Kieran woke up to the smell of stew. Again.
He had half-expected to wake up in a hospital with a very confused nurse asking him who the "subscribers" were. But no. He was in the same small, clean room above the stables, the same two moons were filtering through the window, and the same rich, savory aroma was calling to him.
"You know, Chat," he mumbled, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "If this is a coma, I'm not mad about it. The catering is on point."
He reported to the front office, where Lirien was already at her desk, sipping something that steamed and glowed faintly blue.
"Ah, Driver Miller," she said, not looking up from a stack of parchments. "You're alive. Good."
"Morning," Kieran said, stretching. "Is that, breakfast stew? Because I'm game. Also, quick question about yesterday's fare. The old lady? She paid me in this big silver coin, but it, uh, melted. Or evaporated, you could say. Is that a common problem with the currency here? Like, do I need to get it to a bank before it dissolves?"
Lirien finally looked up. "Did you complete the fare?"
"Yeah. 14 Dewdrop Lane. She walked right through the door, which was efficient, you know. Very time-saving. I'm big fan of that."
"Then the payment was processed."
"But it vanished."
"Yes. That's how it works."
"...Right. Okay. So, we're on a full crypto standard. Got it. The coin is just a physical token for a transaction that's actually on the, um, ether-eum. Right. But whatever it was, definitely safer than NFT. Cool, cool, cool."
Lirien just stared at him. "Coach Four was a loaner. Your permanent carriage is ready. It's in Bay One."
"An upgrade? Already? Am I that good?"
"Yeah. You're that good," Lirien said, which felt ominous. "It's the Silverwheel. Try not to get it scratched. It's temperamentally bonded."
"Temperamentally. Right. Like a lease. I get it. Don't redline the engine, don't smoke in the car. Pretty standard stuff for company."
He grabbed a bowl of stew from the pass-through window — breakfast stew! — and headed to Bay One.
And stopped.
Coach Four had been a wooden box on wheels. This... this was not a wooden box.
The carriage in Bay One looked like something a tech billionaire would commission for a fantasy-themed music festival. It was long and sleek, made of a pale, polished wood that seemed to hum with a faint light. The wheels were inlaid with intricate silver patterns, and the passenger cabin, while still old-fashioned, had windows of crystal-clear glass instead of oiled parchment.
"Whoa," Kieran said, walking around it. "Okay, Lirien. This is the premium package. This is the 'Black Car' service. This thing is lit."
And it was, literally. A single, ornate, six-sided lantern hung from the driver's seat. It was made of dark, coppery metal, and a bright, steady, golden light burned within it.
Kieran, impressed, reached out and tapped the glass. "Nice. Is this an LED? Or gas? What's the fuel economy on this thing?"
"Do not tap the glass," a voice snapped from the lantern.
Kieran yelped, dropping his spoon into his stew bowl.
"And for the record," the voice continued, waspish and tinny, "I am neither LED nor gas. I am a bound, second-tier, illuminating spirit. And you, apparently, are my new idiot."
Kieran stared at the lantern. The flame inside it flickered irritably.
He collected himself, fishing the spoon out of his bowl. "Okay. Okay. A talking lantern. Sure. Why not." He leaned in close. "So, you're like, um, the on-board GPS? Or the carriage's AI? What's your name, 'Siri'?"
"My name is Milo," the lantern huffed. "And I am the focal-point, guide, and spiritual dampener for this vehicle. We are, unfortunately, bonded to your aura, which, I must say, smells faintly of confusion and processed cheese."
"That's just my natural musk, pal. So, you're sassy, huh. Is there a setting for that? Can I get a 'Polite British Butler'?"
"No," Milo snapped. "And you're late for your first pickup. The manifest just came through."
"The what?"
A small, glowing rune appeared in the air next to Kieran's head. He swatted at it, and it resolved into floating, golden text:
FARE: Sir Reginald Vance
PICKUP: Hawthorne Mausoleum, Crypt 12
DROPOFF: Vance Manor, Sunpetal District
NOTES: Passenger is little particular.
"Hawthorne Mausoleum?" Kieran read, climbing into the driver's seat. The reins felt supple and warm in his hands. "We're doing a graveyard pickup? Kinda on the nose for a 'fever dream,' isn't it? Bit goth, tho."
"It's a cemetery, you dolt," Milo said. "That's where the dead — Oh, sweet light. You don't know. You really don't know, do you?"
"Know what?"
"That this isn't a carriage. It's a psychopomp."
Kieran turned that over. "Psychopomp, huh. Sounds like a energy drink. 'Psycho-Pomp! Get the energy to haunt your enemies!'"
