Shadows of the Lost, Hope in the Darkness

by NoFacesOnlyMasks

A followup/ side story to Bitter Escape. Paul and Hannah have found one another and are bound to Lucius. But the afterlife proves to be far more strange and horrifying than they ever imagined. This is their story, as they try to find meaning amid a bleak world. To do so, they must resist the pull of their inner Shadows and fight off Oblivion.

1. Chapter 1: Lovers of Mercy

To all my loyal fans, who have waited a year for Lucius to come back, this is what has occupied my literary time instead. That, and the struggles of life. I hope you enjoy it and that it stirs your heart a little.

Hannah and Paul stood on the walkway over the club, watching Lucius leave, walking away into the shadows between the many colored lights that flashed and moved in time to a gentle, rhythmic 80s electro dance beat.

Paul turned to Hannah and gazed at her thin and pale face, her high cheekbones and elongated nose making her seem regal, her pale eyes shining with a fierce pride, though the look was somewhat ruined by the matted, dark red locks tousled around her face. Still, she was noble and unashamed in her nakedness, her tall, lithe body proudly displayed, only the golden chains around her waist covering her, more a decoration then clothing. Paul still couldn't believe that she was there, standing next to him. It seemed like a dream, even now.

Hannah turned toward him, smiling wistfully. Every time she stared at the tall, dark, and gaunt yet handsome man in front of her, she felt her heart fill with wonder. He had always been a source of hope in the depth of despair. When her dreams of becoming a writer had been smashed against the hard reality of life in LA, and she found herself in a desperate spiral downward that ended in hellish imprisonment, Paul had been the wind under her wings, lifting her up and setting her free. Not to say that she'd relied on him – far from it, Hannah valued her independence first and foremost – but he'd always been there, ready to help her in any way she needed it. And now he'd done it again in the afterlife. This weird new existence wasn't so bad, if she had a rock to cling to like him.

They stared into the windows of one another's souls, Paul peering down into her deep, blue pools, she into the bright, vibrant green, both shining with a light that refused to fade away in this land of shadow. He pulled her towards him in a gentle, loving kiss, and for a moment they felt the spark of life light up again. Their physical sensations were still numb and foggy compared to life, but the fog seemed to be swept away as they held one another. All that really mattered, in the Shadowlands – Pathos, the energy of Wraithly existence – was fueled by emotional resonance. And they were feeding one another, giving one another an endless reason to keep existing, to stay strong. For a few moments, they were so locked in their passion that they forgot themselves and felt alive again.

The moment was ruined as Venus walked through the two of them, causing them both to turn insubstantial, to go almost completely numb, like they were hit with a dose of Novocaine, losing even the ghost of physical comfort they had shared. They pulled back from one another, startled. They looked around at the sound of more approaching footsteps, trying to peer through the shadowed gloom, broken only by the occasional flashing light. Out of the shadows surrounding the walkway above the altar, Father Francis appeared. The priest was nearly invisible at first, dressed all in black, even black gloves, all of which matched his nearly pitch-dark hair with a few striking streaks of pure white. Even his black eyes matched the gloom. His face was pale and shone brightly against the darkness, however, as did the traditional white collar section showing up on his neck. As he wandered forward into the pale light cast by a dim spotlight shining on nearby dancing girls in cages, his face became clearer. Paul may have deep circles under his eyes, but Father Francis' were positively sunken, his face set in deep frown lines and creases seeming to be a mask of old judgmental anger.

"Hope I"m not interrupting," Francis commented. There was a slight mocking tone in his voice, a shadow of a sneer on his long face as he looked down his hooked nose at them from his impressive height, his deep blue eyes seeming to radiate an unspoken accusation.

Hannah looked away, embarrassed, but Paul had always been the confrontational type, and had a special hatred for religious conservatives. "Oh, I'm sorry, am I offending your delicate sensibilities? Or perhaps you're just a tad jealous that you spent your life celibate, only to find no reward this side of death?"

His face went dark, and his mouth curled into a snarl. Only for a moment, though, before he began muttering something – a Latin prayer, Pater Nostrum. He finished the incantation and returned to himself, his face now serene. "You aren't far off the mark. Sometimes I find my faith shaken, find myself resentful towards the sensualists and hedonists, find myself regretting my life decisions. But I will keep the faith as I always have, and fight through this purgatory. For purgatory it must be. Not all who die come here, so clearly there is some other afterlife beyond this one. I have heard stories, of a way to pass beyond these lands of shadow, to transcend this state. And so, I stand firm in my faith, in this final test, as I did all my life. After all, it seems rather foolish to quit a race right before the finish line." He gave them a kind, grandfatherly smile. "Look, I feel like we got off on the wrong foot. I would especially like to apologize to you." he said, gently touching Hannah's shoulder, who now turned back to him, hurt but mostly hopeful. "It is not my place to judge, especially on such flimsy grounds as your nakedness. Did you know, that the Bible actually has nothing to say against being without clothing? It's something that Adam and Eve made up, a rule of morality that humanity imposed arbitrarily upon the world. Ah, but there I go, spouting scripture uninvited. Still, I do hope you understand how upset I was, having my only sanctuary violated in such a manner. To see my church transformed in such a way after my death, year after year growing further and further into twisted debauchery, has tried my soul mightily. And then, to have a supernatural creature of darkness enter my innermost sanctuary – not that Lucius was the first to pass within the sanctuary of the church, mind you, but none have ever touched my relics since they were placed into storage. I was certain that at long last I was to be served my final eviction notice. You, too would have reacted harshly. I do hope you can forgive me."

Hannah smiled back, replying, "Of course!"

But Paul wasn't as trusting. This man had been raving mad, and had only backed off from screaming that Lucius was a demon when he realized he could cause Venus pain. He'd been pure vindictiveness. This was too much, too fast. Paul suspected some trick. "Why did you suddenly decide we weren't servants of Satan? Did you start praying? Did God tell you to start treating us decently?"

Hannah glared sidelong at Paul, muttering, "He's trying. You don't have to be so harsh."

But Father Francis just smiled at Paul in that kind, grandfatherly way as the spotlight shifted and intensified, causing every shadow to flee, casting him in full light. "Yes, in a way. I followed Venus, and was disappointed when she was doing nothing but pacing, when I had no excuse to get Lucius to punish her. And it occurred to me that I had just refused to trust him at all, and now I was ready to serve him, and that perhaps I wasn't entirely in my right mind. So I did what I always do when I'm not entirely myself – I prayed. And after careful self-reflection, I realized that I hadn't been in my right mind – I had given in to the influence of my Shadow."

The spotlight clicked off for a moment, casting all in darkness, before a blacklight flicked on, moving slowly to highlight the girls behind Father Francis. The music became low, ominous, and throbbing. Shadows became deep, and everything was cast into either darkness or a strange light. Paul's eyes narrowed at the mention of the Shadow, despite the darkness, but Hannah's went wide, and she turned to Paul. "The Shadow... that's the voice, the one you told me about?" Paul nodded. "I only heard it once, but that was more than enough to terrify me. When I was being taken away in chains, it was telling me that I deserved what was happening, that I should have listened to my mother, that this was what happened to bad girls..." Hannah shuddered, and Paul took her into his arms, kissing the top of her head, trying to comfort her. "That voice... it was mine! It knew me, knew everything about me. It knew just where to jab, right where I was weakest. And then, when I was about to despair, it offered me a way out, told me it could give me power to escape the chains, if only... it wasn't to clear about what it wanted in exchange – just an admission it was right, I guess."

Paul closed his eyes, ashamed, knowing that he'd taken up just such an offer when he was at his weakest, so he could appear in front of Lucius in the hope that he could save Hannah. He had despaired of finding her, of ever holding her in his arms again. He had briefly despaired of having any reason at all of continuing to exist, when he thought all hope was lost, when he was being sucked down into that dark sea. Well, he thought, I hadn't completely given up, even then. I still wonder...if I had, if I'd let myself be pulled down into that whirlpool, if I'd given in to my shadow, would I have been stuck in that other world? Was it real at all? Paul shook his head to drive out the melancholy thoughts. All that matters is that she's here, now, with me.

