Fan Fiction ❯ A Deadly Gambit ❯ Chapter 2

Trish fished her third bottle out of her jacket, holding one in each hand, and followed Dante, sighing silently in relief as she watched the color enter his coat. They were at the end of a long hallway, closed doors running down one side, windows down the other, and at the very end, she could identify a dining room.

"Doors, a dining room, and those stairs back there," Dante said, but more to himself than to her.

"Let's get through the first level before we change floors," Trish said.

"Yeah." He smirked. "I just can't wait to see what else we have waiting for us."

"Aw, such enthusiasm." Trish stepped past him. "Want me to take point?"

"Yeah. I'll watch your back."

She grinned at the leer in his voice, glancing to him and blew a kiss. "Such hardship, eh?"

"You have no idea."

Trish traded off one of the bottles for a dagger, enchanted to inflict at least some level of damage on otherworldly beings, and moved to the first door, her back to the windows. She was where she wanted to be now, in the lead position. If anything were to happen, it would happen to her first, and Dante would have the best shot at getting through it.

She dared not ever tell him that, for fear that he would begin to keep her back, or out of missions entirely. Trish was determined not to let anything happen to him, not as long as she was around -- even at her own expense. She owed him her life, by her reckoning, not to mention the bone-deep fear of not knowing what she would do without him. There was literally nothing else for her. She virtually didn't exist. No past, no history, no family. She just was.

Her life -- no, it hadn't been a life, existence, maybe -- had already been forfeit when she took the blast Mundus had intended for Dante. Why she still survived, she didn't know. But Trish always felt that she was there on borrowed time. Perhaps she still remained to protect him once more. At any rate, that was her every intention.

She easily kicked in each doorway, taking a moment to give them each a visual once-over in turn for any sign of spiritual activity. Finding none, they made their way to the dining room doorway. Trish cautiously stepped through, immediately glancing up to ensure nothing was lurking just over her head and planning to drop down. She sidestepped, circling the table into the room, with Dante following a moment later.

At the head of the long table, a corpse slumped over the remains of a half-eaten meal. Candles burned throughout the room, most of them at least halfway down.

"Think it's a bit of a moot point to call the paramedics for that guy?" Trish asked as she made her way over to candelabra.

"I'd say so. He looks long de--" Dante was cut off by the far opposite door swinging open, and a ghost clad in an old-fashioned housekeeper uniform drifted through. The ghost ignored them, starting in on the process of clearing the table, and Trish narrowed her eyes, noting that it appeared the ghost was actually manipulating physical objects. As it returned to the kitchen, Dante lowered his guns.

Trish glanced at a candle, running her fingertips quickly through the flame. "Flames are real," she noted.

"Food smells real too." Dante shot another glance at the corpse. "I'm not gonna try to taste it, though."

Trish pocketed the water, and returned the dagger to its sheath up her sleeve, circling the table to get a closer look at the body. She was no pathologist, so pinning down any approximate day of death wasn't an option. But maybe there were other clues. At the moment, she wanted to figure out if that body was legitimate. There was a surprising lack of any odor which she would normally associate with a decaying body.

"This one's been moved," Dante spoke up, and she glanced over to see him looking at the floor. "The chair. There's dust all over the place, except where the legs used to be."

Trish narrowed her eyes, giving her head a small shake. Most ghosts couldn't manipulate solid objects, except for poltergeists. But that maid certainly didn't fit the conventional bill. She returned her attention to the decomposing body, prodding it on the shoulder with a fingertip. Aside from the fact there was a rather disgusting squishy feeling under the sport coat he wore, it was quite normal and real. "Babe, I think we got a real live dead body on our hands."

Dante looked over, quiet for a moment, then moved to her other side. "Seems that way." He tilted his head, studying it. "Think he's got any ID on him?"

Trish was already starting to pat the corpse down, searching the pockets and ignoring the general sense of disgust at the feel of decomposing muscles under the clothes. "Our employer say anything about this? Huh. No ID yet, but our Doe's armed" She fished a 9mm Luger out of a shoulder holster.

"Fat lotta good it did him. He didn't say a word about any live ones," Dante replied, then amended, "or formerly live ones, as the case may be."

Trish set the gun on the table, moving lower to check his pants pockets. She wasn't squeamish by any stretch of the imagination, but it wasn't the most pleasant job she'd ever taken upon herself either. After a few moments, she pulled out a keyring with a set of Chevy keys, and a few others of assorted standard fare, but no wallet.

"No ID," Trish said, and studied the keys. "I'm not getting anything off of these."

