Shadows in Light
Chapter 3

It wasn’t Sally. But it was important.

When you’re legally classified as dead, it’s hard work to get a full-time job. The lack of any identification, social security number, and other important things like that tends to screw up your job prospects. But sometimes luck can shine down on even me, and if you get a good friend willing to ignore laws a little, you can get bit jobs that come up.

Today’s job wasn’t going to be a fun job, but it going to be honest labor at least. Even if I was technically an illegal worker. Gardening at a large house. Most of my jobs tend to be like that, hard labor for people who contract out to companies for occasional work. Or building work. Things like that.

On top of my difficulty getting a job, with not having identification, I’m not legally allowed to drive, and therefore I don’t own a vehicle. In most cities not owning a vehicle makes getting around difficult, if not impossible. Thankfully, Seattle does have a public transport system set up and I have a bicycle to fill in the missing pieces.

My job was in a nearby city called Everett. Despite being close to a major city like Seattle, is a surprisingly large city. It’s filled with people who work for a major airplane manufacturer. With that in the city, a massive industry has built up to support it, and then support all the workers that live within the city’s boundaries. Traveling to it on a Monday morning can be somewhat busy, however it wasn’t too bad for me as I managed to get a seat on my own and was promptly left alone the rest of the journey.

When I got to the address, I was found myself outside a large house that while some might not call it a mansion based on more modern-day standards, in the early nineteen hundreds when it was built, it probably would have been considered one. Although it’s also possible the neighbors at that time may have used words like ‘pretentious’ and ‘show off’ too and had probably been jealous of the amount of money involved.

Despite its age, the place still looked fantastic. Instead of built using mostly wood, this place had red brick walls going up at least three obvious floors, with a basement heading down wards. There was a large porch that ran around the front of the house, and large windows that you could likely see for miles around once upon a time before the area was built up.

There was another thing about the house that wasn’t something you could see, but something I could feel. there was a feeling of Power in that building. Like standing near a power station or a transformer. It isn’t a feeling you should get from a house in the middle of a street, even if it is an old-fashioned house.

Still, I had a job here to do, so I headed up to the door and locked up my bike on the porch. I rang the doorbell and began the waiting game. I got bored very quickly and started drumming my fingers on my leg as I waited. Nothing happened, so after a minute or so the button got poked a few more times before someone finally opened the door.

A rather bland and old-looking man was looking out at me, peering at me from behind glasses that clearly weren’t thick enough, as he had to lean in a bit more to see my face. “Yes? What do you want? We’re not buying anything you know!”

I tried to disarm him with my friendliest smile, but as his expression never changed an inch, I’m sure it didn’t work. “Gordon Labor.” I took out the business card and showed it to him.

He took it and peered at it for several long moments before he spat something out in some language, I wasn’t familiar with, and called into the house for someone’s attention.

I felt a sense of faint amusement that, despite the glasses and the large text of the card, he still couldn’t read the words. Perhaps someone needed to revisit the optician?

But I kept my tongue, when you need the money, you do. My food supply was almost out, and this job should pay enough to keep me fed for a couple of weeks if I did it right. I kept that in mind as I stood there and grinning like an idiot, waiting.

There was a corresponding call from within the depths of the house that I couldn’t quite understand, and the old man grunted and opened the door enough to allow me passage within. By the neighborhood, my bike was safe locked up on the porch, so I stepped inside without any fuss. The place was lovely to be in; warm, spacious, bright and welcoming to me. This was a place that had a lot of guests and enjoyed doing so.

The old man shoved the card back into my hands and gave another grunt that conveyed several meanings to me. It welcomed me to stay where I was, cautioned me not to touch anything and warned me there were guns nearby that would be happy to shoot me should I disobey this simple instruction.

Grunting is a complex language at times.

The old man limped away heading back up the hallway, leaving me stood alone near the front door on the mat, looking around.

