Lucien Hobbs thought he had seen everything after 648 years of existence. But after discovering his financial manager’s embezzlement, killing said manager in a fit of rage, and facing an audit due to the now-deceased manager’s perfidy, he was convinced otherwise.

Bad luck began to plague him. IRS agents destroyed his peace and refused to waive any penalties – plus a plumbing issue had flooded the secure underground chamber where he slept. Hobbs had been forced to move his coffin into the cramped wine cellar like a common undead criminal! Beyond that indignity, a neighbor’s spawn had broken the cellar window with an errant baseball, and a shaft of sunlight had burned Hobbs’s hand. Finally, one of his underlings had fallen in love with Hobbs’s human housekeeper and bitten her so they could spend eternity together. Hobbs supposed the situation was dreadfully romantic from the couple’s perspective, but the housekeeper’s new bloodlust was badly disrupting his household routine – and affecting staff morale. She had already drained a number of maids and one groundskeeper. Worse still, the stairs were getting dusty. This level of neglect was an outrage!

One evening, Hobbs poured out his troubles to his dearest friend over goblets of O negative. “I don’t know how much more I can take.”

Veronica, who was older than Hobbs, was often full of good advice. She paused to think and said, “Do you remember Reginald St. John? Back in England before George went mad?”

“How could I forget?” Hobbs replied. “An entire village swarmed his manor house!”

“Pitchforks and all,” Veronica agreed.

“They very nearly got him, too. It was horrifying!”

“Yes, and he had an entire host of unlucky incidents before the mob came.”

“No, did he? I never heard about that.”

“Made the ten plagues of Egypt look quaint,” Veronica said with a delicate shudder. “As I know from firsthand experience.”

Hobbs nodded and took a sip from his goblet. “We’re lucky humans don’t believe in us anymore.”

“True!” Veronica tapped a ruby nail on her equally red lips. “You know, St. John called in a sort of fixer afterward, to ensure nothing like it ever happened again. I’ll make a call, see if Reggie can help.”

“Thank you,” Hobbs said as premature relief poured through him. Maybe his luck was changing!

Several days later, Hobbs found himself contemplating a stranger in his parlor.

The woman wore a grey suit and horn-rimmed glasses, and kept her curly hair pulled tightly back in a bun. Hobbs thought she resembled the stern headmistress of a private girls’ school – severe, but oddly attractive. However, something in her emerald green gaze made Hobbs distinctly uneasy. He had the feeling she was no school matron, despite appearances.

He cleared his throat. “I apologize. I was told to expect your visit this evening, but I’m afraid no one gave me your name.”

The corners of the woman’s mouth curled upward into the merest hint of a smile. “You can call me Aisling.”

“Yes, thank you, Ms. Aisling”—

“Just Aisling, if you please.”

“Right,” Hobbs said, grateful for the distraction of the tea tray’s arrival.

The maid’s eyes widened in shock at Hobbs’s guest. With trembling hands, she placed the tray as far from Aisling as she could before she darted from the room.

Aisling laughed at the maid’s hasty retreat. “I so rarely meet a human who recognizes me for what I am. What a delight!”

Hobbs pondered her statement with dismay. “Tea?” he asked warily as he pulled the tray closer.

“Please. I do enjoy the rituals of hospitality.”

Hobbs filled a cup and slid it across the table toward his guest.

Aisling took a sip. “I understand you’ve been undergoing some trials lately and you’d like the tribulations to stop.”

“I have and I would,” Hobbs agreed with trepidation.

“I expect I can ease your woes,” Aisling said, placing the cup and saucer on the desk with a decisive click. “All I require is a simple agreement.”

Hobbs almost wilted in relief. “Tell me your expected compensation, and I’ll forward the terms to my lawyer to draft the contract.”

“Not that kind of agreement,” Aisling demurred with visible amusement. “More of a bargain we strike together.”

“Hmm,” Hobbs said in confusion. Then he recalled the maid’s behavior. “No! I’m not selling my soul!”

Aisling chuckled again. “Not that kind of bargain, either. I’ve no interest in souls. Confidentially, do you even have a soul to sell? I’ve never been sure about your sort.”

“No idea,” Hobbs admitted sheepishly.

“No matter; it’s immaterial. The bargains I make are more along the lines of services rendered for services I require later.”

“Services?”

“Perhaps a more accurate term would be… favors?” Aisling smiled widely. She no longer looked matronly. The more accurate term would be dangerous.

“Favors?” Hobbs croaked. “What kind of favors?”

“Whatever sort of favors I require.” Aisling shrugged. “I’ve no way to predict ahead of time.”

“What would happen if I were unable or unwilling to return these favors?” Hobbs dared to ask.

Aisling’s expression grew positively feral. “I don’t deal kindly with those who break bargains.”

“Somehow I’m not surprised,” Hobbs muttered. “Could I think it over?”

“You could,” Aisling allowed. “But my services are in high demand. I can assure you my other clients are satisfied. Sometimes we pay a steep price for comfort, Mr. Hobbs. But if the alternative is a wolf at the door”—

“A wolf?” Hobbs yelped. He’d tangled with wolves before.

“A figurative wolf. Probably. But if you are plagued with problems and I offer solutions, is a simple favor too high a price?”

“I have no way to predict ahead of time,” Hobbs deadpanned.

Aisling nodded her approval. “Then you understand.”

Hobbs wasn’t sure he understood any of this.

Aisling rose. “I’ll leave you to think on it and return tomorrow evening for your answer.” She gave him a gracious nod and departed.

Hobbs stared at the empty doorway as he swayed slightly in his chair. No doubt a new disaster would strike before nightfall tomorrow, making his capitulation inevitable.

His luck had changed after all, and not for the better.

• You may recall Hobbs from “Death and Taxes.” Poor little guy! He can’t catch a break.
• Maybe he should have called E. David Scott’s 900-number to break his curse. Probably safer than dealing with faery folk! (That vintage commercial is real, by the way.)
• Halloween is only a fortnight away! Two weeks, baby! Let’s goooooooooo.

More coming soon! Have a great weekend. OKAY, BYE! 🖤