Isla, Conduit for ̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶S̶p̶i̶r̶i̶t̶u̶a̶l̶i̶s̶t̶ ̶A̶r̶t̶s̶ ̶Sexting

Oh, yeah, that day started like any other. Slow and cold. Until about, oh, like, noon-ish, or so? A decidedly after church hour but still early enough to be considered unholy by most in the Society of Other, Worldly, and Otherworldly Creatures. I had only just begun to sip my morning coffee when the first of the widows came knocking.

Not that I had any right to complain about having clients, for a change. A few, ah, noteworthy customers aside, January was relatively dry for the kitschy Psychic Readings industry. But Valentine's Day? Oh honey. Valentine's Day was your baby girl's most bumping day of the year.

"Yes, yes," moaned seventy-seven-year-old Myrna Felgren, a regular of mine with cataracts and a silvery blue wig. Oh, and a dead husband. "What else does my Wallace say? What—what does he do next?"

"Tell Myrna I touch her, ahem," the ghost of the aforementioned expired spouse, Wallace Felgren, three years deceased next month, rasped into my ear. He gestured toward his wife's bosom. "Here. Softly, at first. But more, ah, firm, as she melts like pudding under my touch."

For Gritty's sake.

"He squeezes your tits."

"Oh!" Myrna yelped like her beau did manage to land a nipple pinch from the great beyond. My chaise wobbled as she threw her head back, pawing at her own breasts over that mink coat.

"Pudding," said Wallace, nudging my elbow. "You forgot to say pudding."

I swatted Wally's hand away. Just as Myrna peeled one eye open to check in on me, I guess. Shifting the gesture from a weird twitch into a flourish, I flicked my wrist toward my crystal ball (still cracked, but nothing some clear tape and glitter couldn't fix). My fingers skimmed across the surface, fresh manicure clicking against the crystal. The ruby gem of my ring glinted in the light of my candles.

"Wait, Myrna, there's more— I hear him— it's faint, but yes, your Wallace is saying you melt like ice cream—No. Like pudding beneath his touch!"

"Didn't you just say you wanted a bit more melting ice cream?" A certain vampire had whispered in my ear once.

"Good gracious! Tell him I like that! I've always—it's been so long since anyone's touched me like this. Tell Wallace, oh, how I've missed his hands on me, just, roving the length of my pliant body! Say roving."

"Once again, Myrna, he can still hear you. Every word."

"Please, please, tell him." She panted, eyes squeezed shut and trembling as if she were about to let go and peak right there on my chaise.

I resisted the urge to lay down a newspaper for the mess, instead merely wrinkling my nose. Eck. Stupid, gross, sickeningly romantic, loving, devoted couple. I should be the stupid hoe sullying my stupid chaise like that, not one of my stupid regulars. A monthly one at that. Not even a weekly!

Get real, it's not like you've had any opportunities for furniture sullying as of late, girlfriend.

"Wallace, Myrna says she likes it when you," I sighed, "touch her like that. Like your hands are, you know, roving."

Good ole Wally nodded vigorously. If it hadn't already killed him, I'd be worried the horny bastard's heart would give out from watching the scene. He licked his eternally chapped lips and admired his enthralled widow.

Tucked between my ass and the velvet chair cushions, my phone buzzed. Again. I glanced at the clock on wall. Nuts. This session was already ten minutes over time and the lovebirds hadn't even made it past the foreplay. Move along and get to the good stuff babes. I had places to be. Namely, my second job. If I was late for a fourth shift, already, Greg would ring my neck—hm. Well. Suppose a few more minutes of reuniting grieving sweethearts couldn't hurt.

Not like we had any client meetings booked for tonight. No rush cases. And I should know, Phoebe's been teaching me how to manage Greg's nightly schedule. Or, well, less teach and more bitch about his unhealthy time management habits until the wee hours of the morning.

Wallace's labored breathing intensified to a lurid wheeze over my shoulder as he watched Myrna thrash so fiercely she nearly knocked her own wig off.

Dang hornballs.

"Margarita, tell my sweet Myrna that I tenderly stroke her cheek. Oh, and kiss her on her neck. Just under her chin. Like here," Wallace attempted to demonstrate by poking his wrinkly finger into the underside of my jaw. I flinched out the way. "She's sensitive there."

Greg's cool lips came down around my skin, kissing me tenderly as he took the first deep, leisurely sip from my jugular. It sent pleasant tingles fizzing all the way through my body.