The hallway had very old-looking wooden flooring, with lots of scratches and dents in it. It didn’t make the house detract from the appeal of the house, but showed this house was used by its owners rather than just kept as a show home. The walls had family pictures all along them, with a wide archway breaking it up on one side leading into a living room. Just to the right of me was an old cabinet with a mirror set on it, filled with family knickknacks and various bits and pieces.

I could see some of the living room from where I stood, and all the visible furniture looked more expensive than everything I had in my entire place. Meticulously crafted and wrought wooden chairs and couches, an intricately carved mantelpiece.

The chairs had doilies on them to protect them from damage, the table had a cover. Unlike the cabinet to my right or the wall itself, this place wasn’t as full. It looked like a museum piece or formal greeting area. I got the feeling from a little bit of dust here and there; it wasn’t as well-used as the rest of the house. Perhaps only when those special guests came around.

I took a couple of steps forward to get a better look into the living room and caught sight of something to the right of me that, well. I’ll admit to it startling me.

It was me. Now, normally I’m around 6-foot-tall, and I’ve got brown hair that travels down to my shoulders. Due to the fact I probably don’t eat quite right, I’m not muscular in any way. I’m thin and lean. Even my face is a bit long and gaunt. My chin sticks out a bit too much for my liking.

It has been said though that I’ve got piercing blue eyes. Women comment they like to stare at them and I’m proud of them in truth. All in all, though, I’d say I’m not attractive. I don’t say that for pity, or sympathy sex, because at the same time I’m not ugly either. But it’s a fact of my life: you can pass by me in the street without a thought nor a second glance.

But if you saw me as I saw me in the mirror, you wouldn’t.

My general features hadn’t changed, but my eyes were entirely black. Not just my pupils, but even the sclera, the white of the eye was black. Behind and around me was a swirling mass of that same Darkness from when the Light appeared at my door. It boiled and rolled over me constantly, shifting and swirling through the air, fighting the light around it. I looked well, I looked like what I’d seen in movies and TV shows as evil character.

Now, I said that was startling, didn’t I? I should have been more scared by it. I wasn’t though, on some level it wasn’t scary or terrifying. It just was strange. It was a bit like when you dye your hair and wake up the next day, seeing it in the mirror.

I stood there, staring at myself in the mirror, looking at the Darkness behind me, and my strange black eyes. I stared at it all for several minutes. I probably could have stared at it for a lot longer, but I got distracted.

There was a sudden hissing noise from down the hallway. I turned my head to see what it was, and my vision showed me a fireball heading straight at me.

Part of me wanted to scream and hide, and quite frankly I dare anyone not to want to do that when they see something like a three-foot sun traveling towards them.

Another part of me knew what to do, and that part of me took control. Without requiring any major thought of my own, I felt my arm raised up, and something activated inside of me.

From the palm of my hand Darkness to erupt from my hand, lancing out at the fireball and smashing into it. Waves of heat boiled off it as the Darkness rolled and constricted around it, making the ball smaller and smaller as it came towards me.

By the time the Darkness wrapped fireball reached me, it faded into nothing and the Darkness stopped, leaving just a wash of heat that flowed over me as if I’d opened the oven.

Whatever the hell just happened, and that was getting to be a regular theme for my life now, it had left me feeling more awake and alert than when I came into the house. It felt like I’d shot gunned a couple of energy drinks in one go.

Flicking my gaze up the hallway, I saw a youngish woman stood there with raised hands and a rather surprised look on her face for a moment before it disappeared, and she looked dangerous. Silence reigned between us for what felt like a short eternity during which neither of us moved.

She stood there with her hands remaining raised and ready to cause more issues for me should I try anything she disapproved of.

I stood there with one hand raised, not sure what was going on or what to do. I’d like to say I looked tough, but I probably looked dumb. And maybe annoyed. There is a point where you start getting a bit pissed at not knowing what is going on.