"This is going to be a disaster," Milo groaned. "Just pull the left rein. The horses know where to go. They're spectral."
"Spectral horses. Cool." Kieran looked at the massive, placid horses. They did look a little shimmery. "So, less feeding and better mileage. I see the upside."
He snapped the reins, and the Silverwheel pulled out of the stable with a ride so smooth it felt like it was floating. It was floating. The wheels were hovering a millimeter off the cobblestones.
"Huh," Kieran said. "Maglev. Nice."
The Hawthorne Mausoleum was exactly as advertised: foggy, gloomy, and full of imposing marble angels who looked vaguely judgmental. The Silverwheel stopped at Crypt 12, a rather grand-looking stone shed.
The door scraped open.
A man stepped out, brushing dust from the shoulders of his high-collared velvet coat. He was tall, painfully thin, and had a magnificent, if slightly moth-eaten, mustache.
"Sir Reginald Vance?" Kieran called, putting on his customer-service smile.
"The very same," the man said, his voice dry as old paper. "You are the transport? Capital. Simply capital. I thought I'd be waiting for an age."
"Nope, we're all about prompt service here at, uh, the Guild."
Sir Reginald climbed in. He moved stiffly, as one might expect from someone who just climbed out of a crypt. "To Vance Manor, driver. And do mind the bumps. My lumbago is simply murder this century."
"You got it, chief. One smooth ride to the manor, coming up."
The drive was quiet, except for Sir Reginald humming a tune that sounded vaguely like a funeral dirge. Kieran, trying to be polite, attempted small talk.
"So... live around here long?"
"Oh, I've been a permanent resident of Hawthorne for, good heavens, two hundred and six years, I believe," Sir Reginald replied pleasantly. "But one simply must get out and stretch one's legs. See the old homestead, what-what."
"Two hundred... wow. That's, yeah. That's a long time. Must be nice, having that kind of property stability. Rent control, am I right?"
"Hmm, quite."
They arrived at a large, dark manor in the Sunpetal District. It looked condemned. The windows were boarded up, and the gate was rusted shut.
"Here we are, sir. Vance Manor."
Sir Reginald stepped out, adjusting his cuffs. "A splendid ride, young man. Smooth as silk. You handle this luminous contraption with surprising finesse."
"Thanks! I've got strong wheel energy, apparently."
"Indeed." The nobleman reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced a single, enormous gold coin, stamped with the face of a forgotten king. "For your troubles."
"Whoa," Kieran said, taking the coin. It was heavy and, like yesterday's coin, unnaturally cold. "This is... that's a tip. Thank you, sir! You have a great, uh, night."
"And you, driver. And you."
Sir Reginald turned, walked briskly up the overgrown path, and, without slowing down, phased directly through the massive, boarded-up oak door.
Kieran didn't even flinch this time. He just sighed. "Okay. Another one. What is it with people in this town and doors? Is there a door tax I don't know about? It's like a 'no-clipping' glitch in a video game."
He climbed back into the driver's seat, the heavy gold coin in his hand.
"That's the second time that's happened," he complained to Milo, who was glowing judgmentally. "And this tip? Bet you ten, whatever-the-currency-is, that it vanishes, just like yesterday's. This place has a serious counterfeit money problem."
He tossed the gold coin onto the empty seat beside him.
It didn't even land. It hit the cushion, and with a soft pop, like a soap bubble bursting, it vanished into a puff of golden dust that faded almost instantly.
"See!" Kieran yelled, pointing at the empty seat. "What did I tell you? Counterfeit! I'm getting scammed! I'm doing all this work for ghost money!"
The lantern's flame turned a very deep, very annoyed blue.
"It's not counterfeit, you absolute, celestial-grade walnut," Milo hissed. "It's an obol. It's a spiritual token of payment. It vanishes when the soul is no longer in transit because the transaction is complete."
Kieran stared at the lantern, the pieces clicking together in his head in a way he did not like. "A... what? A soul? 'Spiritual token'? 'Ghost money'? What are you... Wait."
He looked back at the dark, condemned manor. He thought of Madam Elara's transparent cat. He thought of her "lingering." He thought of the "spectral" horses. He thought of Lirien's "Ethereal Employment Contract."
"What... what are you talking about, Milo?"
The lantern let out a sound that was, by all accounts, a very human, very weary sigh. The golden light dimmed for a second before returning.
"You really don't get it," Milo said, his voice flat, all the sass gone, replaced by a terrible, casual certainty.
"That man, Sir Reginald? The one who just tipped you? You know he died 200 years ago, right? In that very house?."