The waters of the river are tranquil, broken only by the hull of the Danse Macabre as it moves forward. The slight shift in the cool waters brings a wave of warmth over the creature below the surface.
The kraken, who often thinks of herself as Luella (her name in the native Kraken language, Akkarish, is practically unpronounceable without a siphon, beak, and a couple tentacles), awakens slowly, stretching languidly, casually making her way to the surface. When her head pokes up out of the water, she blinks against the brightness of the constellations above as she takes note of her surroundings. River quadrant 3, she thinks. Along the Gorgon’s Trail.
The ship is just passing by her now, and she can tell it is on its first voyage. It still smells new, and she can feel it against her tentacles, a light touch of iron and paint. There’s no rust or barnacles; the hull of the Danse Macabre shines almost as bright as the stars.
She blinks, mentally calculating the number of souls occupying the vessel. Six…No, seven. One of them is still alive, and she almost didn’t recognize its song, which is an awkward, jittery sort of tapping rhythm.
To be alive in Death was once an unusual thing, but it has, in her experience, become marginally commonplace since the establishment of the Passport Services office, bringing a handful of living souls to these waters over the past few centuries. Regardless of permissibility, she has always wondered what would bring a live soul to the cold waves of the river. Why not use the passport to pass through a sanctioned doorway?
Oh yes—she knows about the doors. Her tentacles are everywhere in these waters, and she remembers a time when doorways were forbidden and Souls Town was nothing more than a broken piece of wood and a reluctant traveler.
Curious, she creeps forward, her tentacles brushing against the bottom of the hull, tasting the metallic tang of iron and something else—a sweet pomegranate tinge that reminds her of the Cocytus. She had a sister who lived there once; perhaps she should visit soon.
She presses forward, moving in pace with the ship and—yes, there he is, she thinks, looking through the window of Cabin Two. Oh, he’s young, she realizes quickly. Though, strangely, his soul is roughly three hours older than his body.
That’s the price to pay for traveling in cold waters like these, she thinks. She watches him through the window as he stares blankly at a young woman. Despite the fact that the young woman is dead, Luella can tell that she is stunningly beautiful. She looks like sunshine—something Luella hasn’t seen in a very long time indeed.
There’s something strange about her light, though. It seems to expand outward, much like Luella’s tentacles, particles of energy sparking against the very fabric of Death.
How odd.
As Luella watches, the young man says something that makes the woman’s shoulders hunch upward in a defensive stance. Then, he shakes his head. The woman takes a step forward, but then stops.
Whatever he says next, makes her take a step away from him, as if being cornered by a predator. He reaches for her, but she backs away, her hair whipping around her shoulders as she shakes her head.
He gives her a steely look and then stuffs his hands into the pocket of his coat, before leaving the room. Luella watches for a second longer, sees the young woman collapse on the bed in tears, and then redirects her attention to the young man, who is walking along the open pathway between the cabins and the railing that marks the edge of the boat.
A few feet behind him, she sees another figure, shorter, but wearing a coat just as bulky as his, walking quickly. The second figure is too busy glancing behind them and a moment later, the inevitable happens: the second figure bumps into the young man with a gruff “Oof.”
A word or two is exchanged, though Luella can’t hear the specifics. The second figure pushes past the young man and a moment later, they disappear around a metal staircase.
Luella keeps her focus on the young man this time. He sighs, then follows in the same direction as the second figure, yet turns sharply to make his way to the port side of the Danse Macabre.
Luella dips back below the surface and pushes herself underneath the ship, to pop her head up on the other side, just in time to see the man knock on Cabin Five.
When the door opens, she can just make out the silhouette of another young woman with short dark hair. Not as attractive as the other one—the shining one the man was with before—but powerful. A witch, she thinks. One of Charon’s chosen, though her bloodline is so far diluted, she probably doesn’t realize the power humming inside of her.
The witch lets the man into her cabin and closes the door. Unfortunately for Luella—but fortunately for them, most likely—the curtains are closed.
He doesn’t stay long, however. Luella, still infinitely curious, follows his shadow as he makes his way up a wrought-iron circular staircase and into a room on top. A light flicks on, filtering through the stained-glass mural that adorns the balcony doors, casting rainbow-colored shadows against the water below. The doors open and the young man walks out, carrying a bottle of caramel-colored liquid and one glass. He pops open the bottle and pours a healthy splash into the glass. He leans against the railing and looks out at the inky-black expanse before him.