She seemed to come to a positive conclusion for me as her hands went slowly down, crossing in front of her and she spoke firmly to me, “I have a truce that lasts until the Solstice. If you’re trying to push me back to the negotiating table early, this isn’t going to encourage me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m here about your garden? Gordon sent me?” I slowly crouched down and picked the card off the floor where it had dropped when my hand shot up, showing it to her without wanting to get any closer to her. She tried peering the length of the corridor for a moment, then clicked her fingers. The card disappeared from my hands and reappeared in her hands.

I was rather shocked by this, and I think she could tell I was by the fact I fell on my ass.

She looked at it hard for several moments, checking both sides as if she expected something, before she looked at me, confused. “Really? You’re here about... the gardening job?”

Nodding from my position on the floor didn’t seem to give me any sort of manly standing, so I decided to start trying to get up. To hell with it, if she wanted to set me on fire for standing up, it was worth it.

“I am sorry. I... What’s your name?” she asked me, a softer tone coming to her voice. Guess she believed me.

“Ryan Vaughan.”

She frowned for a moment and then nodded. “Well Ryan Vaughan, I am terribly sorry for that misunderstanding. I thought... well never mind that. Please, come in. Can I get a tea or coffee for you?”

I stared at her some more. The woman just tried to burn me alive and now wanted to give me a drink?

Eh, free coffee. What the hell. I nodded “Coffee sounds lovely thank you.” And followed her down the hallway to a kitchen that overlooked the back garden that was in my possible future. Jeez. I was going to be here for a few hours, at least.

This was a large kitchen that any cook or chef would be jealous to have. It was full of cupboards, stove top cookers, and cookery things I had no idea how to use. I took a seat at a small table set to one side which gave me time to look at my host. She was around my age by my guess, maybe a bit older at late twenties early thirties. She was a short woman, barely over five foot tall. She had a pretty, heart-shaped face, striking green eyes, red hair and soft full lips.

Despite the rich surroundings we were in, I was dressed in neater clothing than she was. She had a pair of ripped pair of jeans with dirt on the knees, and a dirt-covered sweater that had a couple of holes here and there that showed off flesh as I looked. Nothing racy or anything like that, but something you’d wear around the house when you don’t really care. She must have been out gardening or something, because on top of the dirt on her clothes, she also had a bit of dirt on her cheek, and some more under her fingernails.

One thing I noticed as she moved around the kitchen, was that she moved with huge confidence. But then again, if you can throw a fireball at someone, confidence probably isn’t going to be something you lack.

She smiled at me as she brought the tray of drinks over, putting a French press of coffee down on the table. Oh gods, it smelt so good. I hadn’t had anything but instant coffee in months now. She pulled out a cigarette packet, looking at me for a moment questioningly. I never had any issue with it myself, even joining in occasionally, so soon she was smoking a cigarette, looking at me while the coffee finished brewing.

“I am sorry you know. I wasn’t expecting anyone but a mortal to come to do the job.” She looked a little sheepish now we were sat down in a casual setting.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone... who could throw fireballs at me,” was about the best I could come up with.

She gave a little laugh, “Well, you managed to hold your own with that mastery of the Shadow. Not too shabby yourself. Who taught you?” she asked as she pressed the French press down.

The question was said in a casual manner but felt very loaded. Like when your parents ask you what you were doing that night you were out at an all-night party, smoking and drinking and they already know the real answer.

I decided that no answer was the best form of reply, or non-reply. So, I tried to appear mysterious. I can’t comment on whether she was fooled, but probably not. Women are mysterious creatures on their own level.

She did, however, shake her head and take out a piece of paper, writing on it. “Okay. You be like that. But obviously you’re either very new to the area, or just been keeping to yourself. Either way I recommend you speak to this guy.” She wrote down a name and number on a piece of paper before folding it in two and giving it to me. “Tell him that I sent you. I’ll be calling him, so he knows.” She took my hand for a moment. “He’ll want to meet you, so wear something smart, okay?”

A thought hit me as she said that. “I don’t know your name.”

