CHAPTER#73

"It passes the time," Green said. "Especially because she won't let us leave."

"She who?" Again, silence from both of them. "Why won't you tell me who is running the Labyrinth."

"Because we can't," Blue whispered. "It's part of the Labyrinth's magic."

"I don't understand why it matters who runs the Labyrinth," Mike said.

"She doesn't want people to know she is here." Blue told him. "She's protecting something important. It's why she is down here."

Mike mulled over the possibilities. "Is the Labyrinth separate from the house, or an extension of it?" He asked, thinking about the vision he had.

"We don't know," Green told him.

"We ended up here by accident," Blue added. "At the house. Emily let us stay because she liked how we sparkled."

"But she changed."

"And it wasn't a good change."

"After the thing with Garrett." Mike said. "When he attacked the house."

"No." All of the sparkle had gone out of Blue's voice. "This was way after."

"So what happened?"

The fairies were quiet. Mike was about to ask again, but they turned a corner, entering a chamber full of columns covered in thick, leafy vines. In the middle of the room, something large was hanging from ceiling, vines wrapped around a figure that slowly spun in place. The creature rotated slowly until her face came into view. Her eye narrowed.

"It's about fucking time," Sofia said.

-

Dana looked at herself in the mirror. She felt the same, or at least she thought she did. Touching the ceramic sink below the mirror, she realized that she couldn't tell if it was hot or cold. This had been true of everything else she had encountered so far, a strange numbness that only applied to temperature.

Her sense of touch had been muted, but her sense of smell had received a boost. Even now, she could smell the corpse of her landlady in the basement, and Daryl's breath in her bedroom. Daryl the necromancer had let her out of the basement to roam about, announcing that he intended to take a nap. He had warned Dana that any attempt to flee would permanently ruin her chances of returning to the Afterlife, and he would do worse things to her if he ever caught her. His driver, a bulky man in a suit, stood guard in the driveway. He had motor oil on his jacket from retrieving her broken bike and casually throwing it in the garage.

She didn't know what to do or think. Her emotions were similar to sitting through Alex's funeral. She knew they were there, but they were being tossed into the void quicker than she could feel them. Wandering from room to room, she thought about what Daryl had told her.

Mike apparently had something that Daryl thought he wanted. All Dana had to do was to go in his house and either get Mike to let Daryl in, or figure out what Mike was hiding and bring it to Daryl. She had asked what it was he was looking for, but Daryl informed her that she would know it when she saw it. He had also tasked her with creating a cover story, a reason for showing up unannounced. No matter what she had asked him, he either shrugged or changed the subject.

"Lazy fucker," she muttered under her breath. Wandering through the house, she found herself staring out the door, looking at the back of the driver. He somehow made standing guard look casual, and the few neighbors who passed by didn't seem to notice.

Dana let herself out, crossing over to the garage. She stepped into her home, wondering if it was the last time she would ever do so. Was it even her home now? After all, she was dead.

She walked over to her toolbox, searching for the boxcutter she kept there after a failed job stocking boxes at night. With a little digging, she found it. Moving quickly, she slashed the back of her forearm, digging the blade in deep.

Nothing happened. She didn't even bleed, and it didn't hurt. She had been convinced that Daryl had drugged her, and now she was left with a nasty looking wound on her left arm.

"Fuck," she muttered, storming up the stairs to her room. It wasn't until she was upstairs that she realized that the motorcycle on the garage floor was missing its motor. Leaning over the railing, she surveyed the mess below.

Behind her, the clock chimed. Rolling her eyes, she walked toward it, sitting on her bed and staring it down.

"What?" She hissed. "What the fuck do you want?"

The clock was silent. Frustrated, she stood up and looked out the window to see if the zombie goon had heard it, and was coming inside. Mr. Tall and Stupid remained at his post, surveying the street. When Dana turned back around, the clock was gone. Instead, a large, ornate typewriter had appeared on her desk.

"Yeah, sure, this helps me," she muttered, standing up and staring at it. "So are you an autobot or a decepticon?"

The typewriter dinged at her, shifting back and forth. A few keys hammered the blank roller, and Dana rolled her eyes. She pulled a piece of notebook paper from under her desk and stuck it in the back. Immediately, the typewriter spooled itself, pulling the paper through.

"You're a magic clock that can't even provide its own paper," Dana muttered. "I don't suppose you can bring me back to life?"

The paper had finished spooling, and two keys hammered against the paper. She didn't have to lift it free to read it.

No

"Oh, great. Awesome." She watched the typewriter move again. In the back of her mind, she felt like she should feel surprise or shock seeing such an event, but she just couldn't be bothered to care. She didn't know how much of that was being a zombie, and how much of it was being denied an eternity with Alex.

What happened?