Father Francis, like a proper priest, wouldn't let him be, twisting his guilt, his gaunt face seeming to be nothing but long shadows leading into greater darkness, barely lit by the blacklight except when a blood-red light flashed on his face, which it did with increasing frequency as the music blasted into loud, goth rock, the loudspeakers screaming 'Burning, now I bring you Hell!' right before Father Francis began his lecture. "You must never give in to the temptations of the Shadow, for it has only one goal, only one purpose that drives its existence – your complete and utter destruction! It knows everything about you because it is you, is a part of you, that part of you that is hateful and despairing, that part that wishes for self-destruction."

Francis turned to the side, contemplating even as an energetic guitar riff began and a solid blue light replaced the blinking red one, pushing away the shadows, casting everything in a surreal hue. Francis no longer looked ominous, only sad and thoughtful. "Some have a theological explanation for this part within us that loathes us, other a psychological one, but there can be no denying that it existed within us in life, and now has a mind and voice of its own in this afterlife. I have my own theories as to that. No doubt you have heard a name whispered on the lips of the dead if you have spent any time here. Oblivion – the darkness that seeks to consume all. It is very real – none deny this. I believe this Oblivion is the pit of hell itself, and I tell you now, I was wrong about hell." The light shifted to red, moving behind Francis and tilting towards him, casting him in a fiery, red halo. "I thought it was a burning pit of fire, filled with laughing demons. I see now that it is nothing more than a pit of despair. It is the absence of hope, absence of the desire to continue existing. That is why it seeks to unmake all of creation. It is empty and barren, and I have come to realize that any passion – anything from lust to obsession, anything at all – is good and right if it helps a spirit stay connected to existence, lets them feel alive. For this is what helps us resist the clarion call of Oblivion, which works through our Shadows, strengthening them, giving them will of their own. I believe that is why our Shadows have come to life – because we are on the edge of Oblivion, on the edge of Hell in this Purgatory." The red light went off for a second, as did the sound, until a rapid, thrashing electronic melody burst forth in time to many flashing multicolored lights. "Have you encountered one of the fallen souls, the Specters? No? Count yourself lucky. They are mindless terrors, and they seek nothing more than the torment and destruction of us all. They are those souls who have given in to their Shadows, let the taint of Oblivion take over their light, their divine spark. All that is left for them is suffering, and they only way they can relieve their suffering is to force it onto others, to drag other souls down into the pit of despair with them. Specters, and the Oblivion they serve, are a nightmare made manifest."

The beat suddenly stopped, silence falling for a second until airy female vocals began, as a white spotlight began slowly moving around them. Paul was now distinctly uncomfortable. I gave in to my Shadow, then gave up on hope and got pulled down into a hellish pit of despair. Was that the price I paid? Even so, I can't trust answers from this old man. Sure, he might have knowledge, but it's tainted by his faith, by his fanatical worldview. Still, at least he doesn't seem completely crazy. "Well, I guess I can forgive how you were acting. I've given in to my Shadow before, and ended up acting like... well, let's just say I almost gave up on what was most important to me." He kissed Hannah's cheek again, holding her tight to him. She leaned against him, and he could tell by the tension in her neck that she was still nervous. But not scared. He realized that she didn't get scared easily. She could handle a lot. A lot more than he could, in some ways. The Shadow and Oblivion freaked him out.

Father Francis smiled kindly, his face seeming to glow as a blue light moved over it, but his tone remained severe. "The Shadow has many ways of attacking us – despair, guilt, outrage – whatever will most effectively drag us down, make us into monsters. And it is intelligent, able to recognize when one strategy is failing, and adopt another. One must be always on guard, especially in moments of weakness or desperation."

Hannah stared intently at Francis as drifting guitar was added to the vocals and the light turned slightly red again. "But isn't there any way to get rid of it? To silence it?"

Francis shook his head, his face regretful as the light moved off of the three of them, leaving them in shadow. "Unfortunately, no. It seems to be an integral part of every soul in this place. Just as we have a divine light within us, and all lights must cast shadows, so there cannot be hope without despair. But despair not! For there is an ancient guild known as the Pardoners, who have mastered the art of recognizing and weakening the Shadow. While it can never be truly defeated, it can be driven back from the forefront of the mind. I myself have begun practicing this art, in an effort to offer comfort to those who were once my flock in life. I watch over them still, from this old church, and it seems to me that the greatest good I can do is to offer them aid in that most desperate of personal, moral struggles, one upon which our continued existence and salvation depends. I offer you this aid as well, my children."

The lights began swinging back and forth rapidly. Paul was, yet again, suspicious. All he'd ever known religious authorities to do was call for the oppression of lifestyles they hated and the bombing of far off people of differing faiths. Then again, Paul had been stuck in the world of politics with a bunch of radical activists, and had never experienced the direct, personal kind of faith and charity that Father Francis was offering now. Hannah had. He's a kind soul, just a little bitter and crotchety. I think he could make a good friend and guide. I mean, who else do we have right now? I don't trust him blindly – I trust no one blindly – but I think Paul and I can learn from him." "Thank you, Father. Is there any way you could help out Paul and myself? Like... make sure that our Shadows don't hurt us any time soon?"

Father Francis nodded, smiling at her as he stepped in close to the two of them. "I will do what I can, child. First, I must look into you, to gauge the strength of your shadow. Separate, please." Hannah smiled reassuringly at Paul before moving away from him, to the opposite side of the walkway. Paul moved to the other side reluctantly, resisting the urge to tell Hannah that this was a bad idea, to insist that it stop. The strobe lights stopped, and all that remained was a dim white spotlight over Hannah. Paul was on the edge of the light, Francis beyond it. "Now, I must peer at you, and enter... I can only describe it as a state of absolute stillness, a connection to the absolute quiet, a state of nothingness. It is a state that few can achieve – it appears to require some combination of meditative concentration and inborn – or rather, indeceased – talent. Now, stay still, and stay quiet."

Francis peered at Hannah intensely, his eyes seeming to go blank, to see beyond her. He moved closer, about six inches from her face, his own features now looking skeletal on the edge of the dim light. Paul felt a twinge of protective fear, but kept himself in check. This old man wasn't a threat... "Is he?" Hannah was staring back just as intently, curious and fascinated. "I think I can feel what he's doing. What did he say? A state of absolute stillness, a connection to a state of nothingness. Like the meditative exercises my grandma taught me. It's been forever since I used any of them, but I think if I just let all thought go... Her eyes began to glaze over. Right as she seemed to be unfocusing, right as Paul was about to ask her what was wrong, Francis broke from his reverie, breaking Hannah's as he exclaimed loudly, "Your Psyche, your true self, has a firm hold on your soul, and your Shadow has next to none. It seems that whatever despair gripped you earlier, you have pulled back from it, and are now filled with hope. I cannot help you – your Shadow is already as weak as it shall ever be. Instead, try and use the way you feel now as an anchor. Try and remember this time, and these feelings, when you are in the midst of despair. Now, if you would not mind, Paul..." With that, he got right in Paul's face, with the same thousand-yard-stare.

Paul was almost tempted to ask him to stop. This seems like bullshit. But Hannah was getting close, too, staring at the two of them, eyes glazing over. Great, now she's trying this bullshit. Well, whatever. If it makes her happy, I'll let it happen. He just stood there, feeling stupid for about fifteen seconds, until Father Francis broke from his reverie suddenly, exclaiming, "Your shadow has a most terrible hold upon you! It all but dominates your mind, even acting unconsciously upon you, twisting your thoughts into a wretched form! I must come to know the truth of this twisted relationship. Why have you given so much of yourself unto it? Why have you submitted unto the darkness with such abandon? I do not seek to accuse – I simply wish to help. I beg of you, allow me to aid you!"