Her face turned bright, flaming red as embarrassment hit her, almost matching her hair. “Oh my, I am so sorry. You can call me Bianca. Bianca Doyle.” She offered me her hand and I shook it.

“Nice to meet you Bianca.”

She gave me a brilliant smile and poured me a coffee. And we talked. Not about anything interesting. Polite things really. She was a nice woman to talk to. Before too long though, the coffee was gone, and I was taking myself out into the garden to get started on the job I was here to do. It was easy work. Well mentally easy, but still labor and took several hours; pruning, weeding, digging, general gardening tasks and a few other odd jobs around the garden.

However, I wasn’t left unwatched as I be normally. This time I had one man watching from the porch. Oh, he wasn’t making it too obvious. He was sat in a lounger, reclining back with a book, reading. I knew he was watching me, but subtlety is nice. There was another that came by the windows, double checking on the reclining man to make sure he was fine and giving a glance in my direction. I spotted him a couple times during the day.

When I was done, the porch man escorted me back to the front porch, gave me a nice tip of fifty dollars for my work, and a card that with a phone number for Bianca if I wanted to contact her at some point. Some people would think I’d made a friend today, but to me that wasn’t the case, and the card got slipped politely into my bag.

While I was enjoying the bus ride home, I glanced at the card Bianca had given me. It was just a phone number with a name on it, “Joseph B. Ortiz”. The name was familiar, but I couldn’t place my finger on why. I tried to decide if I should call this guy, then if I did call him, whether I would meet him.

On top of that I had to consider what clothing I should dress up in if I wanted to make a good impression. Generally, my wardrobe was jeans and shirts, and I didn’t have a lot of money towards anything else. Almost all my money went towards food and caffeine.

Maybe I could get some answers about what was going on with me if I went to see this guy though? It couldn’t hurt in the end to at least call him.

That decided, I stopped off at Gordon’s office. It wasn’t a big place despite all the work he sent out. He ran his agency in a modified little shop with a small meeting area set up for interviews with clients and contracts, leaving the rest of the shop devoted to an office that had a huge amount of file cabinets for records of everything. He ran it with some assistants, but they had gone for the day, leaving him amongst the three desks piled high with paperwork that always seemed to be there, threatening to fall over. By some miracle against the Law of Gravity, it never seemed to do so.

I buzzed the front door, and Gordon let in me quickly. We settled into a couple of chairs amongst the piles of paperwork. He was an older gentleman, pushing towards fifty with a receding gray hairline, warm brown eyes, and a crooked nose that had probably been broken a couple of times. Despite his age he was in good shape, with a muscular physique.

Hell, he put me to shame with my skinny build.

“Ryan! I got a phone call about you,” he said, smiling faintly as he did. This wasn’t a surprise to either of us.

Every time I went out for a job, I’d meet the client, get on with the job, say goodbye to them and leave. Sometime between me leaving and getting back to Gordon’s place, he’d get a call. Not about the quality of my work mind, but the fact his worker hadn’t shown up to do the work. To which he’d have to gently state that he’d been told the job was done and remind them of this. This often took some convincing, up to getting the customer to look at the job they’d hired someone for. Then some lie about social issues or something.

Perhaps another part of my life I should explain, since I died and came back, people can forget me. I can talk to people, then go off to do things, and if I’m gone for too long, they forget about me. Gentle reminding might help them, but I’ve found that doesn’t always work. After a few days I’m generally gone from pretty much everyone’s memory. It’s why I didn’t feel like Bianca was going to be a friend. She’d probably already forgotten me.

Gordon is the only person I’ve met that can retain memory of me without any difficulty, and long after I’m gone. I met him after being in for Seattle a couple of weeks and running out of ways to make money off the streets, I’d been looking for something better and long term.

I’d gone door to door to some places early one morning, seeing if anyone needed a temporary worker for a day. Frankly, it wasn’t going well, mostly due to that identification thing, and when I was on the verge of giving up, I saw Gordon. He was about to cross the road with his cell phone to his ear and was paying too much attention to the phone call, and not enough to what he was doing. He spotted the car just before it was about to hit him, but I managed to drag him back to the sidewalk, saving him.