Dante took them, looking them over in a vain attempt of identifying any of them, while Trish studied the gun for any kind of marks. All she got found was the serial number, so she popped out the magazine, then emptied the round from the chamber. Once it was unloaded, she switched on the safety and tucked everything away in an inner pocket on her leather jacket. No sense in leaving a perfectly good and loaded weapon lying around ghosts that were moving corporeal objects.

"You any good at guesstimating a time of death?" Trish asked.

Dante hesitated, tilting his head to the side as he crouched a bit, squinting as he studied the corpse. "If I had to guess, he's been here a good few days. Don't have a clue past that."

"Yeah." Trish bit her lip, thinking. "When did all this crap start?"

The ghost came back into the room, causing her to jump. She cleared a platter of fresh vegetables away, taking it into the kitchen.

"Our guy said two weeks ago," Dante said, moving out of the ghost's way but otherwise paying it no attention. "But it could be longer. He wasn't the caretaker."

"Who's the caretaker?" Trish asked, and looked to the corpse. "And where is he?"

"No clue, but there's probably a good chance it's this poor bastard." Dante looked to a window, hands on his hips. "I didn't see a truck or anything though, did you, babe?"

"No, maybe it was in a garage?"

"Hmm. Maybe." They both looked at one another, then their gaze turned to the kitchen door. Trish moved around him, taking point again.

"Let's check it out."

"Yeah." Dante didn't move immediately, head tilted slightly to the side as he studied the kitchen door. "I hear running water." He raised his guns, holding them at the ready.

Trish raised an eyebrow and drew her dagger, then kicked the swinging door lightly with the toe of her boot, stepping forward quickly and shoving her heel against it to hold it fully open.

So maybe checking out the kitchen wasn't such a bright idea. Her eyes started watering, and the oppressive stench that clung to the room almost like a physical object made it difficult not to retch. Gagging, she held her wrist in front of her nose in a vain attempt to try to diffuse it.

"Ugh!" Dante stepped beside her, his hand covering his nose and mouth, and they looked over the kitchen.

"Oh gods, it smelled like he died in here," Trish said, fighting back the gag reflex.

"Babe, it smells something a helluvalot bigger than him died in here." Dante's voice was strained, and he coughed slightly.

Trish eyed the brown debris which caked nearly every surface of the kitchen. "I don't even wanna know what that stuff is."

The kitchen was in a state of complete decay and ruin, much more than what would be considered normal. Across the room was the only immaculate area, the sink, the source of the running water. The ghost maid was washing dishes. She removed the dish she was washing and set it in the strainer on the counter, and drifted back to the dining room past Trish and Dante, completely oblivious to them.

They didn't move from the doorway, not all that eager to enter the room any farther than they already had. "At least we haven't met any projectile-vomiting toilets yet," Trish quipped.

"I might prefer it." Dante waved one of his guns at the back door. "Think it's worth investigating?"

"This room looks about--"

"Excuse me."

Trish blinked at the soft, polite voice that spoke up behind her, and glanced over her shoulder at the ghost maid, who was carrying some of those very real plates. So she wasn't completely unaware of them. Maybe good for a few clues. "Who're you?"

The maid didn't answer the question. "I can't get past you, please move."

"I'll move, just tell me who you are?"

"I don't know," she whispered sadly. "Please move."

Trish hesitated, then stepped aside before considering another question. "Do you know who that guy at the table is?"

No response. The ghost was back in total ignore mode.

"Leave her," Dante said after a moment. "This is her job now."

Trish nodded slightly, glancing around the kitchen one more time. "Nothing in here's worth investigating over this smell." She walked to the door, gagging as she passed through the center of the room, where it was the worst.

"Someone's been eating here," Dante observed. "We're definitely looking at a mortal."

"Babe, don't mention food in here." Trish's stomach churned at the thought, and she yanked the back door open, stepping out, and drawing in a sweet lungful of fresh air in relief. That relief quickly turned to panic as, with a startled shriek, it registered that her foot wasn't hitting anything, and she already had more than enough forward momentum to keep going. There was an apparently bottomless chasm stretching out a good ten feet from the doorway, and she flailed, windmilling her arms and grabbing hold of the doorframe.

"Trish!" She felt her husband's hand clamp down on her shoulder, pulling away from the threshold.

She closed her eyes, burying her face against his shoulder as she caught her breath. "I'm okay. I think I lost about fifty years off my life, but I'm good."

Dante kept one arm firmly around her, but not holding her to him as he leaned forward, peering over the edge. "Oh, this is cute. Real cute. Shit. Gotta flashlight?"

Trish nodded. "Yeah, I brought the noisy cricket," she replied. The tip of the hat to Men in Black was her nickname for her favorite flashlight. It was disc-shaped, rounded to fit comfortably in the palm of a hand, with a strap that went over the back of the hand, and incredibly powerful. She unzipped yet another pocket on her motorcycle jacket, and held it out to him.