Paul stepped back from the sudden ferocity. "Look, I think you're off the mark, man. I have every reason to have hope right now. I just saved the love of my life, and I proved my shadow wrong about being helpless! Ever since I rescued Hannah, he's stayed completely quiet. So, no disrespect, but I think you might not be as good at this as you think you are. I've been fine with letting this happen so far, but if you expect me to just believe that you have this mystical talent, you must think I'm as much of a sucker as your former congregation."

Francis didn't get angry – he just sighed, frustrated. Hannah wandered close to Paul, her eyes having the same unfocused glaze the priest had on his face before his rant. There was worry written on her face, worry which twisted into terror the longer she stared. Her gaze came back to the world, and she stared at Paul, terror and tears in her eyes, before throwing her arms around him, sobbing. Paul held her, trying to comfort her, to figure out what was wrong. Hannah calmed herself down, slowly gathering herself off of Paul and moving her face in front of his, staring into his eyes. "Paul," she began in absolute, earnest seriousness, "you have to believe what I'm going to tell you now. I can see your shadow. I was able to see Father Francis' while he did your viewing. I saw that his was strong, but held at bay for now. It was deep, and I could get a sense for it, for the malice and intolerance it was projecting into him. And when I looked at you, I saw... this terrible darkness, a consuming anger eating away at you. Eclipsing you. I could hear it clearly, whispering suspicious thoughts to you, telling you not to trust Father Francis. I know you may not trust him, but please, please trust me when I tell you that he's right."

Francis turned to Hannah, peering at her in interest. "It seems you may posses the gift. Yes, please Paul, trust in her, and heed her words. I only wish to speak to your shadow, to question it. I will not harm you, or touch you. All that will happen is that your shadow be able to be heard by us all, and I can force it to answer my questions honestly. You can decide for yourself if you believe me then, or if you think this all a cheap parlor trick."

Paul narrowed his eyes, still distrustful of this man. Goddamn it, now he's pulled Hannah into his bullshit. I guess she was always a little impressionable. I'm going to have to be careful about who I bring her around, or she'll end up joining some stupid cult. Paul sighed. "Alright, whatever. If you think it will help, Hannah, I'll let this guy do his exorcism or whatever."

Father Francis shook his head. "I cannot drive your shadow out or harm it in any way. I am not yet that proficient in the art. I can only help you learn how to fight the shadow on your own terms. Now, please, be still. I require complete concentration to summon forth the Shadow."

Paul stood still, dismissive, but also a little nervous. Do I really want to call my Shadow out? I only just pushed him down. Maybe this guy is trying to hurt me somehow. Maybe he's already given in to his shadow, filled by bitterness over what happened to his church. This could be a really, really bad idea. Just as Paul was about to ask Francis to stop, he felt a chill spread across his skin, like a thousand needles of ice. He shuddered, now determined to make this stop. Suddenly, a deep darkness surrounded him, and everything took on a corrupted visage. Father Francis seemed gaunt and malicious. The iron walkway was covered in rust, the stone archways of the church crumbling, and Hannah a weak and pitiable creature, ragged and covered in blood and puke as she had been when she died. Paul stepped back from Francis, terrified. "What the hell did you do to me?" he shouted.

"Be still!" Francis exclaimed, holding out his hands in a dramatic gesture. Paul felt his skin crawl, and terrible pain coursed through him as he fell to his knees. He was ready to rise up and attack this charlatan, until he heard it. That familiar, terrible voice, laughing at him. "Come forth, Shadow of Paul!" The laughter just became louder, mocking and menacing. Francis thrust his hands onto Paul's head, proclaiming, "Speak! Tell us how you have taken such power over Paul!"

The laughter subsided, and for a moment Paul hoped it was over. Then the voice spoke, seeming to echo out of his own head, deafening him. "I have taken nothing but what I was offered by Paul. He and I have an... understanding. An agreement."

"Bullshit." Paul spat out around the pain.

"Please, be silent," Father Francis commanded. "You cannot take command of your corpus while I do this, or you shall drive him away again. You may respond to your Shadow's words and lies afterwards. Do not worry, I know better to believe a Shadow's first words, before I have had a chance to compel truth from it. Speak truth, Shadow!"

"I'm telling you the truth. Paul and I made a deal, didn't we, buddy? Or has he already forgotten his desperation, when he knew Hannah was dying? He said he was willing to do anything, anything at all to save her. And did I hurt him, did I stop him from doing what he wanted to do? No, I helped him, offered him exactly what he needed – a way to make Lucius pay attention to him, to appear before mortal eyes. Without me, Hannah would be enslaved right now!"

"You speak truth, yet you twist it. What you offered him was the devil's deal. Paul, you must resist such temptation – such a deal is always to your detriment."

"So you say, you religious fanatic. If Paul was unable show himself to Lucius, he never would have known that Hannah was dying, would never have gone to her apartment, and summoned her soul, kept her soul safe until Paul could get there. So, while you say that nothing I do will ever help, you also have an absolute concept of right and wrong. Paul knows better than to believe in your absolutist way of thinking. Paul understands what's really important – Hannah. Right Paul?"

For the first time, Paul thought his Shadow made sense. He had resented and hated his Shadow for picking apart every decision, for sapping his will to exist and keep on trying. But now, he was seeing the ways his Shadow had helped him, the way it had helped him when he really needed it. And maybe, just maybe, it had been right. Maybe he had been keeping him from wasting his time on pointless efforts… and maybe it was the most seductive of tempters.

"You are subtle and devious. You are one of the most dangerous kinds of Shadows. You have a great intelligence, no doubt a product of Paul's sharp mind. But I shall reveal the truth of the matter. What did Paul give you in exchange for the power you offered him?"

Dark laughter followed the question. "I only asked that I be allowed to show him the truth of the world, to show him the world as it truly is. That I be allowed to speak truth to him at all times."

"So you are able to distort his perceptions, to whisper to him subtly, to the point he cannot tell your lies from his own thoughts! I see now the nature of the deal you struck with him. I cannot undo what Paul has agreed to, but I can let him know the truth of what you have bound him to. More importantly, I can let Hannah know. While he is now in the grip of your power, she remains pure, a light of hope to keep him from Oblivion. Still, such a deal does not explain your power over him completely. Tell me, what driven him into such angst?"

"When Hannah died, he was dragged down into a Harrowing. He experienced a state of absolute despair, believing Hannah lost to him. I kept telling him his efforts were pointless – which they were. After all, as you know, a Harrowing is a great nightmare, a dark melodrama created by Spectres in the Labyrinth. He was wasting his time buying into their lies, and I tried to tell him as much. But would he listen? Of course not. His constant struggles, his decision to believe in the play of despair, only fueled his despair further, which nearly kept him from coming to Hannah's actual rescue, busy as he was chasing after Spectre lookalikes in the pit of darkness. And you accuse me of deception, when all I've ever done is tell him truth! Meanwhile, you cling to the delusions of absolute faith, absolute certainty that you know what is right for everyone around you. Who gave you such perfect knowledge, hm? Did you realize that this is what the afterlife was going to be, or were you expecting something else? So how can you say with such absolute certainty that the Shadow is always destructive? Perhaps some of us simply point out the darker side of life, which can help one achieve ones goals, no? Perhaps some of us are simply trying to help our better halves by pointing out what they can't see."

"Or perhaps you are simply speaking those words that you believe will most effectively tempt Paul. You are capable of great intelligence and flexibility. You have simply chosen a new tactic of temptation. And you will continue to adapt, deviously intelligent as you are. I would speak with you further, but I don't see the point. I know how you have twisted yourself deep within Paul's mind. I know your methods, and the logic you will use to corrupt. More importantly, Paul is now aware of these things. In the end, only he can resist the pull of Oblivion, which works through you. Return to the darkness from which you came!"

With that last proclamation, the darkness retreated, the pain faded, and Paul felt… a presence return to him. He hadn't noticed it leaving, but he felt it coming back like a weight dragging him down. The voice now spoke to him from within his head. You can choose to trust me, or this fanatic. But I'm always there, watching and trying to help. Paul shuddered as a feeling of terrible menace filled him, a feeling of total helplessness. He felt as though at any moment he could lose control to his Shadow. He was shaking uncontrollably on his knees, desperately hoping for any sort of hope, any relief.