Can he see her, she wonders? Most likely not, she decides. Her camouflage is quite good and living boys don’t often have the best eyesight. As she has heard, they often fail to see what is right in front of them. Then again, she’s heard the same about dead boys, so maybe the state of living isn’t really the issue.
Suddenly, Luella sees a second shadow sneaking its way closer to the young man, looming behind him as if to swallow him up. She thinks about raising a tentacle to let the young man know he has company, but before she can move, the newcomer makes a strange sort of lunging motion toward the man. There is a shout, the sounds of struggle, a grunt of effort, and then a plop.
Something has fallen into the water, and she dips back below to reach a tentacle out, to rescue the object from the deep and return it to the man.
But when she pokes above the surface again, the man is gone, as is his attacker.
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The next day dawns dark, as do all days on the river. There is just a haze of purple where the water meets the sky, a suggestion of dawn, a nudge of a new day.
Penelope awakes alone, a flush of regret tingling down her body as she remembers her words from the night before, thrown harshly and without care, and yet with the exact precision of a professional archer; she knew they hit their target when he gave her a steely look and left.
She stubbornly went about her nightly routine, removing her makeup as she mumbled justifications for her words. She continued to hold onto her own sense of righteousness as she slipped angrily under the covers and tugged them up to her chin. After a moment of thought, she shifted to the middle of the bed and spitefully tucked the quilt around her, so that when Beau returned, he would be forced to sleep on the very edge and without a blanket.
She let her consciousness wander into sleep, waking only once to readjust the blanket. She did not wake up enough to realize that Beau still hadn’t returned to their cabin.
So, when her alarm goes off in the morning and the edges of the bed are cold and empty, whatever comfort she took from being right fades quickly.
Penelope slips out of bed to go in search of Beau. She starts with the dining room, which she remembers having a small seating area tucked into the corner. She assumes he went in search of a lighter, found a bottle of whiskey, and passed out on the small settee.
Yes, that’s most likely, she thinks, because where else would he go to sleep?
The realization that there is another place he would go hits her so forcefully, she almost misses a step as she makes her way to the upper deck. She grips the metal railing and continues up, as she wishes, with a false sense of hope, that Beau is snoring away obnoxiously in the dining room, and not in someone else’s bed.
And yet, when she opens the door, the room is empty. She does, however, find a crumpled pack of cigarettes on the bar, next to a conspicuously blank space where a bottle of whiskey should be.
“Italian,” she mumbles to herself, noting the expensive label on the cigarettes and the sweet clove smell in the air. He was here, at least.
Out on the observation deck, she finds a broken glass, its former contents spilled over the edge of the boat in the night. She picks up a wedge of glass and sniffs. Notes of smoke and caramel and an earthiness that makes her grimace.
She lets the glass fall back to the deck as she grits her teeth, fingers clenching in anger or anxiety, or, most probably, something more akin to heartbreak.
She makes her way through the dining room and back down the spiral stairs to Cabin Five, on the port side of the boat. It was foolish of her to even check upstairs. She should have gone straight to Frankie.
Because that’s clearly what Beau did.
That’s what Beau will always do, she realizes, as she knocks on the door with little care for the slumbering occupants inside. She doesn’t care that she might wake the other passengers either. She knocks louder, thinking about the weird twisted thing Beau and Frankie seem to share; they are tangled up in each other, and Penelope can’t ignore it any further. She refuses to be treated this way—
The door swings back, right as Penelope is about to knock a third time, and Frankie stands in the doorway, blinking sleepily while hiding a yawn.
Frankie adjusts her glasses with her free hand and blinks again. “What—?”
“Where is he?” Penelope shoulders her way into the room, noting the mussed sheets, the articles of clothing strewn on the floor, surreptitiously searching for something of Beau’s. The door to the bathroom is open, the lights turned off, but, still, she peers into the dark tiled room, takes note of the single, lone toothbrush resting against the edge of the porcelain sink.
Frankie is frowning as Penelope turns to face her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says sleepily, shrugging on her coat over her pajamas.
“Beau. He wasn’t in our room and he’s not in the dining area.”
“Maybe he’s watching the star-rise on the deck?”
“He’s not there.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not blind.”
Frankie arranges her beret on top of her messy bob and hides another yawn. “Well, maybe you just missed him—”
“He didn’t come back to our cabin last night. Are you really telling me that he didn’t come here?”
Frankie’s cheeks turn pink. “I didn’t—it wasn’t—that’s not what—that’s not what happened. He was here, but then he left.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think I’d need an alibi.”
