(( Note about this story: It takes place in the same setting as A Taste of Whiskey, but featuring different characters. The history of the world and its general make-up are all the same, however. These two are just random stories I've been playing with. Fairy Tale's Princess still remains my priority. :D ))

1.

It was going to be one of those days. I knew it as soon as I rolled out of bed. First of all, I'd forgotten to close the windows completely and the sunlight, even indirect throughout the day as it had been, had left my normally white skin a less than happy shade of pink.

Bloody sun.

I'm sure there are plenty of people -- Normies, mostly -- who love the sun and its scorching rays, but I'm not one of them. I haven't been out in full daylight in nearly six decades, not since my death. Yes, death. No, I'm not a vampire. I'm a horse of a different color. I could go out, as long as I donned shades and SPF 90 sunscreen. I just feel no need to. My clientele is mostly nocturnal anyway, and those that aren't make exceptions for what I do. Talking to the dead is an activity best left for the cool hours of night time.

Slapping some aloe on my skin, I pulled a brush through my choppy black hair, dabbed smokey eyeshadow around my ash grey eyes, and called it good. Well, until I spotted a drop of something -- ichor, probably -- on the cuff of my nice, otherwise clean, black business jacket. Sometimes I really hate working with the dead.

By the time I'd dug out a change of clothes, I was running late. I saved time by grabbing a stale muffin off the counter in lieu of breakfast, then hightailed it to my car.

Ryleigh was waiting for me -- impatiently, of course -- at the doorway. "What do we get to re-kill tonight?" I tried to ignore the maniac light in her wolf-gold eyes. Most Ferals shied away from the shambling dead -- not out of fear, but dislike. Most beings with a normal sense of smell found the reek of decay less than appetizing; Ferals, with their incredibly heightened sense of smell, could barely stomach it at most times. I'd never questioned Ryleigh about her lack of repugnance. In part, because I had a feeling the answer would be as disturbing as her love of gore and violence, and in part because she was convenient muscle when things got out of hand. Which, in my line of work, they often did.

"Police called yesterday," I replied, heading towards my office. "Some hex got out of hand and now the residents of the local Shady Hills Cemetary are showing a remarkable penchant for clawing out of the grave and making a nuisance of themselves."

"Ooh, zombies. This'll be fun."

"They're primal types. Pack your blessed rounds and holy water," I replied, all business. Four years of working with Ryleigh had taught me to just ignore her bloodlust. It was easier that way. "Hey, Rick, did that package come in?"

Perpetually slumped and clad in jeans and a hoodie, Rick nodded around his mocha frappachino latte or what ever it is walking super nerds drink. "It's on your desk, Miss Grey."

Real imaginative last name, I know. But, hey, it fits and clients remember well enough. I nodded to him and headed to my office. The business I'd started was a modest one, with just six employees including myself, but we'd made a good name for ourselves, and in a city like New Babylon, we had a steady flow of work.

Sure enough, there was the package sitting on my desk. I shut my door and sat down on my desk, preparing to open my latest shipment of blessed shells I'd just received.

"You are the necromancer Grey?"

My gun was in my hand and trained on the speaker's heart before she'd even finished speaking.

"Who the fuck are you?" I snapped. I do not like being surprised. It's an exceedingly rare occurrence. For the life of me, however, I hadn't even sensed her. She'd just.. appeared when she started speaking, like she'd been there the entire time but I'd just chosen not to see her.

"A client. You are Miss Grey?" She was a slip of a woman, Asian in ethnicity, but I couldn't tell more than that. She was wearing all black, like myself, with an honest-to-god pair of katannas strapped across her back. I was still trying to figure out if I wanted to shoot her.

"That's me. Speak quickly or we'll see if you can hide from bullets, too."

"There is someone who needs your help. Go to the warehouse on 6th and Blythe. You need to hurry, before someone else dies." Her voice was soft, unhurried, but I could hear the note of urgency in her words. I balked.

"Unless she's dead, she's not my problem." I wasn't a damn babysitter or a psychiatrist or anything like that. I was a necromancer. "Call the police."

"The police will kill her. She needs you." She reached into a waist pouch and my finger tensed on the trigger. What she flipped out, however, was not a weapon, but a wad of cash. Must have been ten grand, easy. "Hurry, Miss Grey."

Then she was gone -- lucky for her. I hate people knowing me if I'm not already aware of them and at least three different ways to kill them. That itself was grounds for me to shoot her the next time I saw her. I stared at the wad of cash on the desk. How easy it'd be just to take it and call it all good.

Goddamn my conscience.

I shoved the cash into a dresser drawer, then grabbed my rosary off the desk. "Ryleigh!"

She appeared at my door, her nostrils flaring and I knew she was sampling the scent left behind by my visitor. By the wrinkle of her nose, I knew she didn't know who it was, big surprise. "Get your stuff together, we've a change of plans. Prepare for anythign and everything." She stared at me, dying to ask. "Now!" I snapped. She disappeared again.

"Payton!' I swept out of my office, pulling my work belt, complete with gun, stakes, and silver shells, all at the ready. "Reschedule with the police. No wait," I corrected. "Send Maxine and Gyn."

"They've never handled anything this big," Payton cautioned. I smiled -- sweetly.

"Tell them it's a learning experience. Now stop second-guessing me. Ryleigh!"

"Here, boss," she said, abruptly appearing at my side. I glanced over at her. She was armed to the teeth, clad in an army vest that accented her full, generous curves, loose cargo pants, and combat boots. I could spot no less than half a dozen different weapons tucked on her person. I love having a Feral in my corner of the ring, even one as bat-shit crazy as Ryleigh.

"Good. Let's go."