Free Esprit de Corpse by Gina X. Grant Page A

Lost and alone. So alone I wished I could die.
    Sadly, that was no longer an option for me.

Chapter 8
    Jails Pitch
    THE TRANSPORT VAN idled in the parking lot, spewing fossil fuel by-products into the air while it waited for the newspeople to clear out. Eventually the last media vehicle sped off into the dusk and the van rumbled across the asphalt and away from the precinct.
    I wished I could have bypassed the awkward journey to Vanier and teleported myself directly there, but oddly enough, as a law-abiding citizen, I had no clue where it was.
    I knew the name Vanier, of course. He’d been governor general or something. He had a high school named after him, the all-important intercollegiate football trophy and now a women’s prison. Did this reflect an expected career path? High school, college, prison? His mother must be so proud. I’d have to ask next time she passed through Hell.
    I waited until the van was almost out of sight before activating my scythe and teleporting into the interior.
    “ Ow! ”
    “Hey!”
    “Sorry,” I mumbled, having landed half on Dante and half on Shannon. Not the most graceful teleportation, but it was only my second time outside the classroom exorcises. With burning cheeks (no, not those cheeks; I hadn’t landed that hard), I squeezed into the empty space between Dante and the rear doors. The bench across the way had more space but then I would have had to look Dante and Shannon in the eye. Eyes. Whatever.
    Besides, then I’d be sitting beside the other prisoner, Maddy Stryker, and she scared the bejesus out of me.
    And I’d met Jesus once. Nice guy.
    So the three invisible souls plus Theresa Mudders all crammed on one side of the van, while the two accused murders sat facing us.
    Up front, the radio played a forgotten song as an unseen driver ferried us toward the highway.
    Predictably, Conrad began his litany of lies and self-pity, now directed at Theresa. Unlike the detective who had ignored Conrad’s monologue during the drive from the office to the precinct, Theresa remained focused on Conrad, nodding and commiserating in all the right places. Did some of Conrad’s Deal powers linger or was he just really good at gaining sympathy?
    He’d certainly played those reporters like a lyre.
    The drive through rush-hour traffic to the small city of Milton, where Vanier was located, took forever. Traffic on the 401 grew heavy and aggressive. We’d stop to let one car in only to have three more jam their way in front of us. The words Ministry of Community Safety and Correctional Services printed on the side of the van didn’t earn us any special treatment.
    Tired of being jostled on the hard metal bench (now those cheeks were burning, as well), I was about to push through the metal mesh to the more comfortable passenger seat up front near the driver when Maddy Stryker suddenly struck.
    Like Conrad, both her hands and feet were chained to a big D-ring welded to the floor of the van so her only remaining weapon was her head. She head-butted Conrad’s shoulder hard enough to knock him sideways before his own chains reined him in. That had to hurt.
    We’d all jumped at the sudden attack, but Theresa quickly regained her composure. “Now, Maddy, that wasn’t necessary. Why did we feel compelled to assault Shannon?”
    Theresa reminded me of the shrink my aunt took me to after my parents died. I hadn’t gone very often, but I remembered the infinite patience with which the doctor had asked me questions.
    I hadn’t been inclined to answer either.
    Conrad struggled upright again while Theresa waited.
    “She talks too much,” Maddy eventually replied, jerking her head toward Conrad.
    He cowered at the movement, pulling his hands up as far as they’d go. Raw looking flesh peeked out from beneath Shannon’s jacket. Her—his wrists looked red and in one place, a fine crease of blood paralleled the thin plastic cuffs. Handy if he needed to sign anything.
    I almost felt sorry for