I considered discounting all the Supernatural stuff. Angels, demons, vampires? It was too much to accept—especially the part about me being a ghost—but whether I wanted to or not, death was making me a believer.

When I tried opening the ornate hand-carved door, my hand went through it. Would I go through everything I touched?

Entertained, Mys reached around me and turned the latch. I realized as soon as I entered the building that there was something off about the basement studio. For one, New Orleans was below sea level, making a subterranean unit impossible. And yet, the studio was clearly beneath the cathedral, even though there were high windows in the apartment that weren't visible from outside. Magic?

I took in the view with interest. A sleek, modern kitchenette lined the side wall to my left, separated from the rest of the room by a marble island. Only one barstool. Across from the kitchen, there was a comfy leather couch before a bookshelf and a mounted TV. Along the far wall was a full-sized metal bed frame dressed in a white duvet.

It was a fascinating space that revealed a lot about my new friend here. The palette was neutral and the décor minimalist. Somewhat stark, but Zen.

"Make yourself at home," said Mys.

"Easier said than done."

Mys guided me to the couch. "You can't impact the real world—like opening doors or moving objects—but sitting on the couch won't change anything. You can do that without a problem, Yōkai."

"In other words, if it shouldn't be moving on its own, I can't move it. Like . . . Newton's second law, but for ghosts?" Mys nodded. "Got it. What's a yoke—"

"Yōkai? It's Japanese for pesky spirit."

"Wow. Thanks." I pouted.

Mys flashed a devilish grin that, surprisingly, stirred the butterflies in my tummy. "The kanji, or characters, making up the word actually express something like beguiling and ghost. I hope you don't mind. I tend to give pet names."

"Weird flex, but okay. I like my Japanese pet name."

"Mm-hmm. It also preempts the question of where I'm from. The answer is New Orleans, by the way." Another grin. I smiled back shyly as I sank onto the leather couch.

As the psychic medium pattered around the kitchenette, my gaze wandered over them: tall, thin, dark-haired, dressed in a black lace tunic. Alluring, or whatever.

Mys kept up the small talk in a husky voice that was pleasant background noise. However, my thoughts turned inward and on how to get home. I tried to backtrack from my death, but my mind went blank when I tried to pin down any details. Hadn't I been out with someone? Focusing seemed impossible as my attention drifted again . . .

To the mysterious psychic whose presence was making me feel alive-ish. They brought over coffee. I reached for the mug. We both shied away as it dawned on me: I didn't need to eat or drink anymore, because alive-ish was still very dead.

"You're sleeping the eternal rest, Aurie. Try to adjust sooner rather than later," Mys chided, settling on the couch beside me. "You won't be a ghost forever."

"What do you mean? What else is there?"

"The longer you're here, the more you'll resemble raw energy expelled without rhyme or reason. Like, uh, a poltergeist."

I slumped at the idea that my situation could get worse. "Fan-fucking-tastic. How long do I have?"

"Mm? Time passes weirdly for the dead, since you're untethered," Mys said blithely. "I suggest you get your final good-byes and last hurrahs out of the way. Finish your unfinished business ASAP."

"Right. So, should I just know what my unfinished business is? 'Cause I don't."

My companion drummed their fingers on the armrest of the couch and studied me. "What was your biggest regret in life?"

"Nothing, as far as I can remember." Peering skyward, I still couldn't see my murky past. I met the psychic's skeptical gaze with a lifted eyebrow.

"So, there's nothing you'd go back and change?" Mys asked.

"Nope. I pretty much lived a regrets-free life."

An exaggerated blink. "That's very telling, Aurie. It sounds boring as fuck."

"Hey! If I had known I would die young, I might've taken more chances!"

"Okay, then you regret not living your life to the fullest," said Mx. Glib with a shrug.

"Are you telling me that my unfinished business is to live a little? How am I supposed to do that now that I'm D-E-D?" I goofed.

"It's your Afterlife. You work out the specifics, Yōkai. Now"—uncrossing long, sexy legs, Mys rose from the couch—"I'm glad we could wrap up this brainstorming sesh without caffeine, because honestly, I need sleep. Thank me later."

The lovely medium dumped their mug of coffee in the kitchen sink and headed to the shower. I glared at the bathroom door until I had to concede. It made no sense to waste coffee, but other than that, they were right.

I was the only one who could figure out my unfulfilled destiny.

But as I tried recalling my life, I again got only a hazy feeling. Straining to picture my family and friends, I came up short, and a rising panic threatened. This couldn't be normal, could it? It could be. I had never been a disembodied soul before—though it did feel a bit like a bad hangover. Maybe memory lapses were par for the course.

I thought about social media. People put everything online. Maybe I had too. Spotting a laptop on the nightstand, I rushed over to search my name, but my hands went straight through the device.

"Oh come on!" I whined.

After several fails, I let out an overdramatic groan and pitched face-first onto the bed. It occurred to me Aurie Edison didn't have tantrums. She was too mature, too dignified, too disciplined . . . and boring as fuck. Deadass.

Mys, the psychic, was semiright. I didn't simply need to live a little. I needed to live a lot, and . . . I pressed my face to the blanket and inhaled. Why did the bed smell like the very breath of gawd? Forgetting my meltdown for a second, I drank in the scent. What was that? Sex Voodoo Potion No. 69?

"Yes," I exhaled in rapture.

"Should I give you a minute?"

I bolted upright. "Hi!" Fierce heat rushed to my face.

Mys wore a bemused expression and a partially open kimono. The air was thick with assumptions and unasked questions. And steam. From the bathroom, definitely not from the heat wave of my lusty imagination. I scurried to the couch, mortified.

"I hope I'm not interrupting." Mys raised an eyebrow.

"No. I was, um . . . your cologne, er, perfume, it's . . ."

"It's from a place down on Royal Street. Like it?" They spritzed an atomizer, and the room flooded with one part of that heavenly scent. The other part, I realized, was a magical mix of pheromones and chemistry. It was pure Mys.

I held in a moan, and Mys gave me a knowing smile. "I might be able to help with what ails you."

"H-help?" I stammered.

They disappeared behind a decorative silk dressing screen by the bathroom door. "Considering your stay in Overlay City won't last forever and you need help living to the fullest tonight, I'm feeling generous. I might not even charge," they called out.

I snorted at the joke. "Thanks, but I bet you say that to all the girls."

Mys peeked around the screen with a grin. "Nope. My clients are ninety-nine percent male."

"Oh!" Wait. I had met this person outside a ritzy hotel, dressed to the nines, looking for all the world like—

"I'm a high-paid escort, and don't pretend outrage. It's a living." They blew vapor in my direction, emerging fully dressed for bed.

I wasn't outraged. Okay, maybe minorly shook by the idea of spending the night with a genderqueer New Orleans sex worker. Somehow, I knew the old Killjoy Me would have said, "Over my dead body."

But I was dead. I gave up trying not to stare. No denying Mys was attractive. The radiant skin, the ever-present sardonic smile. Their brand of sex appeal flipped off conventions. How far could I take things in this mystical new world?

"Actually, there is something you can do for me," I murmured.