn’t even blink an eye.”

“No surprise there,” quipped Wingyatt. “Oh, how so?” “Place like this, city watch has to be on the take. Everything would break down otherwise.” “Well, aren’t you the worldly traveler,” drawled Remoulade. “I’d do more traveling if I could drag you away from your cave.” “Our cave, but I’ll take it under consideration.” “Truly?” A near-boyish note of excitement entered her assistant’s voice. “Probably,” said Remoulade, her own tones shifting to teasing.

A subtle cough cut through Remoulade and Wingyatt’s insouciant discussion on the merits of travel. “Pardon, Ms. Remoulade,” said Crispin, his previous sullen demeanor seeming to have evaporated, “but the compass you gave me seems to be acting up,” and tossed it to her.

This was poor timing, as they were just going around a corner and the young man’s aim had been off. Fast for one not used to physical rigor, Remoulade leapt to catch the fine burnished compass.

Tangling its chain in her fingers, Remoulade found herself dangling off the side of the cart and may have gone tumbling down into the canal below if not for loyal Wingyatt. Feeling a thrill and terror only comparable to the times she’d gambled away her yearly vacation, Remoulade shot a cold glare at Crispin.

The unmoored soul seemed sheepish, even apologetic. Remoulade wondered, though, if this was that evil and pernicious thing: malicious incompetence. Putting aside such thoughts along with any intent for retribution, Remoulade inspected the compass by which they were tracking Crispin’s body snatcher.

The so-called compass Crispin had tossed her way wasn’t exactly that, but more a way of finding out where to send a spirit when they were lost or in the wrong place. As such, it was technically not Remoulade’s possession, and if lost, she would have had to either report it and file a requisition for a replacement or have Wingyatt filch it from office supplies.

Rather than the standard nomenclature found on a compass, it was made up of three concentric rings that kept spinning. Reading the device, Remoulade began to grow both concerned and confused. If she was interpreting correctly, their quarry was right on top of them.