Sunrise scream. Two spears. The murderous miscreant. Well water and another church. GuNakt’s criticism. The eternity until dinner.

Sal went to bed that night in the upstairs room, the one without the bunks.

He woke the next morning to the screaming, which made his bones shake and sending his heart into a series of rather concerning spasms. Dust sifted down from the boards covering the ceiling, otherwise known as the attic’s floor.

Sal let out a shriek, which wasn’t very Dark Lordly of him, and jerked himself off the straw-filled mattress. There was a spear, right there, and it nearly—very nearly— skewered him. The weapon had been wedged onto the floor, stuck between the desk and the bed. That meant the spirit and/or spirits had moved furniture around.

Not only were they trying to kill him, they were not cognizant of the room’s flow.

The former Dark Lord had dodged the weapon at the last possible second, and he flung it away.

Footsteps pounded across the attic floor above.

He’d moved Betty’s bowl to the windowsill. She yawned, stretching, and then rubbed sleep from her eyes. “That scream is better than any hotel wakeup call I’d ever had. Which, to be honest, is zero. We generally avoid inns because of the cats. Let’s see, that banshee is better than any rooster I’ve ever heard. It’s dawn, pal-o’ mine. Time to rise and shine.”

Sal wasn’t in the mood to exchange pleasantries.

Dressing quickly, he dashed out of his room, into the room to the left, and climbed up the ladder and into the attic. And almost got speared again. His eyes had only adjusted to the darkness for a second when he saw the flash of metal. Another spear, taken from the weapons in the basement.

He saw movement in the shadows across from the window, which was red from the sunrise. Like the rest of the place, the attic had been cleaned out except for a length of chain circling one last trunk on the premises.

That trunk was locked up tight.

The attic itself was freezing, and he wrapped his arms around himself for a little warmth.

The shadow moved, and he saw a pale face staring at him for a moment, and he had the sense of a great deal of unkept black hair and flowing robes, and then the shadow was gone.

On the wall, ice appeared, a spiderweb of cold. Words appeared there, outlined in the frost. You’re a murderous miscreant who doesn’t deserve the breath in your lungs.

Sal exhaled mist as he felt the flesh crawl on the back of his neck. He knocked away the spear and found himself yelling, “I never wanted breath back in my lungs, if you must know. At the very least, phantom, I do not scream every morning like I am having my throat cut! You are dead! Stay dead!”

Of course, nothing was going to answer him, no, which was strange because of the nature of the banshee’s magic. A single word would kill him outright. As it was, the ice outlining the insult were already melting away to nothing.

He went to investigate the trunk, both the thick chains and the box itself were gone. Vanished. Had he only imagined the whole episode? No, the icy words were still there as confirmation. There had to be chains in the building, other than the front door, because he heard them being rattled all the dang time.

He sighed and talked more to the shadow lady who wasn’t there. “I lied. I did want breath back in my lungs, I would think. I cannot recall my time in the Abyssmuck. However, I am fairly certain I would have done anything, made any promise, to be allowed an escape from the torment, an escape back to Torment Island. The irony is not lost on me.”

He didn’t expect an answer. But he was still rather disappointed he didn’t get one, not even one written on the wall.

His stomach growled. He pushed a hand against the pain. “I know, I know, you task me, belly, and yet, I fear I am not up for the work. Not until later this evening. We shall return to accept the Ponti’s hospitality and hope for the sake of the Sacra Famiglia’s continued wealth that he’ll come and try and take care of this cursed banshee!”

But was it the banshee that was trying to kill him? If she did have murderous intentions, all she had to do was talk to him. Perhaps she was simply bad at her job. She did some fairly good haunting—the screams were blood-curdling and a silhouette in a window was always unnerving. He probably should’ve complimented her rather than shout loud nonsense.

He took the spear from the attic and found Betty just slipping out of her bed bowl. “Talking to ghosts, Sal? That can’t be good. Any info?”

“None that I can use,” he said, tapping the spear on the floor. “What are the ethics of supplying murderous brigades with weapons in exchange for goods and services?”

Betty winced, which was unbelievably cute. “Wow, talk about a gray area. If you’re not paying them to kill, and you’re just exchanging goods, I don’t think our Benefactor would mind, but you’re not thinking about employing those four morons? For one thing, they ain’t good-looking, and I only like dealing with pretty people. Yes, I can tell.”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“That seems inconsistent with what you said before, Betty.”

“Half-joking on all accounts.” The mouse wrung her hands. “Yesterday, I left you in the lurch. Today, I’m feeling bad about getting my own breakfast and leaving you here all hungry and looking kinda pathetic.”

Sal waved him on. “Go on. I plan on water and reading to get me through the day while I ponder my next move. I was counting on the chapel’s treasure far more than I realized. I will endeavor to recall other possible caches of use that might benefit my surprising—”

He stopped short when he saw the mouse’s eyes glaze over.

“Right. Simplifying my language would be most beneficial. In my defense, the banshee called me a miscreant. I am a bit unsettled at the idea of sleeping here tonight.”

“So far, so good, though, amiright?” Betty squeaked. “Have fun with your water and reading. But first, give me a lift downstairs.”

Sal carried the little animal god down the steps, walked past the counter, and found the tables and benches in both the counter room and the main dining room all stacked on top of one another. The bodies weren’t there, praise be the Family, and neither were the weapons.