The priest offered none. "Your shadow is now powerful enough that it could take control of you at any moment. When you gain enough negative emotion, enough angst, it becomes strong enough to take over. Most shadows take over at the first opportunity, but yours is devious, and is biding its time. It will take over at the worst moment. There is nothing you can do to stop it. You must simply prepare." He turned to Hannah. "Know that Paul could be controlled by his shadow at a time when it will most hurt you both. You must not blame him. Support and love him through his time of weakness, and he may rise above the darkness."

Hannah nodded, absolutely serious, accepting the weight of responsibility. She turned to Paul her face graven with deep concern, her eyes set intense determination. I'll keep him safe from this demon within him, no matter what it takes. He saved me when I needed him the most, when I was at my most desperate. I'd do anything to protect him. I may not be strong or know how to fight like he does, but if I can help him with this mental and emotional enemy, I can help him win an even more important battle. Wrapping her arms around him, she pulled him in to a close embrace. "I swear Paul, no matter what you do, I understand it may not be you. That you're struggling with this... inner monster, whatever it is. I'll love you through it all."

Paul felt like he was thawing, like a paralysis was melting from his bones. He'd been frozen in fear and suspicion, afraid that the Priest might be manipulating him and Hannah... or maybe working with his Shadow. But he felt the darkness of endless speculation into the darkness being driven back by the light of Hannah's love. Here was what he knew he could trust in, a place where no seed of doubt could be planted. If the Shadow's plan was to drive us apart, to make her suspicious and afraid of me, it backfired badly. We're closer now than we've ever been. "Thank you, Hannah. You're all I have in this world all that really matters to me. I won't let anything happen to you. We'll both be safe. We'll love each other forever in this afterlife."

"Don't be so certain, Paul." Father Francis interrupted the tender moment, intense and solemn, looming over them, too close for comfort. Paul immediately resented his presence. "It is easy to say that you will be able to keep her safe, but I think you will find the Shadowlands more perilous than you imagine."

"We'll manage," Paul sniped back. "Anyway, don't we have something we were supposed to be doing? Like looking after this club? You should keep an eye on Venus." With that, he turned around and walked away from the severe old man, Hannah following behind him as he walked towards the stairs, Father Francis ending the small procession. While the couple walked through the bar, he remained behind it, looming over Venus, staring down his nose disapprovingly at her. Paul took a moment to make sure he wasn't going to follow them, then said, "Goodbye, Francis."

They moved into the crowd, the counter and Francis disappearing behind the press of bodies. As they wandered into the familiar club they had both frequented in life, the supernatural weirdness began to fade, and a bit of the tension drained out of them. Paul unclenched Hannah's hand, realizing for the first time that he had been crushing it with excessive, nervous force. He turned and looked at her, apologetic. Hannah shrugged, telling him it was no big deal. Paul put his arm around her and leaned into her. Blinking, they looked around the club, and found themselves fascinated by the throb of life and death in this place.

All around them, people moved in a great celebration of life, youth, and pleasure. Everyone was lost in throbbing beat, gyrating against one another, intoxicated and smiling, wild and free. They began to unconsciously sway to the beat, Hannah, swinging her hips, Paul nodding his head. A nearby couple was wildly moving, smoothly twisting in time to the rapid electronic rhythms, feet seeming to fly under them. Paul and Hannah began sliding smoothly over the floor, the old familiar ritual coming back to them. The love and passion flowing from the couple fed them, invigorated them, let them set themselves loose, laughing and free. A circle had opened up around the couple as they began impressing onlookers with dance moves, the blonde muscular shirtless man spinning himself with his hands on the ground like a break dancer, the raven-haired woman in a tank top and jeans smoothly leaping back and forth, whirling in the air. Paul and Hannah entered the circle, their dancing not nearly as impressive – but it didn't matter. No one could see them. And they had room to move here, to go wild and do whatever they wanted, laughing to one another as they swung wildly around, free and alive. They danced the night away like no one was watching, an endless celebration of life and love.

They lost all track of time. They could have gone forever – after all, it's not like they had bodies, had physical limitations. All they needed was the emotional intensity of the couple to sustain them. But that couple did have physical limitations. The track transitioned into something more downbeat, smooth, and psychedelic. The couple stopped moving, looked at one another, panting, and then in unison bowed to the rapt circle of onlookers, who began cheering wildly. They graciously backed out, heading to the bar, and the circle of space closed and dissolved.

Hannah and Paul stopped moving when the couple did. She fell against his chest, laughing. "God, I haven't had this much fun, since..."

"Since our first date? The first time we came to this place?"

"God, you were like a kid at his first concert! You were so overwhelmed by the press of people, the music, the wild hedonism. I couldn't believe you hadn't heard of this club! It was only the hottest new spot in town."

Paul chuckled, the memories seeming to come to life before his eyes. "Yeah, it was right after I helped set up that interview with CNN about your experiences with... well, you know." Her eyes darted away, as they always did when she thought back to her memories of her time as a human trafficking victim. Except that that never happened. Those memories were placed in her. I just realized that. She doesn't know the truth, that we had met before then. And I could never tell her. Until now. I'm free of the bond. The Masquerade means nothing among the dead.

"Hey, Hannah. Um... I don't know how to put this... I have something I need to tell you. About that whole incident."

Hannah was clearly uncomfortable with the subject. "We've been over it to death. I think I shared just about every detail when you interviewed me."

"You shared every detail you remembered. See... ugh, how do you tell someone this? Things didn't happen the way you remembered them. Your memory was... altered."

Hannah's eyes went wide. "Altered how? What actually happened to me?"

Paul sighed, running his hand through his hair. "Look, you know how I told you about how Lucius was a vampire? Well... there's a whole society of them. They work very, very hard to keep their existence a secret. They can do things like wipe people's memories and place false ones in to replace them. And I... I've been working with them, ever since the night I found you." Paul recounted the investigation, and where it had finally led, the way he'd been saved, and the way the whole incident had been covered up to preserve the Masquerade. Hannah was stunned, almost in a trance. "So, you see, the paper I was working for was... a vampire front group. Look, I was working for the good vampires, the ones trying to fight the powers that be, the ones fighting to stop that kind of horror. It seemed like the best I could do, a chance to make a real difference with some kind of power backing me up, but... I'm sorry for lying to you. I had no choice, I absolutely didn't. It was for your own good. You didn't need to get caught up their world."

Hannah snapped back to attention, and snapped at Paul. "I already have. Twice. That compulsion you mentioned... I got the disease that killed us from a vampire, didn't I? So maybe if you had warned me, I would have known. And who are you to make that call? Aren't you always going on about how the people should judge the truth for themselves?"

Paul flinched, stung. "Well... okay, you have a point. I thought about telling the world the truth, and realized I'd just be branded as crazy, then hunted down. But I could have told you. I just... I couldn't. I was a blood-bound ghoul. I drank their blood. I don't think you understand the power in their blood. It... I belonged to them. They commanded, I obeyed. They tried not to use it, preferred to convince me, but keeping the Masquerade... that was a direct command. I couldn't have told you. The thought never even occurred to me. I... I'm sorry, Hannah." His head was downcast, and he was biting his lip. She's always trusted him, even said he was honest to a fault. How would she take this?

Hannah wasn't sure herself. Everyone I ever met since coming to LA lied to me. Directors telling me they liked my scripts, and really they just wanted to sleep with me. Casting directors that convince me I could be an actress, then a model – and in the end I ended up a whore, dragged down by false promises. It was after I hit rock bottom and accepted how shitty life can be that I found Paul, the only honest man in LA. And now it turns out he's been lying from day one. But if I can't trust him, then who do I have? And... "I remember what it was like to have my mind controlled. I couldn't think straight. I was just filled with lust, with a desire to spread myself around to as many people..." Hannah shuddered, horrified now that she could think back and reflect on the filthy, depraved things she had done in the last month, all deliberately unsanitary in a revolting way. She'd been horrified by them, but at the same time, the overwhelming pleasure she felt from giving in to that implanted desire had been... exquisite. "I guess... I can't blame you for following their orders. If you had that little choice, what else could you do? Still... you swear you'll be honest from now on?" She stared into his eyes. "Paul, you're all I've got. You're the only person I've been able to trust since coming to LA. I have to know, to look into your soul and know for sure, that I can trust you from here on out."

