AN: Written in the Djinn Galaxy of the Beetleverse. For 100 Kisses.
The poltergeist they called Betelgeuse, if any dared to call him, lived in a deep dark hole underneath the Netherworld, which was in fact the world behind the world above. Which made his lair very dark and deep indeed. His people had called it Annwn, and it was to have been one big giant party, where the girls were beautiful and the food was cooked for you. But the difference between the advertisement and the actuality was about as distant as his namesake star was from Sol. Pretty damn far.
His life had been fairly short and crappy, but he had always felt he was meant for greater things than death by bog. His afterlife had become an intricate dance as he kept a step or two ahead of the gatekeepers at the Administration, and definitely had its moments of joy. He was a decent shyster, an excellent thief, and a brilliant schemer. It had taken him nearly six hundred years to meet his match, and to his surprise, being outmaneuvered only made her that much more intriguing. Some days he amused himself by watching her in the mirror. She had never been one to preen, though she did sometimes sit in front of the mirror, looking lost, and he would memorize her dark eyes, her dainty cheekbones and… and those days were good days.
This was not one of them.
Why he felt the need to clean the place was beyond him at the moment. Restless, but trapped for the moment, he felt petulantly tired of his mirrors and their shifting stories, and especially at one in particular that had been empty for days. His roving eyes turned to his own room, and he was forced to admit that it hadn't been this bad for several decades. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to give the place a bit of the old shine.
Hours or days later, rooting through his bedroom closet, he came across an old silk coat that he hadn't seen in ages. The brocade was exquisite, the tailoring immaculate. Ah yes. Henry Morgan had ranted about it for weeks, but Betelgeuse had never been sufficiently moved to give it back. Teal was, after all, his favorite damn color. Else why hang around in the Caribbean and all its shiny blue sea? Morgan had too many coats anyway. Too damn fashionable for a pirate. And one of the perks of being a ghost is that the clothes always fit.
He shrugged it on over his dusty black t-shirt, and conjured breeches and boots… okay, so the boots weren't exactly period, but he doubted the SCA would be brave enough to redflag him on it. With a sweep of his hand, he smoothed his straw-colored hair and turned to admire himself in the mirror. Fine. Very fine indeed. A flash of memory, her delighted grin as she paraded around in a pirate costume that she had hand-stitched, and he smiled softly. Yes, she would like this very much.
Not that she would ever call him again.
That thought took the gleam out of his smile, a little, and he shrugged uncomfortably to himself. It was hard enough to admit that he thought of her at all. It was another thing entirely to admit that he missed her.
His hands slipped into the satin-lined pockets of the coat, and his fingertips brushed against am ornately worked piece of cold metal. Metal objects were always making their way into his pockets. The attraction was purely magnetic. Iron and steel, mostly, in all forms: buttons, keys, coins, needles and pins, rings, bracelets, charms and beads, nails and blades of all sorts. The gold and silver because he liked pretty things. Had a bit of raven in him. He tugged the object out and held it in his pale palm.
It was a key. An old-fashioned iron skeleton key.
He pondered for a moment, inspecting the intricate filigree and the fine casting. A rare and precious example of key making… he was certain now that Morgan had been upset about the loss of more than just his best silk coat. But what did it open?
After a moment or two he was forced to admit that he had absolutely no idea. A key without a lock. Another mystery to go along with his dark-haired beauty.
And then he had a thought, grinned slightly, and tucked the key back into his pocket. One good mystery deserved another. Eventually she would call him—he was absolutely certain of that. And although he had no idea what the key opened, she didn't have to be privy to that particular lack of knowledge.
This day was beginning to look interesting, after all.