I considered discounting all the Supernatural stuff. Angels, demons, vampires? It was too much to accept—especially the part about me being a ghost—but, whether I wanted or not, Death was making me a believer.

When I tried opening the ornate hand-carved door, my hand went through it. Would I go through everything else I touched?

Entertained, Mys reached around me and turned the latch. I realized as soon as I entered the building there was something off about the "basement" studio. By some strange magic, instead of descending stairs, I entered at ground-level. There were also high windows that weren't visible from outside the cathedral.

I took in the view with interest. A sleek, modern kitchenette lined the side wall to my left, separated from the rest of the room by a marble island. Only one barstool. Across from the kitchen, there was a comfy leather couch before a bookshelf and mounted TV. Along the far wall was a full-sized metal bed dressed in a white duvet.

It was a fascinating space that revealed a lot about my new friend, here. The palette was neutral and the décor, minimalist. Somewhat stark, but Zen-like.

"Make yourself at home," said Mys.

"Easier said than done."

Mys guided me to the couch. "You can't impact the Real World—like opening doors or moving objects—but sitting on the couch won't change anything. You can do that without a problem, Yokai."

"In other words, if it shouldn't be moving on its own, I can't move it. Got it. What's a yoke—?"

"Yokai? It's Japanese for 'pesky spirit.'"

"Well, gee, thanks!" I pouted.

Mys flashed a devilish grin that, surprisingly, stirred the butterflies in my tummy. "The kanji, or letters, making up the word actually express something like 'beguiling' and 'ghost.' I hope you don't mind. I tend to give pet names."

"Weird flex, but okay. I like my Japanese pet name."

"Mm-hm. It preempts the question of where I'm from, too. The answer is New Orleans, by the way." Another grin. I shyly smiled back as I sank to the leather couch.

As the psychic medium pattered around the kitchenette, my gaze wandered over them: Tall, thin, dark-haired, dressed in a black lace tunic. Alluring or whatever.

Mys continued small talk in a husky voice that was pleasant background noise. However, my thoughts turned inward to how to get home. I tried to backtrack from my death, but my mind went blank at pinning down details. Hadn't I been out with someone? Focusing seemed impossible as my attention drifted again to...

The mysterious psychic whose presence was making me feel "alive-ish." They brought over coffee. I reached for the mug. We both shied away as it dawned on me, I didn't need to eat or drink anymore because "alive-ish" still meant Very Dead.

"You're sleeping the eternal rest, Aurie. Try to adjust sooner rather than later," Mys chided, settling on the couch beside me. "You won't be a ghost forever."

"What do you mean I won't be? What else is there?"

"The longer you're here, the more you'll resemble raw energy expelled without rhyme or reason. Like, uh, a poltergeist."

I slouched at the idea my situation could get worse. "Fan-fucking-tastic. How long do I have?"

"Mm? Time passes weirdly for the dead since you're untethered," Mys said blithely. "I suggest you get your final goodbyes and last hurrahs out of the way. Finish your unfinished business ASAP."

"Right. So, should I just know what my unfinished business is? 'Cause I don't."

My companion drummed fingers on the armrest of the couch and studied me. "What was your biggest regret in life?"

"Nothing, as far as I can remember." Peering skyward, I still couldn't see my murky past. I met the psychic's skeptical gaze with an eyebrow lift.

"So, there's nothing you'd go back and change?" Mys asked.

"Nope. I pretty much lived a regret-free life."

Exaggerated blink. "That's very telling, Aurie. It sounds boring as fuck."

"Hey! If I had known I would die young, I might've taken more chances!"

"Okay, then you regret not living your life to the fullest," said Mys. Glib shrug.

"Are you telling me that my unfinished business is to live a little? How am I supposed to do that now that I'm D-E-D?" I goofed.

"It's your Afterlife. You work out the specifics, Yokai. Now." Uncrossing long, sexy legs, Mys rose from the couch. "I'm glad we could wrap this brainstorming sesh' without caffeine because, honestly, I need sleep. Thank me later."

The lovely medium dumped the mug of coffee in the kitchen sink and headed to the shower, while I glared at the bathroom door until I had to concede. It made no sense to waste coffee; other than that, they were right.

I was the only one who could figure out my unfulfilled destiny.

But as I tried recalling my life, I again got a hazy feeling. Straining to picture my family and friends, I came up short, and a rising panic threatened. This couldn't be normal, could it? It could be. Given I had the Soul knocked out me—which felt a bit like a bad hangover—memory lapse was probably par for the course.

I thought about social media. People put everything online these days. Maybe I had, too. Spotting a laptop on the nightstand, I rushed to search my name, but my hands went straight through the device.

"Oh, come on!" I whined.

After several fails, I let out an overdramatic groan and pitched face-first to the bed. As I flopped around, it occurred to me Aurie Edison didn't have tantrums. She was too mature, too dignified, too disciplined and boring as fuck. Deadass.

My psychic was semi-right. I didn't simply need to live a little. I needed to live a LOT, and—I pressed my face deeper into the blanket. Why did the bed smell like the very Breath of Gawd? I forgot my meltdown for a second as I drank in the scent. A jolt of excitement shot through me. What was that? Sex Voodoo Potion No. 69?

"Yes," I exhaled in rapture.

"Should I give you a minute?"

"Hi!" I bolted upright. Fierce heat rushed to my face.

Mys wore a bemused expression and a partially open kimono. The air went thick with assumptions and unasked questions. And steam. From the bathroom. Definitely not from the heatwave of my lusty imagination. I scurried to the couch, mortified.

"I hope I'm not interrupting." Mys raised a brow.

"No. I was, um—your cologne, er, perfume—it's..."

"It's from a place down on Royal Street. Like it?" They spritzed an atomizer, and the room flooded with one-part of that heavenly scent. The other part, I realized, was a magical mix of pheromones and chemistry. It was pure Mys.

I held in a moan, and Mys gave me a knowing smile. "I might be able to help with what ails you."

"Help, hmm?" I stammered.

They disappeared behind a decorative silk dressing screen by the bathroom door. "Considering your Afterlife won't last forever, if you need help living it to the fullest tonight, I'm feeling generous. I might not even charge," they called out.

I snorted at the joke. "Thanks, but I bet you say that to all the girls."

Mys peeked around the screen with a grin. "Nope. My clients are ninety-nine percent male."

"Oh!" I intoned. Wait. I had met this person outside a ritzy hotel, dressed to the nines, looking for all the world like—

"I'm a high-paid escort and don't pretend outrage. It's a living." They blew vapor in my direction, emerging fully clothed for bed.

I wasn't outraged. Okay, maybe minorly shook by the idea of spending the night with a genderqueer New Orleans prostitute (escort). Somehow, I knew the old Killjoy Me would say, "Over my dead body."

But I was dead. I gave up trying not to stare. No denying Mys was attractive. The radiant skin, ever-present sardonic smile. Their brand of sex appeal flipped off conventions. My uncertainty morphed into a willingness to see how far I could take things in this mystical new world.

"Actually, there is something you can do for me," I murmured.