Page 1 of Definitely Dead (Happily Ever Afterlife #1)

Chapter one

B lack. Everything was black—the sky, the water, the sand.

His soul.

While not usually so morose, after more than a millennium in the Underworld, Tyr Bergstrom figured he’d earned the right to be a little bitter. Or maybe not, considering he’d done this to himself.

He wasn’t dead, even if it felt like it most days. No, he had, with full understanding of his actions, chosen this existence. As such, he could leave anytime he wanted and return to the land of the living. To a world where the sun shined, and time made fucking sense.

But he stayed.

Out of duty? Loyalty? Pride?

He didn’t know anymore.

But guiding souls through the afterlife like an operator at a carnival ride damn sure wasn’t it.

“Listen up!” he called, raising his voice to be heard over the din of conversation. “You’re dead. Yeah, it sucks. No, you can’t go back. No, there wasn’t a mistake. No, I don’t know your loved ones or where they are in the Underworld.”

Where the banks met the glassy waters of the River Acheron, a rickety pier extended past the shoreline, its weathered boards warped and faded. The thing whined from the pressure of merely existing, and it always looked one wrong step away from disintegrating completely.

Tyr ushered the group toward it.

“Wait here for the ferryman. Don’t touch the water.”

“What happens after we cross?” The female’s hair fell around her pale, withered face in tangled wisps, and she pointed toward the river with a finger crooked from age and disease.

“You’ll be judged.” He shrugged. One day, he would be too.

“And then?” A young male tilted his head, his upper lip curved in a smirk.

Pretty cocky for a dead bastard.

“Guess that’s up to you.” And not his problem.

“What happens if we touch the water?” someone at the back asked.

He stared down at the shifting onyx sands beneath his boots and sighed. Always the same uninspired questions. Topside, he had protected royalty and safeguarded kingdoms. Here, he had been reduced to little more than a glorified tour guide.

The least the tourists could do in return was try to be interesting.

“Want to find out?” As he suspected, no one took him up on the offer. “Good. Now, line up.”

“What’s that place?” The teenager jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Can we stay there?”

“Do what you want, kid.” With a quiet growl, he turned and started back up the hill toward the village made of cobblestone streets and thatched huts. “I just work here.”

Because time moved differently between the mortal realm and the Underworld, they didn’t typically receive newcomers in batches like this. One hundred fresh souls—give or take—arrived on the banks of the river every day in a steady trickle spaced over hours.

Many of them, he never even saw before they crossed.

A cluster of ten or more new souls arriving together almost always meant war, natural disasters, or some other type of mass-casualty event. Moreover, they always had something in common, something that would suggest they had died at the same time, in the same place.

Nothing about the current group gave him that indication.

Still, the anomaly didn’t concern him. It didn’t even pique his curiosity. He simply filed the information away to report on later. While he didn’t care what had brought them there, his boss certainly would.

“Hey, mind if I join you?” Without waiting for an answer, the young male from the group fell into step beside him, his hands shoved into the pockets of his ripped jeans. “I didn’t expect it to be so cold here.”

Tyr had felt the same way when he’d first arrived. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Really, though, what is this place?”

He glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Golden hair cut into shaggy layers that framed his face. Big, crisp green eyes. Plump cheeks with a soft jaw. The little witch looked like a fucking kid, but the energy pouring off him belied his meek appearance.

Something about the way he spoke, though, felt…off. Not his words or tone, exactly. It was more in his cadence.

“Village of Lost Souls.” A little hamlet built for the dead, those who, for whatever reason, refused to move on. “You should go back and wait for the ferryman.”

“Maybe later.” The male rounded his shoulders, his thin black tee offering little protection from the biting cold. “I’m Aster, by the way. Aster Hornby.”

He grunted. “Tyr.”

“Tyr? Like top-tier badass?” His laughter rang through the darkness, and he tossed his head back, clearly amused by his own joke.

“Just Tyr.” They reached the top of the slope and stepped onto the narrowed, cobbled street that ran the perimeter of the village. “If you’re staying, you should talk to Helen.” He pointed toward a shop to his left, the windows dimly lit by the orange glow of candlelight. “She’ll tell you what to do next.”

Aster glanced at the crooked door of the bakery and back, his brow creased and a frown tugging at his lips. “You’re not going to show me around?”

“No.”