Dante slid Ebony and Ivory back into their holsters, and shone the light down the chasm. "Good news. There's a bottom."

Trish eyed him warily, waiting for the punch line.

"Bad news, I think we found what's coating the walls."

Trish wrinkled her nose, looking around. She wasn't inclined to peer down into that pit. "Ew. What?"

He was quiet, then shook his head. "I can't tell if it's shit, or ground-up body parts."

That did it. Trish coughed, retching, and pressed her hand over her mouth, blinking back the watery tears in her eyes. "Gotta love these simple, easy hauntings."

He aimed the light across the yard, checking out their surroundings. "Yeah, more fun than getting a vamp to vacation in Alaska in the summer."

"How deep would you say that is?"

Dante switched off the light, handing it back to her. "If I had to guess, I'd say fifty, maybe sixty feet. Nothing fatal for us, but a helluvabad fall for anybody else."

"Damn. No chance to find a length of rope or something to lower anything down there." If they should decide it prudent to retrieve a sample, she didn't like the other option of either of them going down there one bit.

"Babe, I don't think this is one job where samples would give us any more clues."

"Oh, good." She tucked away the light and zipped her pocket shut. "Let's backtrack." Without waiting for him, she turned to hurry out of the kitchen.

"Yeah, we've still got those stairs, and a place like this has gotta have a cellar."

Trish looked at the caked door, and wasn't about to touch it. She kicked it open enough to make it swing back toward her, then hooked her heel around the clean side to pull it open. She stepped into the dining room, noting with minor surprise and major relief that the smell was didn't leave the kitchen.

"This is more than just a spook house, though," Dante said. "Heh, guess we won't have to skin the guy."

They both paused, taking a moment to enjoy fresh air, when a little yappy bark caught their attention. In front of the other door across the dining room stood a little Welsh Corgi. He barked again, his tail wagging as he danced in place.

"Was that dog here before?" Dante asked, drawing his guns slowly.

"No."

The Corgi yipped again, then turned about, running down the hall. Trish could hear its nails clattering on the wooden floor as it retreated. Trish glanced to Dante, then quickly moved after the dog, following it. "What is it? Did Grandpa fall down the well again?" She paused, considering. "Ew. That might explain what's down that pit."

"Don't go too fast," Dante cautioned. "If it wants us to follow, it'll come back."

Trish followed the dog down the hall, seeing it duck into the monochromatic room. She hurried in, only to come to an abrupt stop. Although he was right behind her, Dante managed to catch himself before colliding.

Trish didn't pay him any attention. In the middle of the lounge stood a rather cheerful and friendly-looking ghost, dressed as though he stepped out of the 1700s. That wasn't what made her stop, though. In his hand, loosely aimed in their direction, was a flintlock. They all stood rooted to the spot, looking at one another.

This is just seriously pushing the whole 'what the fuck?!' envelope, Trish thought. Aggressive, shrieking ghosts, she was used to those. There was also the occasional oblivious ghost, which she had first assumed the maid to be.

No one was making any move one way or another, and the Corgi was nowhere in sight, so Trish decided to break the silence. "Uh...did a dog just run through here?" she asked.

"Quite so," the ghost replied cheerfully, his voice a clipped, cultured British accent. He gestured with his unarmed hand to the other door. "Right that way."

Trish didn't know what to make of the situation, and Dante wasn't saying or doing anything either, so she guessed he was in the same boat. It would have been surreal enough if the man had not been a ghost, to walk in, finding someone smiling as though they hadn't a care in the world, just as helpful as can be, while pointing a gun at them. Considering it was a ghost, the whole thing was just damn weird.

He remained where he was, grinning happily, that flintlock never wavering. Trish cautiously took a step to the side, moving into the room slowly, circling him as she made her way to the door, never once taking her eyes off the ghost. Dante followed suit, staying near her.

"Uh..." What did one say in such a situation, exactly? "Thanks." She hesitated, trying to think of something appropriately British to say that didn't involve calling the friendly and quite armed ghost a bleedin' git. "Um, cheerio and all that rot?"

As soon as the words left her mouth, she bit her tongue. Okay, so maybe 'rot' might not have been the best choice...

The ghost only chuckled as she reached the doorway, and waved. "Cheerio, good lass!"

Trish began to back out of the doorway, when he gestured with his free hand, holding up an index finger as if he just recalled something. "Oh, spare a moment?"

Trish stopped, watching him warily. "What?"

That grin grew bigger, and there was something decidedly unfriendly about it all the sudden. "No hard feelings, lass. For the queen!" the ghost declared, suddenly aiming the flintlock square at her chest and fired.