Confessions of the Underworld Boater

  Season 1 Episode 1

  Jade Kerrion

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  About the Author

  Other Books By Jade Kerrion

  Copyright © 2019 by Jade Kerrion

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  * * *

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  * * *

  Confessions of the Underground Boater (Season 1) / Jade Kerrion—1st ed.

  Chapter One

  Times get hard when people stop believing in you.

  Well, not me, personally. I was just a guy with a job—lowly, but essential. Or so I thought.

  The head honchos—Zeus, Hera, those folks up on Mount Olympus—should have paid more attention to the changing times. Perhaps invested more in marketing.

  Or being less of an asshole and a bitch.

  Whatever the reason, no one believes in the ancient gods anymore, which means that the dead no longer arrive at the underworld—

  Which means that I, Charon, ferryman of the Styx, am flat out of a job.

  Granted, the pay wasn’t great—a coin per person—but the lines were long, and the people kept coming.

  Until they didn’t.

  The problem, though, with having just one job for several thousand years is that I don’t really know how to do much else—all right, anything else—for a living. So here I am, still living off a boat, ferrying people around…

  In Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

  The Venice of America. 165 miles of navigable waterways. From the mega-yachts docked on Millionaire’s Row, to the dinghies bobbing alongside rotting wooden piers, this place has the only two things I need to cheerfully putter through immortality.

  Lots of water.

  And lots of People Watching.

  Some crazy folks start out as tourists but end up staying. Others can’t decide whether to come or to go, like Orpheus—I remember that guy from way back when; amazing voice, but he couldn’t catch a lucky break.

  Being in Fort Lauderdale is almost like being back at the Underworld.

  Except it’s brighter here. Way brighter.

  Dawn is my favorite time of the day. Whether it’s the eighty degrees of summer or the seventy-five of winter, I’m out on the deck at the first break of light, when black melts into tints of deepest blue, when the water lapping against the side of my sailboat is as inky dark as the Styx. It reminds me of home, where color exists only in the subtlest hues.

  I relish the privacy. The solitude.

  The ability to breathe deep and long, drawing the salt-tinged air into my lungs.

  Fort Lauderdale smells different from the Underworld, although I’m not entirely sure why the world of the living would stink of despair and fear, while the Underworld does not.

  Maybe it’s because we’re all camping out here now.

  All twenty-two of us—my brothers and sisters, the children of Nyx…

  Not everyone set up home in South Florida, although most of us did. I don’t recall who came up with the grand idea of good, old-fashioned family bonding—

  —But that person ought to take Sisyphus’s place, interminably rolling that massive rock up that steep mountain.

  Because that was an absolutely shit idea.

  Especially when I’m the youngest and everyone else thinks I’m on call—

  My cellphone buzzes in my shorts pocket.

  —to solve all their damn problems.

  I accept the call and snarl into the phone. “Who died this time?”

  Chapter Two

  Have you ever noticed? Disasters never start with something big.

  It’s always the small thing…

  That turns into the medium-sized thing…

  That transmogrifies into the big thing…

  And before you know it, that small thing is a festering, stinking cesspool, wider and deeper than infinity.

  Likewise, an early morning phone call doesn’t seem like a big deal.

  Unless it’s from your big brother—

  —Whose name is Thanatos.

  When Death calls, always pick up the phone.

  “Who died this time?” I snap.

  Thanatos’s deep, resonant voice is urbane, all polished British upper-class. It makes women—and men—swoon. “Come on over. I need your help. And bring your car.”

  He doesn’t do explanations. None of us do.

  A half hour later, I pull up in front of Thanatos’s nightclub, Zoi—which, in Greek, means “life.”

  What can I say? Nyx’s kids. Our sense of humor ranges from whimsical, to ironic, to downright sick.

  I step out of my black Jaguar, its usually gleaming paint job streaked with water stains. The King Tides are spilling over the seawall, and the flooding in downtown Fort Lauderdale will worsen through mid-morning. I sidle past the “No Parking” sign, then knock on the nightclub’s metal-wrought door.

  It’s never a good idea to surprise Death.

  The door swings open. The blue-tinted mood lighting casts an ethereal hue over the wave-like contours of the wall, tables, and chairs. The floor looks like it undulates. It’s always struck me as a poor design choice for a place that serves copious quantities of hard alcohol, but what do I know? I’m just the kid brother—

  —who has to live with the fact that everyone else in the family has a thing they’re good at. Thanatos—Death…Apate—Deceit…Eris—Strife…Nemesis—Retribution…

  Everyone, except me.

  The only thing I’m good at, apparently, is moving people around.

  “Charon? Over here.”

  I follow the sound of Thanatos’s voice to the VIP rooms cloistered in the back of the building. The mood lighting eases into stormy purple. I hold my breath as I pass through the narrow corridor. Right on cue, sickly sweet-scented smoke puffs from floor vents. I had once suggested swapping out the nauseating fragrance of night-blooming flowers for something more universally appealing…like…say…bacon.