Paul stared back into her eyes. "I swear to you, I will never lie to you again. I'm free of my body, so now their blood can't hold me. I'm yours, now." Hannah smiled, tears forming on the edge of her eyes as she wrapped her arms around Paul in a deep hug.

They stayed like that for a minute, holding each other, before separating. Paul leaned up against a wall, and Hannah leaned against him, her head against his neck, his arm wrapped around her chest. They just cuddled for a minute, watching the dance of the living and the dead wind down as the music became more mellow, as the DJ got up from the decks and wandered into a back room.

Hannah smiled. "You know, life could sometimes be shitty, but we always had some good times when we came here. This is the only place in LA where I have only happy memories."

"Is that what brought you back to this place?" inquired a reedy, high-pitched voice from the crowd. A gorgeous woman stepped through the milling people, many of whom were drifting outside to smoke or over to the bar to drink now that the music had calmed down. Everything about her was perfect – her fancy black evening dress, her immaculate skin, her perfectly arranged black hair, and a face so delicate and beautiful it seemed like a porcelain doll, an abstract representation of perfect beauty. She glided gracefully over to them on high heels, a perfectly beautiful ghost.

Hannah and Paul both stared, taken aback that someone was listening in. Hannah, naturally, recovered first. "Well, I mean, not exactly, we were kind of exaggerating, but close enough. We loved this club in life. You just feel so, feel so..."

"Alive." She smiled slightly, her perfect plump red lips shaping into a beautiful grin. "I come here to see the beauty of mortals in love, in lust, lost in throes of beautiful ecstasy. I take inspiration from them, both for my existence and my art."

"Your art?" Paul asked, genuinely curious about what art among the restless dead was like.

"Moliation," she replied, gesturing to her face, to her body as though that should be self-explanatory.

Hannah looked to Paul in confusion. He shrugged back at her, having no idea what the woman was talking about. Hannah turned back to the woman, hesitantly admitting, "Um... I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with... mole-ee-ay-shun, it was pronounced?"

The woman nodded. "I practice the art of Moliation. I take it you two are newly dead?" Hannah nodded. "Right, well, you know how we aren't as... solid, as we were when we were alive? Our flesh is made of discorporeal stuff, called corpus. Corpus is highly malleable. Moliators shape this flesh, molding it into whatever form of beauty you should desire."

Suddenly her perfect figure, her angelic face made a lot more sense. Hannah laughed in wonder. "Ah, I see now. Well, I have to say, you're excellent at what you do. You're absolutely gorgeous. God, when I think of all the time I spent at the gym, trying to get my body in to shape – and you just, what, mold the corpus like clay? My name is Hannah, by the way. This is Paul."

The woman smiled, replying, "Darlene. A pleasure. It's a bit more difficult than that, especially crafting something truly beautiful, something human and perfectly symmetrical. I've only just begun to get to the point that I find my work acceptable enough to display on myself in public."

"How do you do it?" Hannah asked, pressing her hands into her own abdomen. "Is there some kind of trick to it?"

Darlene chuckled, politely amused at Hannah's efforts. Hannah dropped her hands, grinning ruefully. "Well, I mean, it's somewhat hard to explain. You kind of just have to have the touch, and then you have to tap in to the idea that nothing is solid, not here. We're all memories of ourselves, echoes resonating. There's nothing solid about our bodies, our corpus. That's why they can be melted down and forged into anything else. I keep that forefront in my mind as think about the flesh, and just visualize that change I want to see, directly manifesting it in my corpus. Try it if you want – it might work, though it will probably take a while – if it works at all."

Hannah beamed back at her. "Thanks. That would be really nice. Maybe I could Moliate myself some clothes. Or just touch up my face a little. Is there such a thing as makeup among the dead?"

Paul laughed, telling Hannah, "You look fine. Better than fine. You're beautiful."

Hannah smiled playfully back at Paul. "You're just saying that because I'm naked."

Paul looked hurt. "I always said you were beautiful!"

Hannah gave Paul a mischievous smile. "And I remember you telling me, after our second date – I think you were pretty drunk – that seeing my body was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen." As Darlene started laughing and Paul turned red, Hannah ruffled his hair playfully.

Darlene looked Hannah over carefully, evaluating her, weighing possibilities. "Moliate is really the whole of the fashion and cosmetics among the dead. I'll tell you what, I can help you out a little. I can tell you were quite beautiful in life, but you got pretty ragged near the end, didn't you?"

Hannah cringed, the memory, eager hope now springing on to her face. "Yeah, I got this terrible wasting disease. I felt like I was a disgusting, walking corpse near the end. You don't have to help me at all, I don't have any way to pay you, anything to offer you, but I'd be incredibly grateful if you could do something about my sunken eyes, the stress lines, the ashen pallor, the ribs sticking out of my side because I'd become Kate Moss thin... well, anything at all, really. If you don't mind."

Darlene grinned, clearly amused. "That's workable. Nothing drastic, nothing excessively beautiful – I charge for real work. But I can give you a taste. It'll be about like putting on makeup. Hold still." The perfect statue, the ideal of beauty moved up to Hannah, and she placed her hands over Hannah's face. Paul moved closer to get a good look at what what happening. It was subtle, but he swore her skin looked liquid under Darlene's hands. Her hands moved lower, down the body, and Paul saw Hannah's face. Every hair was now bright, striking red and had been arranged into a perfect swirl of curls that stopped above her shoulders and framed an angelic, regal face. Every worry line had been smoothed, every skin blemish cleansed, as though her image was being run through photoshop. The dark circles of weariness had transformed into perfect eye shadow, eye liner highlighting Hannah's deep, dark liquid eyes. Her lips were fuller, seeming to pout now, and were a deep red to match her hair. Darlene's hands slid down, making all of Hannah's skin model-smooth, erasing cellulite, causing her breasts to become perky and erasing all sag. Darlene stepped back, and Hannah, though she had been beautiful before, was now breathtaking.

Darlene pulled out a mirror from a hand bag and held it up for Hannah to see. She gasped in delight, surprise and joy bursting on to her face. She threw her arms around Darlene, laughing. "I look amazing! Thank you so much! That felt weird, like I was melting. It was kind of scary – I felt like you could have turned me into anything!"

They pulled apart, and Darlene smiled mischievously. "I could have, and then demanded whatever I wanted to change you back. Only those with Moliate can undo damage done by Moliate – the first thing most of us learn is how to return ourselves to our original appearance at death. Be glad I'm an honest person, and I take pride in my work. This is only a shadow of what I can do. If you ever acquire some oboli, come back to me. I work out of the salon, near the Lehman Brothers building downtown."

Hannah nodded, adding, "I know that area. Classy. I hope I can get my hands on a decent amount of money soon – if your shop is half as expensive as the tailors in that area, I might have to work for awhile."

Darlene maintained a friendly smile, but was all business now. "I charge far more. They can only change your clothes. I can change all of you, into anything you wish. Have a favorite celebrity you'd like to look like? A physical feature you've always wanted, something your sister or friend always had that you were jealous of? Do you have some alternative and bizarre idea of beauty you want to explore? All this and more is possible with me. The sky's the limit... well, that, and your wallet. But please, do feel free to stop by any time."

"Yeah, of course!" Hannah replied.

"So..." Paul began tentatively. "Do you know any other ghosts around here? Anyone... I don't know, anyone that comes to this club often?" That seemed as good a way as any to ask the questions on his mind. I need to find out about what happens in the Shadowlands around here, to report back to Lucius. Plus, it would be nice to have some friends, or at least contacts among the dead.

