I awoke early the next morning; toaster-Barry lay in the bed next to me. I threw him off, and a slew of expletives followed his descent.

  "I've told you before, Barry, toasters aren't allowed in the bed."

  He lay on the floor, silently judging me. The lever used to push the toast down was moving furiously.

  "Don't sulk, Barry. We can watch the horses tonight." The lever slowed, and the toaster had a distinctly brighter air about it.

  The Immortality-Corp card sat where I left it, neon and grotesque. I briefly considered throwing it in the dustbin but tucked it into my card holder instead.

  Separate, of course, from the decent, properly designed and laminated cards. I would not subject them to the shame of residing with this mockery.

  I picked up Barry and carried him with me to the kitchen, plugging him in. "Could I have my toast medium well this time, please?" Barry snorted, but the toast came out perfectly. He really wanted to watch the horses.

  "Well, I'll see you later," I called, waving. "You should find something new to haunt, like the vacuum cleaner. It would be great to come home to a clean home."

  A picture flew off the wall at my head.

  "Barry, that’s my grandmother," I admonished.

  The picture of Grandmother Hilda stopped in midair and slowly made its way back to the hook.

  I took the same route to and from work every single day. Some might find it boring, but I truly believe familiarity breeds contentment.

  I exited the train platform, and there it was: Re-Burial. She stood... an imposing building, a bulwark of stone. Perfectly placed stone of a uniform grey. I felt a little emotional, but quickly put the emotion in check.

  The structure imposed its order on all the surrounding buildings. Who would dare be flamboyant in her presence?

  I marched up to the large oak doors, running my hand along the rough concrete as I approached, and pushed the doors open.

  “WHO IN THE NINE HELLS IS IMMORTALITY-CORP?” bellowed Marketh. His large black wings, usually folded neatly at his back, were spread wide. “Do they have permits? Branding rights? Legal necromancy accreditation?"

  Yellow cards lay everywhere—apparently, someone had broken in with the sole intent of upsetting my boss or poaching his employees. I took my card out. Well, this wouldn't be needed anymore.

  I threw it on the pile.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  "Been redecorating?" I asked him lightly. The man was a tyrant, but he had the occasional sense of humour.

  Dreadlord Marketh raged. His horns? Aflame. His neat black jacket and tie? Aflame. Shoes? Surprisingly, also aflame. He had not taken the intrusion well.

  I tried a different approach, and opened my mouth to explain that the cards weren't even laminated, and that the yellow font proved, beyond doubt, that the company was a non-threat.

  Marketh glared at me. The cloak of flames around him expanded with each exhale, and I decided against it.

  To him, his logic was irrefutable. A nail stood up, and his entire being was the hammer. A specific hammer—a Gr?nsfors Bruk 4? lb Carpenter’s Mallet. At a minimum.

  I moved the forms on my desk out of his blast radius, but apparently it wasn't needed. The air changed—thickened—and the temperature fell.

  Steam started to billow from Marketh's mouth, and he deflated and drew inward.

  In all my years, I had never seen Marketh deflate. When he was on a roll, his rage was unstoppable. It was glorious in the same way a volcanic eruption is glorious. Powerful and best viewed from a safe distance.

  Space warped slightly, another anomaly. Space didn't usually do that. A vacuum formed in the room and the front doors flew open, and in strode Joylin Everlast.

  I knew her name because her name tag, polished, gleaming, and aligned with the utmost precision, had to be noticed. You haven't seen level until you have seen her name tag.

  She lifted her hand, and the world froze. Well, the world I could see (I have no idea how far her power extended).

  I would describe her face to you—I am sure it must be magnificent—but my frigid body only allowed movement up to badge-level. It wasn't a bad level to be stuck at.

  Florence sipped her coffee without looking up. “You made my coffee cold,” she complained, staring at Joylin with indignation, and flipped her off.

  Joylin smiled, swept up her arm, and returned the gesture with one hand. It was immaculate. Lesser octopi would have withered at that finger, but Florence met it, finger for tentacle.

  If the situation weren't so serious, it would be funny. It was the most physically safe, but obscenely rude, stand-off I had ever witnessed. I was so proud of Florence.

  I tried to move, but completely lacked Florence's immunity.

  Marketh was the first of the frozen to escape, and his flames expanded rapidly. “WHAT GIVES YOU THE RIGHT—”

  Joylin placed one finger on her lips, and his jaws slammed shut.

  It was not easy to keep a Dreadlord quiet. I started to catalog Joylin's powers and gave a low whistle.

  She stepped toward me. “Keith Flannery.”

  I tried to stand but couldn't. "Could you let me go?" I asked through clenched teeth. And with that I was free.

  She glanced down at the scroll. “Middle Manager at the Re-Burial Department. Traits, let’s see…” She paused. “Loyal. Consistent. Very consistent.”

  Her lips twitched into a smile. “You are being reassigned to Immortality-Corp and this office is being shut down."

  “Reassigned, by whose authority?” I was starting to feel distinctly Dreadlordy. I don't care if you were a queen or a goddess, there were protocols.

  And the forms started to appear, cascading onto my desk in triplicate.

  I thumbed through them, looking for loopholes, and ended on

  Form 7B, Appendix XIII – Chain-of-Command Continuity in Cases of Necromantic Reinstatement and Reanimation Protocols.

  They were pristine and exact.

  She studied Marketh. You are to report to the Dread Tribunal for questions on your company’s performance. In the meantime, we are holding Mr. Flannery's contract, and he will be considered a valuable asset.

  "Do I not have a say in this?" I asked, my inner Marketh not yet extinguished.

  "What say would you have?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow. "You read the forms, it's all perfectly legitimate. You start tomorrow, 08:00 a.m. Have a joyous day."

  And she left.

  "What in the devils?" Marketh reinflated slightly but had not recovered. "Keith, you had better go," Marketh said - "I will sort this out."