Four on the Floor, Part Four - Steemit Exclusive Urban Fantasy

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Part Four

“Not what you were expecting, Miss Ebinger?” The alleged god of the underworld is pouring himself a glass of bourbon, the car already in motion, but I barely felt it. The seats are leather, black (of course), with a small shelf to hold three bottles of liquor.

“What, if I might ask, were you expecting me to expect?”

“You would suppose I expected you to expect ebony plush bench seats, perhaps a carriage pulled by skeletal or ghostly steeds, a coachman wearing a black cloak with a scythe, and quoting Emily Dickinson?” He then smiles curtly. “But to be honest, I expect that you expected a limousine.”

“That’s a little unsettling.”

“You’d rather I lied?”

“I’d rather you didn’t show off. It’s unbecoming of someone who presents himself as a proper gentleman.” I sit, seatbelt buckled, leg crossed primly on instinct. The gesture clashes with black cargo pants, but pocket-space trumps style sometimes.

“Perhaps we should have our discussion, then?”

My gaze is turned from him to the window. “Giving up already?”

He perks a brow, “Miss Ebinger, are you flirting with me?”

I smile genially in the tinted window’s reflection. “As I stated, sir, I have no interest in men right now.”

“Miss Ebinger, I would like you to refrain from any further dealings with my clients.”

That gets my attention, but I keep my face placid. You learn to do that for a lot of reasons that are too myriad to name. “That’s an intriguing word to use for the dead, sir.”

“There’s that word again. Sir. Are you uncomfortable using my name?”

“I find that such names have power, and are not to be spoken lightly or casually.” I finally turn back toward him, control my smile. “And I haven’t decided whether or not you’re full of shit regarding that claim, sir.”

He reaches into his pocket and retrieves a silver case, from which he takes a business card that gives me flashbacks to American Psycho. I take it, and read the front, “David Aidoneus, Aidoneus and Partners, 1 Victory Tower.” I look up at him. “It is a fine business card, sir.” I hand it back.

“You won’t even call me Mr. Aidoneus?”

“It’s just another name for who you claim to be.”

“So you won’t call me David?”

I turn back to the window. “Are we now so informal, sir?”

A sigh follows. “Shall we cease this dance and return to my concerns, Miss Ebinger?”

I chuckle, softly, cover my mouth as demurely as possible, and turn back to him. “So you are giving up. I agree, eventually the music stops and the moment becomes awkward. If you are who you say you are, why is it that I must abstain from helping your ‘clients’, as you call them?”

“I am performing the purpose for which I was created, Miss Ebinger. I have little patience for hobbyists who believe that they have a better way of doing things.” He takes out another case, though this is for his cigarettes. “I will admit that your recent actions have sent several lost souls back into my fold, and you have not attempted to impose your personal judgment in deciding the realm into which they will spend their time.”

“I suspect you have a concern, though.”

The cigarette is lit, and he takes a leisurely pull on it, exhaling a plume of smoke that is darker than normal. This, I would suspect, is purely for my benefit.

“Fate abhors a sorcerer, Miss Ebinger, and I personally abhor a necromancer. Don’t let our pleasant tête-à-tête mislead you. I have domain over your activities, and I will stop you if I have to.”

“Why now?”

He stops another puff prematurely. “Beg pardon?”

“I’ve been working with the dead for the past two years, sir. Yet tonight you decide to intervene. As you claim to know everything, you would have been aware of my ‘activities’, as you referred, throughout the entirety. But you didn’t intervene, not until tonight.”

He leans toward me, conspiratorially. “Can you keep a secret, Miss Ebinger?”

I look at him plainly. “If you respond with ‘So can I,’ I am going to be quite disappointed in your conversational skills. I expect better of you.”

“And yet, you deign to not reply.”

“I can keep a secret, sir.”

He takes another long, leisurely drag on his cigarette. “Then I would ask why you expect me to divulge mine?”

Serve returned.

Might as well rush the net.

“Mr. Aidoneus?”

At that, I get the million dollar smile. “Yes, Miss Ebinger?”

“My deepest apologies on your courtship and marriage being used as examples of the patriarchy’s legitimizing of casual rape and female objectification, as well as absolving men of their professed lack of self-control around virgins, not to mention using a fad pomegranate diet to blame-shift and victim-shame, all in service of explaining why we have seasonal weather.” I look right at him, meet his eyes. “Now let us dispense with this tête-à-tête, as you adequately put it, and you either ask whatever favor you need performed without appearing weak, or have your driver pull the car over and let me out here.”

His lips press into a thin line. “I would not speak to me in such a way, if I were you. Everyone dies, Miss Ebinger, and I make it a personal priority to collect a sorcerer upon their death.”

“That might be, sir, but at least we’re finally talking.”

He takes a deep breath, mashes out his cigarette. “I might add that it was your kind who foisted that wretched story on me.” He cuts me off. “Humans, not women, I know you were going to think it was misogynistic. Regardless, if you must know, the terms of my divorce were quite in my wife’s favor.”

"Mr. Aidoneus, I didn’t ask about your marital status."

At that, he smirks, a little too knowingly. “Simply answering the question before you ask it, Miss Ebinger.” I start to reply, but he interrupts, “I know everything. And, I might add, you used my name, not sir. Perhaps your disinterest in men is not as firm as you state.”

Deity or not, at least I know that he’s male now.

I knock on the divider between us and the driver. “Could you pull over here, please?”