Darlene smiled, amused. "How very adorable. Enfants trying to socialize. Well, this club has an interesting and eclectic mix. There are some older, more classy and well-off wraiths, mixed in with the masses and the hedonists. There's pathos for all types, here. Come, follow me, I'll introduce you to some acquaintances of mine. You seem alright." With that, she turned on her heel and glided away from them, through the crowd, towards the back of the club.

Paul and Hannah followed Darlene. The music was taking on an eerie and surreal tone, speeding up but staying soft. Hannah saw another porcelain doll dancing, this one naked like her, whose skin was impossibly perfect and pure white – but her body shape had been warped into a perfect hourglass shape. An actual hourglass – her waist was impossibly thin, restricted to the point that her organs would have been squeezed to death, and her ribs would be poking out if she were alive. Paul noticed a tall and incredibly muscular ghost standing near the hourglass woman, gazing at her admiringly, his skin covered in bone spikes. They each seemed like strange caricatures of the concepts of masculinity and femininity. Clearly, Moliation had fans.

They walked past without a word. As they headed towards the back, most of the dead were normal looking, human seeming, except for frequent and strange tattoos on their foreheads. There were exceptions, however. There were prefect expressions of human beauty, souls that looked like gaunt corpses, others that looked inhuman – with one soul appearing to be an Aztec statue come to life. Many simply sat and brooded, but most danced with intense passion, trying to feel alive again. In the spaces between the living, the dead forgot that the despair of death, dancing, laughing, talking, living on.

They approached the booths at the back, where the energy faded away. The living and the dead were more subdued, better dressed, not as extreme in their tastes, with all the wraiths looking more or less human. They approached a group of souls sitting in a booth that would have looked unoccupied to the living. There were three of them. The one on the right was dressed in a pinstripe suit and tie, his hair slicked back with grease, his face narrow and kind of pinched. The ghost on the left was dressed in an old Victorian dress, a corset over her waist, huge bell skirt embroidered with intricate patterns and flowers hiding her legs. Her hair fell down in black waves over her shoulder, her face a mask of doll-like innocence – except for her green eyes, which sharp and piercing, always scanning her surroundings. The man in the middle seemed out of place among the two luxurious members of the upper class – he was wearing a simple maintenance jumpsuit, his hair was unkempt, his face hard, tanned, jagged and covered in scars and sporting lots of stubble. On a utility belt around his waist, he had a variety of tools – but the things that stuck out the most were a massive hammer, and a curved, wicked ridged blade.

Darlene introduced them. "Hello everyone. I would like to introduce you to two of the newly dead, Paul and Hannah. They're currently trying to understand their place in the afterlife." The upscale ghosts acknowledged them with a nod. "This is Harry White..." she said, gesturing to the man in the suit. "...and this is Mattie Harlock," she said, gesturing to the woman in the Victorian dress.

"Nice to meet you," Hannah added politely, shaking their hands in turn. Paul followed suit. "And you are?" Hannah asked, addressing the middle ghost, the one in the jumpsuit.

"I'm John," he replied simply, extending his hand. "Good to meet you."

"These three," Darlene added, "are among the top professionals in their respective fields in LA. If you wish to start being a useful part of the society of the dead, I recommend you find a skill and apprentice under them..." She turned to the trio, "...that is, of course, if you need some help. I'm not implying that work is guaranteed, but... well, perhaps these two could be of some help to some of you."

Paul held back, a little put off by this upper-class group. John fascinated him, though. I wonder what his story is?

Mattie went first, eager and friendly. "I am an oracle," she declared, completely seriously. "I practice the art of Fatalism, of understanding the patterns of fate through looking at the patterns that swirl around each soul. While it is not, perhaps, the most lucrative profession, it is perhaps the most rewarding, the most personal. For who would not want to know what their future held for them, what path they must take to stay free of the shadow? Only Pardoners earn more respect, really."

"Pardoners?" Hannah asked. "I heard that before, from Father Francis. They practice Castigate, the ability to talk to the shadow, right? He's a Pardoner, isn't he?"

Darlene snorted, "Hardly, though he fancies himself one. His skills are amateur, at best."

Hannah crossed her arms, defensive. "Well, he helped Paul. I think I might be able to do something with that – I was able to see the strength of his and Paul's shadow, and he said he thought I had the gift."

Harry interjected, bent over a little, wringing his hands. "That would be a very useful skill – everyone has to deal with their shadow, and you can charge handsomely for your services. Though, of course, many don't charge those who can't pay – and Father Francis does all his work for free. I suppose it's a matter of personal beliefs – our society needs Pardoners, but it hardly seems fair that someone so useful shouldn't get rich. And yet, there are few wealthy Pardoners, precisely because they tend to be charitable with their abilities. I suppose that profession tends to attract the selfless."

Mattie cut in. "Many an oracle will gladly give out prophesy for free if we see something interesting – it's if you bother us, ask us specific questions, that we ask for money. For instance... let's see." She peered at each of them in turn. "Ah! From your deathmarks, I can see... you both died of disease. Of the same disease. In fact... she was the one who infected you! My, but isn't that a juicy little tidbit?"

They both were taken aback by the very intimate nature of the details she's just revealed. Hannah recovered first. "I, um, I mean, we know. We worked that out already. Paul's completely okay with what happened, right Paul?" Paul nodded silently. "But that's really impressive! Uh... what are deathmarks, anyway?"

Mattie giggled at how uncomfortable they were before responding. "Oh, every wraith has marks on them describing how they died. Some are visible to everyone, and other wraiths, like you, have them hidden, maybe just as raised ares of skin or scars. But they are there, I assure you, and I can see them as clearly as though they were tattooed on you. Though, to be fair, reading deathmarks really isn't that impressive – it's the most basic thing you learn when you are taught to read the skeins of fate. But thank you. Once upon a time, you both would have been conscripted into the Skeletal Legion."

Paul responded to that comment forcefully. "The what legion? And what makes them think they can just force new spirits into military service against their will?"

Darlene interjected. "The Skeletal legion was one of the seven legions of the hierarchy. They oversaw all those who died from disease, so you would have fallen under their aegis. As for what gave them the right to-"

Harry interrupted. "Look, the Legions did what they had to. They found any souls who weren't reaped, and took them in. They explained the way the underworld worked, and gave everyone a job. You didn't have to join in military service – I certainly didn't! You just got a chance to be useful to our society, that's all. You could be a small level bureaucrat, or really, whatever you want. It beats the alternative. Everyone needs to be reaped – to be set free of their death caul. The legions do that and explain the true nature of the afterlife to the newly dead. It's certainly better than the alternative – religious cults indoctrinating Enfants in their beliefs, telling them this place is a purgatory on a stopover to another, greater heaven – or worse, pawning them off to one of the many false heavens ruled over by tyrannical fanatics. And that's a best case scenario. There are many unscrupulous slavers who would lock you in chains – and that's if they don't melt you down for an obolus, instead."

Hannah interrupted Paul's response. "That's exactly what happened to me! Some sick fucker wanted to enslave me for... he tried to chain me up as soon as I died! Thank God Paul was there to save me!"

Minnie responded. "Is that true? You came to her rescue from a slaver, despite the fact she was responsible for your death?" She peered at Paul deeply, until he became so uncomfortable that he had to reply.

Paul replied defensively, his arms crossed. "I don't care. I love her. When I realized she had died, I didn't think – I just went to her. I'd do anything for her."

Mattie smiled, looking at Paul as though he were an adorable puppy. "That's so romantic! How often does any soul have the passion to pursue his love across the afterlife? Still, if you hadn't been there, it would have been quite terrible for Hannah. Wouldn't it have been best if someone was there to care for her, if you didn't have to save her? And good thing someone was there to reap you, no?"

Paul thought back to the time right after his death, to the endless haze of confusion and reliving memories of his life. When did it end? When did this afterlife become solid? It had started to seem real when Lucius had summoned him, when he had appeared in that strange circle of chalk and blood – that was his first memory of the afterlife. I'm not about to share that with anyone but Hannah in private. "I tore my way out of my own caul. It can't be that hard."