  But, nope. I’m just the kid brother. No one listens to me.

  I hurry though the corridor. The perfume just doesn’t work with my usual street fare—a black leather jacket, white T-shirt, and faded denim jeans. It’s my “body-moving” gear: the jeans and T-shirt are cheap and disposable, and blood washes off leather.

  Well, human blood washes off leather.

  Ichor is a whole separate matter. That was not a good day.

  Wishful thinking has me hoping that Thanatos’s problems are human-sized, not god-sized.

  But when the VIP room at the end of the corridor contains a sleeping woman, my hackles immediately go up, because—well, you know—life is never this easy.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask Thanatos, who is leaning back against the wall, immaculate in black silk Armani pajama pants. No shirt. Because Zeus forbid that he would conceal those perfectly sculpted abs.

  “Nothing’s wrong. She just needs a ride home.” He straightens and pushes away from the wall. “You’ve got it from here?”

  Technically, it’s a question.

  We both know it’s not.

  It’s a handing off of the baton. The “it’s-your-shit-now” moment.

  He vanishes to do whatever it is nightclub owners do during the day, leaving me with the sleeping woman.

  Not quite asleep, though, I realize as I pick her up. She moans softly, but it’s a sound of pleasure. Her shoulder-length brown curls are tousled about her face, her lipstick smeared on her swollen lips. That hickey above her collarbone probably came from Thanatos. The one on her back, at the tender place where her neck meets her shoulder, is larger and even more discolored.

  Oneiros, most likely.

  I smooth down her barely-there black dress to cover her thighs—although she’s too tuckered out to care. That bite mark on the curve of her smooth ass. I’d put my money on Hypnos. He’s got a thing for butts.

  I swallow the snarl. It looks like my brothers—at least three of them—had a blast last night—

  And didn’t call me.

  She weighs hardly a thing, mostly bones and skin, and her head lolls against my chest as I carry her out of the club. My immortal talent for moving people from Point A to Point B does include a few perks, including an ability to get through obstacles, like doors, which unlock and open for me to pass.

  I ease her down into the front seat of my car, and her eyes open. She peers at me, blinking hard. Her irises are so dilated, I’m probably just a big white blur to her.

  “You the Uber man?” She slurs her way through the question.

  Uber? A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Yeah, I’m the Uber man.”

  Not the car-sharing service, but Underworld BoatER. U-B-E-R.

  Oizys, my sister, who coined the term, definitely didn’t intend it as a compliment, but I like it, actually.

  It’s one way of connecting with the human world in which we now live.

  The young woman slides lower in the se at, her cheek pillowed against the seatbelt. Her eyes close again, and she actually snores.

  I shut the passenger door then circle around the front of the car, just as a police car pulls around the corner. The female cop slows down and glowers at me through her sunglasses.

  She’s probably debating whether to give me a ticket for parking in front of the “No Parking” sign.

  I nod and give her what I hope is a more friendly smile than a grimace.

  The cop moves on but her suspicion lingers in the air. The miasma taints my morning as I drive from downtown Fort Lauderdale to the nearby Tarpon River neighborhood. Its several streets blend small, old houses alongside new, cheap apartments.

  Another perk of being the ferryman: I always know what and where Point B is. Within moments, I pull up in front of the woman’s residence, a narrow, three-story townhouse. It is only about as wide as a single-car garage, which dominates the front of the building. I carry her around to the house’s front door, which is actually on the side.

  Sometimes, I just don’t get humans.

  The door opens for me, and I step over the threshold into a tumbled-together sort of house of mismatched furniture, from mass-produced plastic to scratched-up antiques. It’s like she couldn’t decide whether to shop at IKEA or Goodwill. I carry her upstairs. The small landing is large enough to accommodate a love seat and tall bookcase. The pulse of always knowing where to go turns me to the door on the left.

  Her bedroom is small, but the glass double doors that open out onto the balcony pour light into the room. I step around the piles of clothes on the floor—apparently, she spent a long time deciding what to wear to the nightclub—and lay her on the bed. I ease off her high heels, then tug the comforter up to her neck.

  And because she’s probably super drunk—why else would she agree to a foursome with my three brothers, however gorgeous they are—I fill a glass of water in the kitchen, where a pile of mail addressed to Carmen Reyes sits on top of empty pizza boxes, and set the glass on her bedside table, next to a bottle of Advil I found in her medicine cabinet.

  Nothing quite dispels the hangover blues like more of what caused it in the first place, but in a pinch, water and Advil would have to do.

  The front door locks behind me as I leave.

  And no power I have can open it.

  She’s no longer my passenger.

  That little errand for Thanatos scarcely dents my morning, and I go about the rest of my day. Maintaining a classic sailboat—the words “vintage” and “antique” would not be amiss here—consists of a thousand little tasks to stay ahead of the inevitable damage from weather and time. A brand new catamaran would have been a lot less work, but also a lot less charming.

