It's Valentine's Day in Philadelphia, and our favorite former criminal necromancer turned (kind of? Sort of?) Private Eye-la refuses to spend it alone.

When a certain workaholic vampire (kind of boss? Sort of fling?) simply won't take the hint, Isla resorts to drastic measures.

Calling her horny ex.

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 Muriel Felgren, a regular of mine with cataracts, a silvery blue wig, and a dead husband. "What else does my Wallace say? What—what does he do next?"

"Tell Muriel 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." 

To be continued in...Doubull Indemnity. 

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