They were all taken aback. Mattie was the first to respond. "It is, actually. Extremely difficult... and rare. Are you...?" And she stared at Paul again, far too intently for comfort.

Harry broke the awkward silence. "You two are most unusual. So you haven't even run into a Legionnaire who tried to explain this all to you?" Paul shook his head, pretending he hadn't almost got in a fight with the last Legionnaire he had encountered. "Well, I'm glad we could, though the legionaries do a better job of it. Though, lately, the soldiers of LA have been a bit rougher in their recruiting than they were before, well..."

"Before what?" Paul asked.

John replied, speaking for the first time. "Before the fall of the Hierarchy. Before the great dead city of Stygia was destroyed in the Sixth Great Maelstrom."

A solemn silence fell over the group. John closed his eyes. Paul and Hannah didn't want to interrupt their moment. John opened his eyes and began to explain. "There is... was an ancient society of the dead. Founded by Charon – yes, that Charon, the mystical ferryman – it came to be called the Hierarchy. It's capital was Stygia, and it rested on an island in the Tempest. See, most of the Tempest is utter chaos, but there's one path that flows straight and safe, which we call the river Styx. At the end, where it lets out into a vast expanse of calm water called the Sunless sea, there was a great island, and Charon built Stygia upon it. He built it from the great relic buildings of the fallen cities of the world – the Library of Alexandria, for instance, joined Stygia after it was burned in the land of the living, and became the official library of the city. In this place, objects become real to us, become relics after they are destroyed in the land of the living, and only if they are cared about and missed. That was once the only way to make anything solid in the Shadowlands, until Charon rescued the first great forger, Nhundri, who figured out how to create weapons, armor, and bricks from souls. It was under the Hierarchy that great roads, Byways, were build across the Tempest, connecting the Necropoli – the dead presence in living cities like this one – to Stygia, keeping the lands of the dead interconnected and safe. He created the legions to patrol the Necropoli and the byways, creating areas of safety among the chaos. But as time went on, there were a series of great Maelstroms, terrible storms in the lands of the dead where Spectres rode on the winds and invaded the safe areas. These storms reflected great tragedies in the lands of the living – the fall of Rome, the Black Death... until finally, the horror of the Second World War and Holocaust brought us to the verge of another such Maelstrom. When the nuclear bombs went off in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, they literally ripped open holes in the fabric of the Shadowlands, and out climbed Garool, a great Malfean – a lord of Oblivion, commander of the Spectres. The Fifth Great Maelstrom raged across the Shadowlands, and Garool led the armies of Oblivion towards Stygia. Before the capital of the dead, the lord of the wraiths stood alone against the terrible monster. He destroyed Garool – but was himself destroyed in the process. After that, the Hierarchy was never the same. His seven Deathlords, commanders of the seven legions, worked to hold everything together, but soon turned on one another. Eventually, their hubris destroyed us all. They used a relic nuclear weapon, recovered from the remains of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, to attack the Dark Kingdom of Jade – the Eastern underworld. At least, I think that's who they attacked. Rumor has it there was another target, but we were at war with them at the time, so that makes sense to me. Anyway, the results were terrible. The Sixth great Maelstrom was let loose, and the destruction was overwhelming. The Spectres ravaged Stygia, it was revealed that one of the Deathlords had turned traitor. There are rumors... only rumors... that Charon was reborn after his fall, that he went into the body of a living human after his fall, died again right before the maelstrom, and returned to Stygia in its darkest hour to halt the hordes. But even though the Spectres were defeated in the end, it was too late. Stygia was destroyed, though the survivors able to retreat to the Necropoli, like this one. But Stygia is gone forever, and with it, the society of the dead that has stood since before the founding of Rome."

Everyone was silent for a while, staring at the ground, lost in thought. Hannah was the first to speak, eyes wide with pity. "That's... tragic. Were you there when it fell?" John looked up but said nothing. "It seems like you were. So... what's left of the Hierarchy? Is it completely destroyed?"

"For the most part," John replied, sighing, eyes going back down.

Hannah shook her head, staring off into space, finding it hard to grasp the idea of an afterlife in utter chaos. "I guess that explains why no one was there to help me when I died. Well, I mean, no one but Paul, of course. But if he hadn't come for me..." Hannah shuddered. "I guess I picked a bad time to die." She laughed nervously at herself, at the strangeness of the statement.

Mattie responded, looking at Hannah like she was an ignorant child in need of teaching. "Death comes for us all in its time. Besides, it could have been much worse."

"Yes," John added, smirking. "You could have been born in the middle of the Maelstrom, your soul reaped by one of the spirits of oblivion in the midst of the chaos of the underworld unraveling."

Darlene interjected, hands on her hips, frowning disapprovingly at John. "But the hierarchy isn't truly gone!" She turned to Hannah, her hands uncurling at her sides, her face softening. "The remnants of the legions retreated across the byways to the Necropoli, and together with the old hierarchy bureaucracy formed local governments in each necropolis. The one in LA is pretty good. They keep us safe from the Spectres, and make sure everything doesn't fall into chaos."

Mattie spoke up, "Still, there's no question that things are far more terrible and chaotic now than they have ever been. There have been reports of strange and terrible beings roaming the Shadowlands, powerful and twisted forms no one has ever seen before. Just... stay around here, if you can. It's fairly safe in LA, though the unsavory parts of town for the living have equally unsavory spirits, but even a thief is better than an oblivion-blinded Spectre.. or worse. The LA Necropolis is as good as it gets, these days."

Harry finished the discussion by adding his own bit. "Honestly, even though the official civil government has gotten a little more capacious, and the Legionnaires a little more nasty, a lot has gotten better since the fall of the Deathlords. I mean, we can all agree the guilds coming back and being an open part of society has been nothing but wonderful. Those of us with a useful trade have seen their fortunes skyrocket. Just like in the lands of the living, the entertainment and banking guilds basically run LA."

"And do you belong to either of those groups?" Paul asked.

"Yes, I'm a banker among the dead. Well, now we're called Usurers, an old name for an old guild that's new to most of us. What I do is a little more complicated than just managing money, though. See, among the dead, only corpus has physical existence here, so there's really no solid resources to invest in. Even our money is made from the corpus of condemned souls. But Pathos, the energy that drives our existence and powers our arts, is as important as Corpus. So I manage the exchange of one to another, and the exchange of Pathos and Corpus from one soul to another. So... I guess you could call me a spiritual banker."

"That's... a little strange." Hannah replied. She quickly added, "I'm sorry, I guess I'm just not used to the world of the dead."

Paul was not as interested in being polite. "How can you justify destroying souls to make money? How can you be okay with spending something that used to be human?"

John turned to Paul, staring him right in the eyes. "There is no other way to make anything solid in this world. Without weapons, without walls, we would have no society – everything would have fallen to the Spectres. Would you choose oblivion over the necessity of working with souls?"

Paul squared his feet, defensive. "I mean, I can see the need for tools and weapons, but that doesn't make this right. Can't you just... I don't know, melt down Spectres? And anyway, how can you decide who gets melted down and who gets to stay alive – or, er, dead but still, you know, aware and free?"

John shrugged. "The system is rational enough. Spectres are melted down automatically, if we can catch them. Cutting them apart simply sends them down into a Harrowing - back to the labyrinth. But Spectres alone cannot provide enough corpus for the needs of our Necropolis – our dead city. So the worst criminals, those most given unto their shadows, are also melted down. Most of those so destroyed were on the verge of becoming Spectres anyway – if left alone, or simply executed, they would join the ranks of Oblivion. By soulforging them, we keep them from making the forces of darkness any stronger – and lord knows they are strong enough, already. And finally, there are those who arrive in the world of the dead listless, passionless, existing while dead much as they did while alive – without purpose or drive. They would soon fall to the Spectres, dragged down without resistance. They may as well be melted down – at least then they can serve some kind of purpose, rather than just feeding Oblivion – just helping to destroy us all."