“Frankie, if you’re—”
“If I’m what?” asks Frankie, rummaging through her messenger bag, “Lying? Penelope, why would I lie about this?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.” Penelope watches as Frankie leans further into her bag, up to her shoulder. “What are you doing?”
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Looking for my phone—ah, here it is.” She pulls the phone out and tosses her bag onto the bed. Penelope waits while Frankie navigates to her contacts and hits the send button. She leans in close to listen, and Frankie angles the phone so they can both hear. It rings for a few agonizingly slow seconds and then an error noise sounds followed by a friendly female voice saying, “We’re sorry. This number is out of the available service range and could not be reached.”
Penelope makes a small grunt of frustration. “Well, he must be here somewhere. He wasn’t in our cabin. He wasn’t in the dining room or on the upper observation deck.”
“What about the lower one?” offers Frankie.
Penelope narrows her gaze and crosses her arms. Then, she turns swiftly on her heel and leaves.
Frankie follows after her, tugging her coat tighter around her body. They skirt the metal staircase that leads up to the dining room and make their way through a large porthole that acts as a door to the lower observation deck.
They are confronted with the inky dark dawn of Death, broken only by the lone figure of Captain Jasper in his neatly pressed white jacket and navy striped shirt. He takes a puff of his pipe and exhales the smoke slowly as he watches the constellations twinkle into existence, awakening from their slumber.
“Captain Jasper! Have you seen Beau?” asks Penelope.
Captain Jasper jumps slightly at the forcefulness of Penelope’s tone, but recovers quickly, shaking his head with a hiss. “Not seen anyone today besides you two.”
“Where could he be?” she mumbles, looking out at the horizon. She isn’t sure if she’s asking the two beside her or some abstract concept of fate. As Frankie and Captain Jasper talk, she repeats the phrase quietly to herself, like an incantation. She grips the railing, feeling the breeze whip her hair around her shoulders. She licks her lips, now coated with a thin layer of salt from the river, and she asks it again, as she watches the purple in the distance continue to bloom in the sky, like ink dropped in water—and yet the few constellations that have awoken are rapidly being covered by dark wisps of clouds and the wind seems to shift, picking up force, turning colder.
“Where else could he be?” she asks, and this time, she aims the question at Frankie.
Captain Jasper answers. “There’s an empty cabin. Have you checked there?”
The empty cabin is at the end of the row on the port side of the boat, Cabin Six. It shares a wall with Mrs. Brightly in Cabin Five and a back wall with Alistair, who is on the starboard side in Cabin One. Penelope wrenches the door open without knocking, but the room is dark and empty.
“Maybe he’s…” begins Frankie, biting her lip in thought. She lets her arms fall down to her sides with a shake of her head “I don’t know,” she admits. “Is there anywhere else on this boat to hide?”
Captain Jasper considers this but ultimately shakes his head. “Unless he’s in someone else’s cabin.”
“So, we wake everyone up,” says Frankie, glancing worriedly at Penelope. Outside, a low rolling boom of thunder spreads out around the boat, shaking the windows. The wind screams against swan figurehead. “We’ll meet in the dining room and do a head count.”
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The atmosphere in the dining room is tense; the guests of the Danse Macabre were not expecting to be so rudely roused by a teenage girl demanding their presence so early in the morning, and after a particularly late, drink-heavy night, too.
“Where is he?” she demands, standing in the center of the room with hands on hips and lips trembling with unshed tears.
The dining table is already laden with breakfast, and the passengers are silent, sharing pointed looks with furrowed brows or wide-eyed confusion.
“Beau seems to have disappeared,” clarifies Frankie. “Has anyone seen him this morning?”
“Up until a few minutes ago,” says Mrs. Brightly, reaching for a piece of toast, “I was sleeping in my cabin. We all were. When would any of us have seen him?”
“Maybe he got locked in a broom closet,” suggests Matilda, taking a bite of her scone. Behind her, the stained-glass windows darken to navy blue and burnt umber as purple clouds edged in green gather in the sky, stealing away what little light there is. The orange-tinted light bulbs in the dining room cast a warm haze in contrast. Outside, the wind picks up, and the ship wobbles over the waves with a creak of protest.
“Maybe he fell overboard,” says Alistair, before taking a sip of his tea.
“More likely he was pushed,” mumbles Mrs. Brightly.
A crack of lightning reverberates against the advertisement for Othello in Space. The two swordsmen look nervously toward the horizon.
Penelope crosses her arms. “What does that mean?”
