An unexpected oath. Eyes filled with darkness and death. The threat of holy water. The banshee’s strange request. Sealing the deal.

No spears blocked their way, and there wasn’t any daggers, but Sal was annoyed to find his bedding scattered around his room. He’d made his bed so carefully. Checking, the bed was turned upside down, and the desk and chair were on top of it. The wardrobe had been turned to face the wall. If he’d had anything inside of it, that might’ve been problem, but all he had were his own clothes.

They tried the left-side door, and it took some shoving, but they pushed the trunks away—both had been stacked in front of it. They bustled into the room but paused at the bottom of the ladder. Up in the attic was where the real fun would begin.

Though it was chilly, Fabrizio wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Should I take this as a good sign? Oh boy, I don’t know, but it seems the banshee knows what’s coming. Hey, ghost, sorry to come and, uh, kick you out, but you can’t go around trying to murder the rightful owner of this café.”

That brought shrieks of laughter, loud laughter, from above.

Fabrizio covered his ears.

Sal suffered through the explosion, and he felt Betty wrestling around in his pocket, probably hurting more than either of them.

“You are the rightful owner, right, Sal?” Fabrizio asked.

Now the ghost was very quiet.

The Dark Lord tried to figure out what to say. The truth was that no one seemed to own any of the buildings in Champion Plaza. He returned to what Betty had said at the beginning of his adventures. “I’m here to do some good, Fabrizio. Do I have the deed to this building? No. Will I take care of it and make the city a better place? Yes. Yes, I will.”

Fabrizio squeezed his eyes shut. “I hate moral quandaries. They’re all so gray and ambiguous. Do you promise to open the diner and help people?”

Sal saw he was dangerously close to being forced to take an oath, which in this case, probably meant he’d die if he broke it. “I will not be able to provide free food to my patrons, yet at the same time, greed will not be my driving force. I will provide food, employment, pay my taxes, and perhaps find a way to bring other industry to Champion Plaza. You have my word.”

Wait. What just happened? He waited for a Diagraff message, but none came.

Again, silence from the ghost—no screaming, no shrieking, no laughter that sounded like church bells peeling and threatening to destroy the entire word with noise.

“I’m going to hold you to that,” the Ponti said with a smile, dimples, dark eyes, and all.

Sal sighed. “I know. Let’s just take care of the ghost, so I can sleep in at least one morning a week.” He knew what he’d just signed up for. Running a restaurant was a calling, in and of itself, and he would have to be as committed to his business as Fabrizio was to his chapel. Maybe even a little more so, because he wouldn’t have the mother church helping him if his profits failed.

The Ponti pointed. “I’ll, uh, come up in a moment. But if you’d like to go first, that would be, uh, great, because, I’m, well, you know...”

“Weary under the weight of your fear?”

Fabrizio grinned nervously. “Glad you didn’t say beleaguered by my own cowardice. So glad you’re not using the word cowardice at all.”

“Never. You are here, my friend. Bravery isn’t lack of fear, that’s foolhardiness. Bravery is walking through your fear afraid.”

“Oh boy, I’m sure doing that all right.”

The former Dark Lord was very proud of his new friend. He took hold of the rungs and clambered up the ladder and into the attic.

He was met with shrieks and chains rattling and a huge thump from his left. That was the chest rolling over onto its side. On his right, the pale-faced woman with all that dark hair screamed at him. Her eyes were twin voids promising annihilation of mind, body, and spirit.

Part of him thought the theatrics were a good sign. She knew what was coming. Another part was pretty sure she would open her mouth and speak to him, which if the lore was correct, would kill him and the Ponti on the spot.

Banshees would scream to frighten people away, but every one of their actual spoken words acted like a dagger in the heart.

“Is it okay up there?” Fabrizio called in a trembling voice.

Sal so wanted to lie. He couldn’t. “No, my friend, it is a horror. However, we are here to deal with the horror.” He held up his hand. “Not that I am implying you are a horror, spirit. Nonetheless, you must be cognizant that this horrific scene is uncomfortable for both the living and the sane.”

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That brought out another scream, and for a second, all Sal saw was a cavernous maw in the pale face, eclipsing the rather attractive nose and those twin abysmal eye sockets.

“Fabrizio, I think our time is short,” Sal said, mouth suddenly dry. “Have faith. Yeshu is with you.” Or that was the hope, though with how fickle gods could be, perhaps Grandfather Breath’s grandson had other ideas. Praying to the dark god, the Bad Dad, somehow felt easier.

For a long moment, Sal thought Fabrizio would stay down there, but no, the Ponti scrambled up, shoved his way past the Dark Lord, and started unpacking. First thing he did was light three candles with a sparkstick, murmuring, “For Grandmother Maker, for Grandfather Breath, for the good grandson who wrote the first book.”

It was the Trionic blessing, the comforting trinity of gods that didn’t have the issues some of the other gods had.

The ghost in the shadows screamed again, and this time, a freezing wind swept across them, and the trunk thumped back onto its bottom. The candles flickered, almost went out, but the flames stayed strong, a testament to Fabrizio’s faith.