Understandably he was incredibly grateful.

After that, Gordon worked to get me jobs. He didn’t ask any questions as to why I didn’t have a Social Security number. He didn’t make a fuss when people complained to him. He accepted it and paid me cash. He tried to get me a couple of jobs a month, and they generally pay well enough to keep me fed while saving a little money towards doing things to my place.

Gordon looked at me and he looked thoughtful before he spoke. “Yeah, I got a call not... twenty minutes ago. I’m quoting here but Miss Doyle wanted to say that ‘she was extremely impressed with the work that Ryan Vaughan did. And that if she calls up for any more work, she would like to use him as her preferred worker’.”

I opened my mouth trying to think of a reply, but nothing came to mind. Bianca had managed to remember me without any trouble, and I’d been out of her sight for several hours now. In theory she should have forgotten me. Maybe being able to throw fireballs gave her something special that allowed her to remember? Maybe I did have a friend.

“No, I’ve not got anything either, Ryan”, Gordon said. “But I’ll take it. She’s on my pile and I’ll make sure you get all her jobs that come through us. Hopefully, she’ll give us more, as she paid... Very well.” He opened a drawer and took out a pile of bills and passed them over. A quick count later revealed it was two hundred dollars.

“Two hundred for a garden job? She paid a tip of fifty as well” I said. “It wasn’t even that complex a job. General gardening job and what not.”

“Hey, what can you say? She’s rich. The rich ones can sometimes pay well. And before you say you can’t take all that, she paid three-fifty. So, my company made a profit on this one too. Take the two hundred, shut the hell up, and enjoy it.”

Some days it’s best not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and today I wasn’t going to look any more. I could buy myself some new clothes before I tried to see this Mr. Ortiz.

“Thank you, I guess Gordon?” It had been a while since I had that much money, so I fidgeted with the money for a moment before it got put into my wallet and put into my bag.

“Think nothing of it, kid. Go have some fun?”

Gordon saw me out, and I went off to fight my way through Seattle shops.

A couple hours or so later, I had some new clothes and a small batch of food stored at my place. I even went a little wild and spoiled myself with a fast-food burger meal for dinner as a rare treat. I was feeling rather good about things as I stepped outside to call the number Bianca gave me.

A gruff-sounding voice answered the phone after a short ring, giving all the hallmarks of someone who was exceedingly tall, muscular and had probably hit more than a few people with quite a lot of objects. Possibly some of them sharp too.

“Speak,” was all he said. The simple and casual elegance of it left me stumbling. Some sharp objects involved then.

“Hi? I was given this number to call by Bianca Doyle. My name is Ryan Vaughan?”

“Hold,” the debonair gentleman replied before I was left in silence. I had to check the phone a couple of times to see if he’d hung up before the voice returned.

“Tonight. Fifteen Twenty-One Second Avenue. Give your name at the reception desk. Be there at ten PM.”

The pleasant-sounding fellow hung up on me without a pause and I was left holding a cell phone to my ear, feeling a little stupid, and rather amazed at the impoliteness of it all. I felt that this wasn’t a man you ignored, but it probably also wasn’t Mr. Joseph B. Ortiz.

My place got a nice clean up to waste some time, then I had a wash in the cold shower before dressing myself up in new black jeans with a shirt over the top to make me look sharp.

It probably was countered by the long leather jacket that went over the top, but it was the only jacket I had that was neat, and not full of holes. I’d had spent a lot of money, having had one for years before all this, and not having one didn’t feel right.

For once when I stepped out of my place and locked it up, the sky was not raining, and the moon was out shining brightly in the sky despite the earliness of the night. It was going to take me maybe an hour or so to get there so I wanted plenty of time to make sure I wasn’t late to this meeting.

I didn’t know what this meeting was mind you but being late to it didn’t seem like a good thing.