“The walls are thin, that’s all,” replies Mrs. Brightly. She turns to address the room. “They were arguing well into the night. I think we should ask her what they were arguing about.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“And anyway,” begins Frankie, clutching the corner of the bar as a wave knocks the boat about. “Beau is an excellent swimmer. There’s a lifeboat on the other side of the ship. He could have swum around and climbed back up.”
“What if he was unconscious?” asks Matilda. “He could have drowned. Or been eaten by the kraken.”
“I think Luella is vegetarian these days,” interjects Captain Jasper.
“If he died, he’d still be here,” points out Penelope. She looks at Frankie. “Right?”
Frankie nods. “Yes. But he might not be here here. He could be back at Souls Town.”
“So, we just wait,” the captain says, with a clap of his hands. “The boy will probably make the journey over on the Stygian Jewel and you’ll see him again in no time.”
A roll of thunder echoes around the room, swallowing whatever Penelope had been about to say. Captain Jasper looks out the windows and hisses. “That storm is coming in quick. We won’t be able to see the stars soon.”
“Is that bad?” asks Frankie, pushing her glasses further up her nose.
“Let’s just say that I’ve been navigating these waters longer than you were alive, and I’ve never encountered a storm.” His green complexion looks pale, bordering on sea foam.
“Not one?”
“Never. It doesn’t rain here, this far out from Souls Town.”
“Then why is it raining now?”
“It doesn’t matter,” says Penelope, suddenly, as she plops down on the settee. Her voice is dull as she adds, “He’s gone.”
“Penelope, I’m sure he’ll be—”
“No.” She shakes her head. “He’s gone.”
Her declaration is joined by the patter of raindrops against the darkened windows of the Danse Macabre.
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Penelope watches the rain slide down the window in her cabin. The Danse Macabre is anchored; the weather conditions have turned the river unnavigable and the captain has decided to wait out the storm.
Could Beau have fallen overboard, Penelope wonders. He’s an excellent swimmer but if he was drunk and hurt himself…who knows? Not to mention whatever lies beneath the depths of the river—something could have snatched him up before he made it to the lifeboat. She has seen tentacles rise from the river’s inky depths and, once, while on the Stygian Jewel, she saw a whale tail break the surface.
But even if he succumbed to some creature of the deep or he drowned, Penelope knows what happens when one dies. “He should still be here,” she says to the nearly-empty bottle of wine sitting next to her.
She takes a sip, hardly tasting the dry apricot and plum flavors.
He must be in Souls Town, like Frankie suggested. Or maybe he’s on the ferry making his way to orientation? Maybe he’s in Death proper already, waiting at her doorstep. She should have given him a key to her place months ago.
She can’t stop thinking about his words from last night, can’t stop the defeated, dull tone of his voice from echoing in her mind as he shook his head and asked, “Do you want me to die for you?”
The memory of her reply, so final, her voice too high-pitched with emotion, stings as it comes back to her. “Yes.”
A crack of lightning brings her back to the present, and she looks apprehensively at the window, watching as the raindrops chase each other down the glass. The captain had been equally concerned about the storm and somewhat baffled too. She recalls a similar look on Mr. Fergus’s face in the Next Step office as a crack of lightning struck the branch outside. She thought little of it at the time; for all she knew of Death, it could be plagued by rogue lightning bolts.
She can do the math, however, and adding together the worried expressions with the lightning then, and now this storm, she can see the common variable.
Her.
She feels a flush of fear, which corresponds with a boom of thunder that shakes the window. There’s something wrong with her, and she crumples into tears again, overwhelmed with the knowledge that she is a terrible girlfriend and a dysfunctional ghost and she can’t do anything right—
A knock on her cabin door startles her. “Who is it?”
“It’s me. Frankie. We need to talk.”
She doesn’t reply.
“Penelope, please.” Frankie tests the door handle and finds it unlocked. She makes her way into the room cautiously, closing the door behind her with a quiet click.
Penelope sniffs and refills her glass. “You were the last one to see him, weren’t you?”
“I think so, yes—but Penelope, it’s not what it sounds like. He came to my room, but only to talk. He didn’t stay long.”
“And why should I believe you?”
“Because he wouldn’t do that to you.”
Frankie’s words settle between them and for a second, Penelope isn’t sure what to feel. She is numb with too many emotions. Then, she begins to cry in earnest, burying her face in her hands.
A moment later, she feels Frankie sit down next to her, the bed shifting slightly with her weight. Another moment of hesitation, and then Frankie’s hand is on her shoulder, so light it might as well not be there.
“He mentioned you fought,” she says quietly.