“Weird,” Betty quipped.

He set on the widow seal, and before he could open the shutters, she had wormed her way underneath and was gone.

Swiveling on a boot, the Dark Lord looked on the bright side. At least he had room around the benches to let him sweep up the place again, and this time, he could do a better job.

First, though, we went down into the basement, and stopped short.

All the piles of armor and weapons hung suspended there, and if there was a squad ready to annihilate him. Icy sweat leaked down his sides and the hairs on the back of his neck went rigid.

Then he saw the armor and gear hung from the shelves, on nails, that he hadn’t seen the day before. He touched his heart, got it beating again, and then moved to get a ceramic pot.

He regarded the trapdoor to the subbasement and knew he’d have to do a little more exploring at some point, but he wasn’t in the mood right then.

Up the stairs and out the door he went.

He cut down a narrow lane and came to the well outside the Church of the Sacred Family. He took a second to walk around in front of the cathedral, to admire the sculptures of all seven of the gods and goddesses—two grandparents, probably the best and most powerful, then the two troubled parents Madra the Warrior Goddess and Alikor the Bad Dad, and then the three children—Yeshu, Mendica, and Venita.

“If I were a praying man, I would pray to you, Mendica the Penniless. If you have it in your heart, help a fellow beggar today. The Ponti was right. I do need guidance.”

While Yeshu was scholarly, and Mendica was beggarly, Venita was her mother’s daughter. Like Madra, Venita of the Wind was a powerful warrior goddess, but unlike her mother, her questing weren’t all that noteworthy. Venita had issues, like all of the Sacra Famiglia.

Sal went to the well, where several local women filled their jugs, talking and laughing.

He filled his own pots and carried them awkwardly on his hips. He’d have to come up with a better way of retrieving water. He spilled half the water getting them back to his cursed café. Well, he needed a quick washup anyway.

Out back in the alley, he splashed his face and washed his unmentionables, and then found he needed to take another trip. He did to get more water, which he drank, and then swept up and unstacked the tables. He sat on a bench at the front window with a view of the dang fountain.

He spent the morning reading The Chronicles of GuNakt, which depressed him more than anything. He took another trip to get more water, and he spent some time inside the cathedral, along with more people, but not as many as there had been at the chapel.

This place was far grander, though, and in a better part of town.

While he sat on the benches behind kneeling seats, a few tourists came in to admire the stained glass—those that were still intact— and the statuary in the sanctuary, where even Alikor was there, the Bad Dad, the original Dark Lord.

It could be that Alikor was Sal’s Benefactor. The god of second chances was Alikor the Unsteady.

And who had damned Sal’s soul in the first place? That was the righteous Madras, the Mother of Warriors and the Goddess of Judgement, firm but supposedly fair.

Visiting the church broke up his day and gave him a break from the heat, but he soon grew tired of the smell of incense and the people whispering their many prayers.

He returned to the café, but was starting to worry about his mouse friend, when she came in and scurried up the infrastructure of the table to get to the top. She then regarded the book.

“What’s it about?”

“Nothing I want to talk about,” he said. Then he said what he was thinking. “I’m going to have to open this café, aren’t? Deal with the curse, find foodstuffs, remember how to cook, and deal with customers.”

“I think that’s right, buddy. But look on the bright side. I’ll be here to help sample your iffy cooking every step of the way!”

“Who says it will be iffy?” he asked darkly.

“Because I’m pretty sure that cooking wasn’t high on your list of skills when you were looking for global domination.”

“I just wanted to…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. It all felt so meaningless, and he felt so heartbroken. The book had revealed several truths that pained his very soul.

“Look on the bright side, chief. You and I can get some good down-home cooking and some extra reading time with the Ponti! Let’s take a quick nap and then head on over to Confusion Street. If we’re really lucky, we’ll run into our four best friends in the world. Fingers crossed.” She held up her tiny pink hands with, yes, her fingers were crossed.

Sal stomped up the steps and found knives in his bed. Literal knives, from the kitchen, thrust through the mattress.

It was obvious, but the point was clear: He was not welcome. And there was some mysterious force that was sure he was a murderous miscreant. According to GuNakt, that was what he was, and in the end, he hadn’t even been very good at that.

Sal was pretty sure it was several eternities until dinnertime, and he thought his chances of making it until then without dying were iffy at best.

So he returned to the book, but he was having trouble concentrating.

He had to get money, and he thought of other treasure troves that might still be around. A few came to mind, including a mansion near the Weeping River. Would it still be there? A lot had changed in a thousand years.

He finally cleared his mind enough to read more about GuNakt’s life as a sorcerer in Sal’s dark army when a peach rolled to his feet. He glanced up.

The fruit had come from the doorway into the kitchen, he was sure of it, but there was nothing there. He gulped in a breath, the hairs on the back of his neck sticking up.

Was the peach poison?

He wasn’t sure, but he was too hungry to stop himself from picking it up. Water made for a poor breakfast. He bit into the peach’s sweet, juicy flesh, and it was so delicious. If it were poison, it would be a good way to die. Again.

In the end, it was just fine, and he was thankful.

Maybe not all of the ghosts in the diner thought he was a miscreant.

The thought made him feel better, though he was well aware his Karmic Gauge was still red. He’d have to be very careful to make sure it didn’t get any redder.