Paul sighed. What John said made sense, but... "Maybe if you didn't waste souls making money, and just made what you need, Spectres would be enough. And who gets to decide who is and isn't worthy of being allowed to keep existing freely, huh? You?"

John smiled in a knowing and patronizing way, slowly shaking his head. "No, I simply forge the souls sent to me. I am an Artificer. They have judges who have been doing this for a long time, often centuries. It's not a perfect system, but it's far better than the alternative. If not for the Hierarchy, we would all have fallen to Oblivion by now. I know this may be a lot to accept, but you have to understand how things work in the land of the dead, how close to complete and utter destruction we are at all times. We fight a war against Oblivion, and those who do not actively participate in that war must be prevented from weakening our efforts. There is no room for welfare, workfare, or free-lunch mentality in our noble struggle. Those who do not aid us willingly must reap the consequences of their refusal. Those who are too weak to fight for us, even for themselves, can still serve as our weapons, our tools, and our building blocks."

The absolute certainty and cold inhumanity of John's words filled Paul with a righteous indignation. It didn't help that his shadow was subtly egging him on, in a way he could barely distinguish from his own thoughts – after all, the thoughts of his Shadow were running parallel to his own. So he thinks that his ends justify any means? That his hierarchy can make that kind of decision about the eternal fate of a soul, based on nothing more than an immediate need? He even admits that sometimes they get it wrong – how can you condemn even one soul to eternal imprisonment unless you know they absolutely deserve it? Fascist fuck!

His mouth was open, and we was about to respond, when Darlene stopped him with a touch on the arm and the whispered words, "Let's finish this discussion another time. The cops are here."

Paul turned around, and saw two souls dressed in outfits right out of a Roman legion – the short skirt of leather straps, the chest armor, the short swords, everything – these wraiths wore the ridiculous, anachronistic outfits with expression of total seriousness on their face, like they were uniforms. Which they were.

They moved through the crowd, one with green eyes keen and suspicious, a red plume of command on his helmet, the other with brown eyes that were warily searching for threats. They marched boldly, their corpi rippling with muscles, the other ghosts backing up nervously, the living ignoring the unseen spirits. The Legionnaires ignored the living in turn, peering intently at the dead. Until one living couple caught their attention.

They stared at the couple, who were making out passionately and grinding against each other on the wall. One of the Legionnaires started muttering to the other. They placed themselves next to each of the two passionate partners. Then, as one, they drew their swords and cut through the necks of the living couple. The couple didn't notice – but dead souls fell out of the living bodies, their heads tumbling to the ground next to their corpi. The Legionnaires grabbed the souls, pulling them to their feet. They shackled their wrists to one another before picking their heads up and placing them upon their necks. Their corpi healed, but before the heads were even on they began screaming, babbling wildly, begging to be let go, insisting that they had done nothing wrong.

"Silence!" Screamed the commander, and the two ceased all noise. "You stand accused of violating the

Dictum Mortuum, of interfering in the affairs of the living. How do you answer?"

The man, naked and muscular, his body covered in spikes, answered first. "We were just skinriding, experiencing their bodily sensations. We weren't interfering at all!"

Even as he spoke, the two mortals disentangled from one another, seeming to come out of a daze. The embarrassed man apologized to the woman, who had an expression of horror and confusion on her face. She ran off, holding her face in her hands, while the man stood in mute confusion, staring at the fleeing woman.

The commander spoke again. "It seems the mortals suddenly changed their minds about their passion – as though they awoke from a dream – or possession! Not interfering at all, indeed. Come, you will be presented before a judge for your crimes. Follow us."

Horror was written on the souls' faces, but they obeyed, their actions at odds with their expressions. Paul watched them get dragged off, horrified at the totalitarianism he was witnessing. I thought you were a campaigner for human rights, a defender of the weak and the downtrodden. Are you just going to sit by and let this happen? Where is your spine, crusader for justice?

Paul had no answer for his shadow, because he knew he was being a spineless coward – that he should stand up for these unfortunate souls. But, what can I do? I mean, they were breaking the law. What's going to happen to them? I can at least ask. Paul struggled inside himself, but a lifetime of activism in the name of justice won over caution. He stepped forward, next to the Legionnaires and the prisoners. "Excuse me, but what law have they broken? What's going to happen to them? I"m newly dead and don't really know these things." His shadow mocked him. Excuse me, good masters, but I was wondering if I might inquire how you plan on torturing these innocents, if it's not too much trouble for you to tell me, good masters.

The Legionnaires turned to him, stern and solemn, the commander all but baring teeth at him as he shouted, "It's none of your fucking business! Out of the way, or see yourself set in chains alongside these two!"

Paul backed up, but his outrage grew, and he felt the fire of hate build within him. Yes, how dare you even ask a question, you pathetic peon! Know your place – beneath my heel! "I, I was only curious, only trying to understand the society of the dead..." Oh, I'm so sorry for bothering you master, I didn't mean to upset you!

The soldier put a hand on his commander's shoulder, advising him, "Calm down, Baldwin. He's just an Enfant, he doesn't know any better." The soldier turned to Paul. "The Dictum Mortuum is a law, passed long ago by Charon, that says the dead can't interfere in the affairs of the living. It exists for a very practical purpose – once, the living were victims of hauntings, possessions, and all manner of miserable harassment by the dead. That couple there would have ended up having sex against their wishes because of the manipulation of this couple, who want to feel that physical passion again. We are dead – these things are lost to us, and we should not ruin the lives of the living to feel them again."

They moved on, as though the matter had been settled, as though he couldn't possibly have anything else to say. Of course you don't. Thank you so much for being gracious enough to explain the law to me and not just stomping me with your jackboots, Mr. Fascist Brownshirt sir! "What's going to happen to them?"

The pair spun back to face Paul annoyance written on the soldier's face, outrage on the commander's. Paul noticed out of the corner of his eye that the group that had been speaking to him was quietly slipping out of their booth, moving to a less obvious location. Hannah wasn't moving away from him – quite the contrary, she was right next to him, trying to tug on his sleeve, get him to move away while smiling politely at the Legionnaires. The captain responded, malice in his voice. "They're going to be tried for their crimes. As for their punishment – I know these two, they're recidivists. So they're most likely going to be sentenced for a long period of enslavement – if the judge is feeling merciful. He might decide, like I have, that they're never going to stop harassing with the living, and will have them melted down!"

Paul blanched. So, three strikes and you're condemned to eternal imprisonment as an inanimate object, huh? This is way worse than anything you fought against in life! Stand up to them! Help these people! "Wait, you really think they're going to be forged into, like, a sword, or a coin? Are they aware after they get melted down?"

The commander rounded on him, stomping directly up to him, getting in his face as he screamed, "The fuck does it matter, whelp? They broke the law, and now they're going to face their punishment! That's how it works! But for the record, no one knows for sure, but I've seen crying coins, heard screaming blades. I think they still know what they are, still are aware on some level. And I'm glad of it! These wastes of souls don't deserve an afterlife – or if they do deserve one, it's hell! I came to understand a long time ago that this place is some sort of purgatory, a stopover, and it tests each of us. Obey the laws or be made to suffer! It's that simple, and any disobedience means you're a supporter of Oblivion – of Hell! So, you little troublemaker, are you going to shut your mouth and let me do my job, or am I going to have to introduce you to our justice system as I drag you out of here in chains?"

Paul was shaking, half with fear, half with outrage at his treatment by this thug. What makes him think he has the right to... to...? Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that people like you are too spineless to stand up to him and do anything? I would be glad to fight... but I don't think I can take them. And anyway, I need to take care of Hannah. I can't risk her afterlife for my idealism. Paul lowered his eyes and answered, "No, you're right of course, thank you for answering my questions."

The commander sneered at him, then turned around to go.

Spineless coward! With that scream in his head, his shadow took control.

Paul watched, helpless, as his hand reached into his waist, pulled out the sword he had taken from the slaver, and cut off the head of the Legionnaire commander.