He’d figure it out. They all did eventually.

Striding into the dark alley between the buildings, Tyr emerged onto the main thoroughfare. From there, he could see every ramshackle structure in the town, as well as the massive high-rise that towered over everything else and disappeared into blackness.

Shiny, modern, it was in total juxtaposition to the rest of the place. Rumor had it Hades had constructed the building himself to house the lost souls who wandered the banks of the river.

The god had never confirmed nor denied the suspicions, but Tyr wouldn’t be surprised if he had. Hades had a well-earned reputation for being a hard ass, but he could also be absurdly generous if the mood struck.

Case in point, the castle at the water’s edge Tyr and his brethren shared with their prince.

As Guardians, they were sworn to protect the royal families of the paranormal world. For centuries topside, that had meant safeguarding Orrin Nightstar, heir to the elven court. When the prince had met his mate and relocated to the Underworld, he hadn’t ordered them to follow, but their oath didn’t end just because their ward had relocated.

Tyr didn’t regret his choice, and given the opportunity, he would do it again. But things had changed since their arrival, and despite more than twelve hundred years to acclimate, he hadn’t figured out how to change with them.

“You’re brooding again.”

Tyr’s gaze slid sideways toward the male, but he kept walking. “I don’t brood.”

Undeterred, the guy pushed off the lamppost, his face shadowed from the flickering flames of the lantern that hung overhead. “You have that look.”

He slowed, but he didn’t stop moving. “This is just my face.”

Stepping off the crumbling curb, Rune fell into step beside him. “Who pissed you off this time?”

“No one.” He might be annoyed, but not angry. He just wasn’t particularly happy either. “Why are you here?”

The big Guardian shrugged and threaded his fingers through his hair, dragging the dusky strands away from his face. “Disagreement at the Tower.”

Tyr flicked his gaze toward the high-rise and grunted.

Rune had joined the Nightstar Guard a few years after him, and barring a short transition period, had seamlessly integrated into the team. Strategic, and a bit of a perfectionist, he had been in charge of coordinating Orrin’s security for decades.

He didn’t just have a plan B. The shifter incorporated the whole damn alphabet, prepared with a contingency for every possible scenario. And no one knew Ministry law like Rune Calix.

No small thing when the Ministry of Otherling Affairs took more of a “punish first, explain later” approach to governing the paranormal world.

In the village, Rune managed petty skirmishes between dead people, and he did it with the same attention to detail and understanding of regulations. Only now, he operated under the rules of the Underworld.

Tyr didn’t understand it, but Rune seemed happy. In fact, by all accounts, the asshole was thriving in their new home, unburdened by bitterness or resentment.

“What about you?” Rune asked, his cobalt eyes narrowing at the corners. “Why are you here?”

“I need to talk to Orrin.” When he’d first started up the hill, he had only wanted to get away from the crowd by the pier. That had changed the minute Aster had decided to follow him. “New batch of souls came in, and one decided to stay.”

“You mean the kid following you?”

Tyr paused in the street and looked over his shoulder, just in time to see a pale face duck behind one of the buildings. Damn, he hadn’t even noticed his tail. He was definitely losing his touch.

“Yeah, that’s the one.” A talkative soul with attachment issues. Exactly what he needed.

“Don’t worry.” Rune clapped him on the back as they started walking again. “We’ll get him sorted.”

Of that, he had no doubt, even if he disagreed with the plural part of the statement. Hence why he was on his way to see the prince.

While Orrin had abdicated his claim to the throne, he still carried the title of his position…and he hated it. Since taking on the mantle of Guardian of Lost Souls, he preferred to be addressed by his given name, a request Tyr tried to honor, but old habits and all that.

While the new title came with a lot of responsibility, it also had its perks, like a serious magical upgrade. Which meant Tyr now had the useless task of playing bodyguard to a literal deity.

Very awesome. Totally fine. Loved that for himself.

At the end of the cobbled road, they stopped outside the oldest, shabbiest dwelling in the village. Without a functional foundation, the entire building had shifted over time, giving it a distinctive lean, and the slabs of wood had dried and faded to an unhealthy gray. Lanterns occupied the windows, the warm glow struggling to penetrate the dingy glass, and the thatched roof sagged in several places, especially around the crooked stone chimney.

