Page 43 of Housesitter

The smoke licked at the back of Kel’s throat, the taste of cherry suddenly so thick it sickened. Kel put the spoon down.

“You’re on a roll,” he said. “Why not? Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

She sniffed. “Only losers need luck,” she said. “I’m not a loser.”

Chapter Eleven

Hell House Client Brief: We don't know what's in the walls. Probably for the best.

“OK,” Kel said as he walked up the garden path. He held a coffee out toward Shepherd. “I’m all in. Where do we start?”

Shepherd finished the brushstroke on the big bay window that overlooked the street. Shrimpboat Pink was a less offensively vivid color than it sounded. He leaned down to set the brush in the tray and then accepted the coffee.

“It’s been an hour,” he said. “That’s how long it takes you to decide the final distribution of your soul?”

Kel shrugged and took a swig out of the coffee he’d kept for himself.

“Actually, I knocked that out in about twenty minutes,” he said. “I know I’m not going to change my ways enough to get a crack at heaven, so it really came down to deciding if I could get a better offer or not. After that I went to lunch. How long does it take most people?”

“I…” Shepherd started to answer, but had to stop to think about it. He finally admitted, “I don’t know. In my line of work, most people have left that decision in the rearview. Twenty minutes could be industry standard.”

“How long did it take you?”

Shepherd took a drink of coffee. “Eighteen years,” he said slowly. “Give or take.”

“Je...epers,” Kel said. “You ever heard of shitting or getting off the pot, Shepherd?”

He shook his head and walked away down the side of the building until he got to the corner and stopped to squint up into the eaves. Shepherd watched him for a moment and then snorted softly to himself.

It wasn’t like he’d not thought that himself a couple of times.

He took another drink of coffee and then followed after Kel. They stood next to each other as they contemplated the roof. After a bit, Shepherd bumped his shoulder against Kel’s arm.

“Are you trying to fix the tiles with the power of your mind?” he asked.

Kel looked away from the eaves and at Shepherd. He raised a rusty-auburn eyebrow. “...if I was, would it work?”

“It’s not really that sort of magic.”

“Then no, I’m not,” Kel said. He stepped back onto the grass and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. Long fingers dug into the muscles, and Kel stretched into his own massage like a cat. “So is there a reason you’re doing this by hand and not subcontracting it to someone from Taskrabbit? Don’t get me wrong, I like watching you get sweaty. I can just think of more fun ways to get the same result.”

Shepherd cleared his throat and dragged his attention away from Kel’s shoulders. He glanced down at his paint-blotched shorts and scuffed-up knees.

“Me too,” he said as he took a drink of coffee. He held up two fingers as he swallowed. “Two problems with that.”

Kel crossed his arms and rocked his weight back onto his heels.

“Hit me,” he said.

Shepherd looked at his fingers for a second, wriggling them back and forth as he tried to decide what problem to lead with.

“Can’t get anyone to come out,” he said and folded one finger down. “No money to pay them if we did. Renfield’s only covers emergency repairs, and while the estate is in probate, Dio’s accounts are frozen.”

Kel chuckled as he glanced at the house and reached out to pat the shingled siding. The look of amused exasperation on his face was the sort usually worn by little old New York ladies with angry purse dogs.

“I thought you were going to say the house would eat them,” he said.

Shepherd wrinkled his nose as he considered the house. “I mean, probably,” he admitted. “Renfield’s will cover that, though.”