Sal found mad laughter inside him. “Am I wrong to enjoy the chill? For long hours, the afternoon inferno boiled my blood.”

He heard Betty squeak. “That was a good one.”

Fabrizio was as white as the ghost’s pale cheeks. He didn’t comment, but was murmuring more prayers, and opening up Yeshu’s Book. He held it in his left hand, a ribbon acting as bookmark draping down from the page he’d marked. In his right hand, he held a vial of holy water. He gulped in a breath. “I don’t want to splash you with holy water. You know the deal, ma’am, this is where I call down the wrath of the gods on you. Just, uh, leave, why don’t you?”

The woman’s face was back to normal, well, normalish. Her black eyes were sunken into the pale spectral flesh. Her hair was standing at end like a midnight halo.

On the wall, ice cracked as frost formed, and there were more words there. I do not want to leave. I want to stay.

“Oh boy,” Fabrizio whispered. “She’s not gonna go quietly.”

Sal laughed nervously. “I would assume more screaming is on the horizon. Yet, she does not speak words. She does not want us dead.”

Frost popped and creaked as the words changed. That is presumptuous. I have tried to slay you at every turn.

Sal shook his head. “You have the means to kill me outright, spirit. One word would send me back to the Abyssmuck.” The words escaped him before he could stop himself. It was so cold, and he knew he stood on the razor’s edge between life and death.

Fabrizio didn’t seem to notice Sal’s slipup. The Ponti was reading from Yeshu’s book, the vial of holy water in his hand. He glanced up. Mist puffed from his lips as he spoke. “One splash and you’re gone. I think. I would hope. No, no, no, it would work. I have so much faith right now.”

Did the banshee smile? Yes, she did smile, and it was charming. Those black eyes glittered with amusement.

Sal wanted to hurry on to cover his mistaken reference to the Abyssmuck. “If leaving is not pleasing to you, what do you wish?”

More frosty words on the wall. To stay. Perhaps a job. Will you be true to your oath? Will you open the diner?

Sal winced. “So you heard that? It seems the very gods themselves want this cursed café open. I will endeavor to open a thriving business to feed the hungry people of this city. Why do you ask? Are you seeking employment.”

The banshee seemed torn. Then her smile and amusement were gone. She seemed to gaze into Sal’s very soul. On the wall appeared a very significant question. Are you a changed man?

It hit the former Dark Lord like an a Gorbin ax to his skull. “That is my hope. Do I have faith in myself? No, I do not. Do I have faith in this Pontifex to keep me right? I believe I do.”

He turned and saw the Ponti looking at him, and there was bright expectation in his dark eyes. And yes, some love.

The pair had become fast friends. It was the essence of irony, and yet, it was a powerful story, repeated often—a holy man befriends a fallen man, and together, they are healed.

Water ran down the wall from the melting ice, but her reply soon was visible. Let me stay. I will aid you in your endeavors. I, too, will keep you on the righteous path.

“That is going a bit far, I think,” Sal said with some bitterness. “I doubt I shall I ever walk the righteous path. Though, in my present state, I am being forced to wear the chains of righteousness. I am surprised to find I do not mind the weight. Perhaps, I will even begin to enjoy the burdens of goodness.” He thought of the short sword and the four brigands. He thought of finding the Gorbin library in the crypt instead of the treasure, and how it was somewhat of a relief that he hadn’t been given riches. He thought of all the challenges he’d already faced, without lying, without stealing, without killing. He was proud of himself.

His bitterness was gone. “To be honest, I am already am.”

The banshee approached him. Her hair had relaxed, and she looked more human than ever. She held out a pale hand.

She wanted him to take it, to shake hands, to make some kind of deal.

Clasping hands with a spirit, demon, or otherwise unhinged entity was never a good idea, and yet, Sal found he trusted the banshee. She could’ve killed him, but she hadn’t. And he knew why. She’d heard his conversation with Betty Don’t-Bite. She knew about Sal’s Mysterious Benefactor. And then he remembered the first frosty words he’d seen. She knew who he was.

Sal took the cold hand in his, and in that instant, he felt a strange power flow from him, and he thought of his strangely locked Diagraff Vitalis. His resurrection hadn’t only altered his body, it had altered his very soul as well.

<<<>>>

We have a whole laundry list of goodness! Karmic Gauge increased by 7%. Taking an oath! Helping a ghost! Encouraging a friend!

Current Karmic Gauge: 16% (A cheery reddish orange color! You’re almost out of the red!)

<<<>>>

Sal didn’t know what that all meant, though he found it encouraging. Before he could truly consider the implications, the ghost in front of him changed. Color returned to her cheeks, and while she was still transparent and ghostly, she took on a more corporeal form. He saw the lines in the linen gown she wore, and glancing down, he could make out every one of her toes on her feet. She was there, in some possible way, with a far more substantial body.

Ice creaked across the wall. Then we have a deal.

The banshee then turned transparent again before fading away completely.

The Ponti blew out a breath. “Uh, what just happened? And where is the trunk and all those chains?”

Sal and Fabrizio were alone once more.