It's Valentine's Day in Philadelphia, and our favorite former criminal necromancer turned (kind of? Sort of?) Private Eye-la refuses to spend it alone.

When a certain workaholic vampire (kind of boss? Sort of fling?) simply won't take the hint, Isla resorts to drastic measures.

Calling her horny ex.

̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶S̶p̶i̶r̶i̶t̶u̶a̶l̶i̶s̶t̶ ̶A̶r̶t̶s̶

Oh, yeah, that day started like any other. Slow and cold. Until about, oh, like, eleven-ish, or so? A decidedly after church hour but still early enough to be considered unholy by most in the Society of Other, Worldly, and Otherworldly Creatures. I had only just begun to sip my morning coffee when the first of the widows came knocking.

Not that I had any right to complain about having clients, for a change. A few, ah, noteworthy, customers aside, January was relatively dry for the kitschy Psychic Readings industry. But Valentine's Day? Oh honey. Valentine's Day was your baby girl's most bumping day of the year.

"Yes, yes," moaned seventy-seven-year-old Deirdre Kelleher, a regular of mine with cataracts, a silvery blue wig, and a dead husband. "What else does my Wallace say? What—what does he do next?"

"Tell Deirdre I touch her, ahem," the ghost of the aforementioned expired spouse, Wallace Kelleher, three years deceased next month, rasped into my ear. He gestured toward his wife's bosom. "Here. Softly, at first. But more firm, as she melts like pudding under my touch."

For Gritty's sake.

"He squeezes your tits."

"Oh!" Deirdre yelped like her beau actually did manage to land a nipple pinch from the great beyond. My chaise wobbled as she threw her head back, pawing at her own breasts over her mink coat.

To be continued in...