Wonder what sort of fizzy tingles we'd get up to tonight, left alone in his office, filing paperwork and drinking cheap champagne with strawberries floating in it – oh, this stuff? Yeah, leftover from Galentine's celebrations with my sisters. Waste not, you know?

Things had been slow for Greg's private investigations business the last few weeks as well. We've had exactly one case that consistently kept cropping up intoour schedule, and it was some dull, black market potion selling fiasco. Not much point in surveillance when it's too cold to leave the house without your nips freezing right off, he'd said. Or, you know, something like that. I may be paraphrasing.

Today was a particularly blistery one. Black ice and flash freeze warnings galore. And, oh, look how thin my dress was. Silly me, I never dress for the weather. Look at that! I'm just about turning blue. Greggy, however will you heat me up...

I cleared my aching throat. "Okay, ah, as sweet as this's been, Myrna, I'm afraid my connection to the spirit world is waning—"

"Oooooh, Wallace! I—I'm so close! Keep him here! Just a pinch, ah"—did this woman seriously just pinch her own tit inside her coat? — "longer. Please!"

"Myrna."

"Go on," Wallace elbowed me. "She's paying you, isn't she? Make my wife happy!"

My phone buzzed. Again.

Enough was enough.

I slapped a hand against the crystal and gasped, loud, faking a violent swoon. "Myrna! Wait!"

That got her attention. With a huff, the old woman rocked herself upright and finally rolled her eyes open for me. She fanned herself with the black veiled hat she always wore, tugging at the collar of her fur coat.

"I'm so sorry, I—I can't hold him much longer," I said, forcing my breathing to go ragged. "The realm beyond the veil calls him back—"

"Huh, has it been an hour already?" Myrna asked.

"—but Wallace—hour and fifteen actually—he says he loves you. He'll always love you—he's there, reaching out, stroke—" I swallowed and, as if clinging desperately to my tenuous hold on the spirit world, cupped my palms around the crystal so tightly the newly applied glitter flaked off. Hey, of all the things I've ever been accused of, not committing to the bit was never one of them. "Stroking your cheek. Do you feel it?"

Myrna grazed her fingertips along her jaw, eyes watering. "Yes. Yes, I feel him," she giggled, "his hand's so cold."

Greg's cold fingers, trailing the length of my arm, would leave goosebumps in their wake.

Over my shoulder, Wally blew his high school sweetheart a kiss. Considering he couldn't, you know, actually touch her. Not for lack of trying the first time Myrna commissioned me for a little Valentine's Day nookie either. That was a trip.

I reached over my crystal ball and gently patted Myrna's—ah—well—I mean her knee was closest but then so was her hand but—yeah—I last second swerved, straining my back, to pat her shoulder. Which was, I presumed, at least the driest bit of her. Now it was the glitteriest. Hm, wonder how you're supposed to get that out of fur?

"Wallace has—"

"Oh! Has he gone? You've lost your tether, haven't you? I know what a strain our," she cradled her blushing cheek, "passion can have upon your powers, but I still pushed you! I'm so sorry."

Heck, I was going to say Wally has to go now, but yeah, that worked too.

I shook my head. "Don't blame yourself. Yes, he may be gone for now—"

"Eh? No, I'm not!"

"—But your passion gives me purpose, Myrna. What better way to use my gift than for l-love?"

I feel like I'm falling in love with you—stop doing that!

Cleared my throat. Still couldn't get Greg's frustrated scream from pinging around in my head anytime the L word was mentioned, apparently. Lame.

I pressed a hand to my throbbing temple, trying and failing to rub away the afterimage of Greg burned into the backs of my eyelids. Pretty Greg, with perfectly tousled hair, my blood dripping from his chin, the corner of his lip quirked up in a rakish smirk, blue eyes just roving the length of my body—

Fuck shit I need to get laid.

"It's three hundred then for the hour?" said Myrna.

"Three seventy-five, we went a touch over, oh, but Wallace is so looking forward to picking up where you two young lovers left off next, uh, Thursday, maybe? I have an opening in the eve—" shit, nope, I'd be at Greg's. "Morning. I have an opening that morning."

"Yes, I, yes," Myrna, absolutely flushed, fiddled to pin her hat back into her wig, occasionally fanning herself with it. "Pencil me in."