  After thousands of years in my little black boat on the Styx, “charming” is a welcome change and worth all the work it demands.

  The waterfront mansion which owns the 120-foot wooden pier where I dock my ship belongs to my sisters, the Hesperides triplets. They’re probably not home; otherwise one or more of them would have come out to enjoy the day with me. Like me, they love the water, although their favorite time of day is when the sun sets, a blazing orb over the shimmering water.

  I bet they’re off on one of their frequent foodie grand world tours. Their absence, however, allows me to make progress on that never-ending To Do List.

  The radio warbles in the background, alternating between the newest hits and the latest news, as I polish the teak and bronze fittings into a subtle lustre that glows beneath the sun’s light. The day is cool for March, scarcely topping the mid-seventies. Breakfast time passes unnoticed, as does the lunch hour. The benefits of being immortal is not needing a food budget and being able to work—if we choose—for hours on end.

  After all, sleep is for the weak—I mean, for mortals. And when you’ve lived for thousands of years, you no longer count the hours.

  I am still hard at work, polishing the starboard teak rail, when a shadow falls over me.

  Only then do I realize it’s late afternoon. I raise my head and squint at the uniformed police officer. Her dark wavy hair is tied back in a high ponytail, and her eyes concealed behind sunglasses—even though the fading light hardly requires it.

  I recognize her as the officer in the cop car earlier in the day, who passed by the nightclub just as I was leaving.

  I hate coincidences.

  The Greek gods do lots of that shit to people, and I’m over it.

  I straighten and smile. “What can I do for you, officer?” I ask politely.

  “I need you to come by the station to answer a few questions.” Her voice, lightly touched by a Puerto Rican accent, is brusque, all business.

  “What kind of questions?”

  “About what Ms. Lucia Morales was doing last night, and this morning.”

  This morning? The young woman I dropped off at home? Lucia Morales wasn’t the name on the envelopes I saw on the kitchen counter. “You mean Carmen Reyes?”

  The officer’s face tightens. “I’m Carmen Reyes.”

  Chapter Three

  Could I have brought that young woman—Lucia Morales—back to the wrong home?

  Impossible.

  I always know where to go.

  That’s my thing.

  The only thing I’m good at.

  But the cop, Carmen—I mean, Officer Reyes—is staring at me with a frown fixed on her lips. “Are you coming?” she snaps.

  “I’m…not under arrest, right?”

  She arches her eyebrows, and her lips spread in a crooked smile. “Have you done something to deserve arrest?” Her forehead furrows as she frowns again. Suspicion seems to be her default setting. “What’s your name?”

  “Charon Nyxoglou.” Charon, son of Nyx.

  She tilts her head.

  I shrug. “Greek.” As if it explains anything. And everything.

  “You like your consonants.”

  Her matter-of-fact tone makes me laugh. I hadn’t expected to.

  The corner of her mouth twitches. Reluctantly, almost painfully. I don’t think those muscles get much of a workout. “All right, Mr. Nyxoglou,” she says. “Will you come down to the station with me?”

  Well, shit. Immortals usually have enough powers to ease themselves out of sticky situations involving human authorities, but not me. Without any flashy powers, my only option is to lie, and hope it doesn’t escalate the situation. “I’ll follow you in my car.”

  “Can’t do that, Mr. Nyxoglou.”

  “You’ve said that I’m not under arrest.”

  “Didn’t actually say that.”

  I pause. Shit, she’s right. She didn’t say that.

  The officer continues. “You’re a material witness. Or a suspect.” She shrugs. “Could go either way.” Her cell phone buzzes. She frowns, yet again, at the caller ID, before accepting the call. “How is she?”

  Her expression tightens as a voice warbles on the other end, words inaudible, but the tone arcing with tension.

  I don’t like it.

  She disconnects the call, then glares on me. “You have to come with me.”

  “Look, if I’m not under arrest, I can drive myself to the station.”

  “We’re going to the hospital. Lucia Morales was just admitted to the emergency unit.”

  Fort Lauderdale Hospital isn’t far away, but the interrogation begins the moment we get into her car, which smells of stale coffee. The stains pressed into the backseat are so varied that it’s impossible to tell how exactly they started. One of them is still fresh, and stinks of bile and vomit.

  I sit as far away as possible from that spot.

  “What were you doing last night, Mr. Nyxoglou?”

  She mangles my last name. Everyone does. It doesn’t even make me sigh anymore. “Just call me Ron. Last night, I was on my boat.”

  “You sleep on it?”

  “Yeah.”

  The corner of her mouth twitches, but it doesn’t look like a smile. More like the hint of a sneer. “Didn’t you go anywhere?”

  “Nope. I’m not much for late nights. More of a morning person.”

 

1 2