Penelope’s voice is muffled as she replies. “It was stupid. I was just being jealous and petty. I wouldn’t kill him just because we argued.”
“I know. You’re far too strategic for that.”
It takes Penelope a few seconds to place Frankie’s tone, a mix between sarcasm and honesty. Penelope looks up, startled, but finds Frankie’s smirk to be more amused than cruel. But then Frankie’s mouth turns down into a frown. “But something happened to him last night, and I don’t think it was an accident.”
“What do you mean?”
Frankie leans closer and whispers, “I think Matilda is hiding something.” She glances to the door, as if worried about who may be on the opposite side. She shifts closer. “Last night, he told me that he saw Matilda in the hallway and that she looked skittish, like she was hiding something. Doing something she wasn’t supposed to be doing. He also said that he thinks she’s carrying something illegal.”
“The brown package she dropped before she boarded?”
Frankie nods.
“So, you’re saying Beau saw something that he shouldn’t have seen, and Matilda killed him to keep him quiet?”
Frankie shrugs. “People have killed for less.”
“True. So, what do we do?”
“We investigate.”
“Together?”
Frankie grimaces and adjusts her glasses. “Look, I know we don’t get along. I know…I know I’m the reason you’re here and I apologize for that. I’m truly sorry. But we both care about him. Something happened and we’re the only ones who care enough to ask questions. Besides, we’re stuck here for the foreseeable future—might as well make good use of our time.”
Penelope briefly wonders if she should share her theory about the storm, but something stops her. What if she’s wrong? One problem at a time, she thinks. Instead, she says, “Shouldn’t we call…I don’t know. The police or something?”
“Death doesn’t really have police.” Frankie scrunches her face in apology. She uses a knuckle to adjust her glasses again. “At least, not for things like murder, if that’s what happened to Beau. Not much point considering most everyone here is dead already. Which makes it all the more important that we investigate. The River Guard won’t care.” She shifts, bending her leg up onto the bed so she can lean closer to Penelope. “If he was murdered, we’re the only ones who will care. I won’t stand by and let someone get away with that.”
Penelope purses her lips in thought. Frankie’s right, of course: if Beau died, it’s really just a matter of finding him. The broken glass by the edge of the upper deck points toward Beau falling overboard, but she has never known him to be a clumsy person, even when drinking.
She ponders Frankie’s theory about Matilda. If Frankie is right, and Matilda did have something to gain from Beau’s death, then it’s plausible that she took matters into her own hands. She can’t imagine the slim, nervous woman overpowering Beau enough to toss him overboard, but perhaps she has some special power? Perhaps, in much the same way as Penelope controlling the weather, Matilda has super strength? Maybe superpowers come with death and it’s so commonplace, no one talks about it. Then again, maybe Beau didn’t fall overboard. Their fight last night comes back to her, haunting her.
Do you want me to die for you?
Yes.
Could Beau have done something stupid at her behest? The thought sends a shiver down her spine.
Regardless, Penelope does want answers.
But can she work with her own accidental-murderer to solve this mystery? Maybe, she thinks. Frankie knows more about Death than she does. It’s her job for Charon’s sake.
And what would Penelope bring to the table? She isn’t a detective. She’s a personal stylist. She takes a moment to eye Frankie’s attire, to note how her shoulders slump forward to fill up the bulk of the coat, broken up only by the messenger bag slung across her chest.
It’s not a terrible coat, perhaps if she rolled up the sleeves and paired it with a slimmer-cut pant? Frankie’s face is almost completely hidden by her glasses, which is a shame, since her eyes are a lovely shade of green. The beret she wears is lopsided, but even Penelope can admit that the angle is surprisingly chic.
Frankie grimaces under Penelope’s scrutiny and tugs the coat tighter around herself. “What?”
“Oh nothing. I just wonder if maybe you should be wearing a deerstalker instead of a beret.” Penelope places her wine glass on the bedside table and sits up straighter, decision firmly made. “Right, well, first thing we need to do is find what Matilda is hiding, and see if it’s worth killing over.”
Frankie nods. “Right. I’ll search her cabin if you can keep her occupied.”
“Why can’t I search her cabin?”
“Because you’re better at talking to people.”
Penelope raises an eyebrow at the compliment, whether it was intended as such or not. “You’re right,” she says. “I’m far less socially awkward than you.”
For a moment, Penelope worries that her words are a little too harsh (one of the things Beau said last night is that she can be cruel at times, a hard truth that she is trying to acknowledge and atone for) but Frankie just smirks. “Truer words.”