"I'm free right now!" Wallace yelled. "Got nothing but time!"

"Thank you, Madame Margarita. Thank you."

I stood to guide Myrna to the door, ramming my toes over the line of salt surrounding us. Our circle broke with a harsh crack against my aura, like a rubber band snapping the tip of my nose. Myrna didn't notice the way it sent me stumbling back onto my heels for just a tick.

"Back from whence you came," I whispered.

"Lousy, greedy, crackpot psychic," Wally grumbled, his form flickering. "Young people these days."

He continued muttering something about us young folk and our paltry work ethic as he dissipated off to Netherworld knows what graveyard or hospital ICU or lace doily covered old lady's sitting room he haunted when not summoned to my parlor.

Myrna hovered in my doorway. "Pardon?"

"Get back from whence you came safe, it's icy out there!"

Cash pocketed, sign flipped to Sorry the Psychic is Out of Body and door locked, I punted my pumps across the apartment. Mother of pearls my feet were cramped. Popping out from under the bed, Grumpkin pounced on the shoe, sinking his wittle kitty teef into the faux leather. Naturally, Boo-Boo's FOMO kicked in at the sight. Grumps' doppelganger leapt from his blank plush bed on my highest shelf to tackle his brother. A hissing and screeching tumble ensued.

Still stuffed between the cushions, my phone buzzed. Again and again baaalls.

"Boys, stop it, don't be rude!" I mumbled around a fierce yawn. "Coming! Coming, coming, coming."

I dashed to my wingback chair, tripping over at least one of those black, fluffy cats as a high-speed chase wove between my ankles.

Greg could be as uptight as his jeans, but even this was a bit much. What I do this time? Screw up his client files again? Frankly, I thought organizing cases by level of pettiness was much more interesting than alphabetical. Mr. Olin-whatever's stolen cockatiel statue definitely trumped Mx. Something-or-other's identity theft situation, in my opinion. Or maybe he was texting to remind me to bring 'proper footwear' for a stakeout this time. That could be fun. Just the two of us. Getting cozy in a dark little hideaway. Waiting all night, huddled together and drinking cheap bubbly for warmth, for some idiot to never walk out their front door on a night so cold. We hadn't done one of those together, since, well, the night it all went to garbage on a greased pole for us.

The sweet, sing-songy voice of my probation officer rang in my ears: And I know this vampire isn't the same not quite boyfriend we spoke about. Because that would just be too much, Isla. Relations with your sponsor and employer are not only unprofessional but strictly prohibited.

Nazira's echoing reminder spun my imagination away from silk sheets to writhing serpents. Dozens of them. Hissing all in unison as she unwound her scarf to let them get a real good look at the gorgon's most troublesome charge right before they blasted me to stone for violating this particular detail of my work release.

Finally, after digging elbows deep into the chair cushions, I managed to unearth the vibrating nuisance that was my phone. Jeez, bucko, I'm coming, I'm com—

Oh.

It wasn't Greg at all.

It was him. Billy. We hadn't spoken in a couple of years, but of course the bull's been 'u up?' , and 'been thinking of u', and 'we should catch up' texting me since yesterday, out of the blue. Wow, boy must really, really miss me this time around. I received not one, not two, but three photos of his new horn jewelry during the Felgren séance, complete with the caption: 'ok, i may have done smthg dumb. 2 much?'

A golden cap carved with some Greek frat looking letters was wrapped snuggly around the tip of his polished near two-foot-long shaft.

Yeah, it looked dumb. Dumb hot. So, so, hot—so dumb!

A new message popped up. 'lala b honest. is it 2 much?  plz. i'm beggin u. can u handle it???' 

This time it was a video. Of Billy. Where was he, the gym? His bare, brown furred chest was gleaming with sweat. The golden ring in his nostrils fogged with every heaving breath. His hand not filming was dripping with oil as he pumped it over the smooth, glistening surface of his horn. Hot. Damn. Look at him polishing those hood ornaments, right there in public. And looking like one tasty slab of beef as he did, mama.

Stupid, lame, sexy minotaur.

I wasn't going to respond this time.

I promised my sisters I wouldn't respond.

Ugh. Where the heck were my cigarettes?

As my thumb hovered over the heart emoji, yet another text popped through. This one was from 'Greggy.' Seeing his name pop up in my notifications made the moths nesting in my insides all aflutter.

I checked the time.

Five fifty-two.

"Balls."