Villagers asserted the owner had been the first resident, the original lost soul, back when the hamlet had been nothing more than a vacant hill. Tyr had neither the desire nor the energy to verify their claims, but from what he had observed, it sounded reasonable.

“I’ll catch up with you later.” Rather than follow him to the door, Rune took a step back. “Good luck with the kid.”

“He’s not my problem,” Tyr mumbled.

But Rune had already walked away, heading back in the direction they had come from.

The weathered door scraped the floor as it swung open, and the rusted hinges screamed in protest, both violently announcing his arrival. Most places just used a bell. The diner weaponized neglect.

He would like to say the place was a hidden gem, but that would be a lie. The inside precisely matched the exterior—dimly lit, dull, and in desperate need of repairs. A thin layer of sand covered the warped floor, the grains crunching beneath his boots as he made his way to the back of the room.

Seated in the corner on one side of a rudimentary booth, Orrin looked up as he approached, his pale gray eyes gleaming in the candlelight. Fair, refined, with long silvery-white hair, he shined like a beacon in the drab surroundings.

After all this time, one would think the prince would have learned to blend in with the locals, but no. Draped in a sapphire tunic with gold inlays, he looked so wildly out of place, it was almost comical.

A smile stretched his lips, and he reached his hand out to indicate the seat across from him. “Tyr, come sit. Would you like some coffee?”

A dented tin carafe sat in the middle of the table, along with two chipped mugs. Clearly, Orrin had expected him.

“I see we have a new resident,” the prince continued, his gaze drifting to the small window beside the table.

“His name is Aster.” Sliding into the other side of the booth, Tyr flipped the stained white cup over and reached for the carafe. “I told him to talk to Helen, but…” He trailed off, his voice fading into a tired sigh. “He’ll likely be here in a minute.”

“I look forward to meeting him.” There was a genuineness in his tone that Tyr could never hope to match. “Do we know how he died?”

He paused, his mug halfway to his lips, and shook his head. “I didn’t ask.”

“Well, at least you got a name this time. That’s progress, I suppose.”

“I didn’t ask that either.” He shrugged, unmoved by the mild scolding, and sipped from his cup. The food at the diner might taste like soggy cardboard, but Cian made a damn good cup of coffee. “He just told me.”

“A chatty one.” Orrin sat up a little straighter and glanced toward the door, his curiosity clearly piqued. “What’s he like? General impression?”

Tyr understood the excitement, even if he didn’t share in it.

No one could force a soul to accept their fate. With only a few strict exceptions, not even Hades could drag an unwilling spirit across the river to face judgment.

Enter Orrin. As the Guardian of Lost Souls, it was his duty to convince them to face the unknown—a tiresome, thankless job that he still found rewarding for reasons Tyr couldn’t possibly comprehend.

Most souls didn’t want to talk, especially not about the events that had brought them to the village. They wanted answers. More accurately, they wanted a solution to a problem that didn’t exist. As if they could change their fate with a phone call and some paperwork.

Those willing to talk, however, were usually willing to listen, meaning a higher potential for success.

“Young. A little arrogant.” The bench groaned when he leaned against the tall back. “He seems pretty unbothered about being dead, to be honest.”

Orrin hummed quizzically. “I wonder why he stayed.”

Every resident in the village had their motives, and Tyr had stopped speculating long ago. Some simply couldn’t accept their own death. Others feared judgment. A few wanted to move on, but they waited for loved ones to join them before taking the final leap.

He kind of felt sorry for the last group. While they waited for millennia in the Underworld, only scant years passed topside.

“Hello, Tyr.” The owner of the shabby diner appeared at the end of the table, an amiable smile stretching his thin lips. “Can I get you anything?”

Cian, the first resident, a guy so old he didn’t even have a last name. With his soft features and halo of sandy-brown curls, the guy looked pretty good for someone rumored to be as old as death itself.

While he didn’t say much, when he did speak, it was always with kindness. His welcoming personality drew people to him, making his little corner of the village a natural gathering place.

Tyr held up his cracked mug and dipped his head. “I’m good for now.”

“Just let me know.” His soft-spoken tone carried the hint of an accent Tyr had never heard in the mortal world, likely from a dead language that had been lost long ago.

“Will do. Thanks, Cian.”

“You like him,” Orrin said once the shopkeeper disappeared back behind the slanted bar at the front of the room.

He probably didn’t mean it as an accusation, but Tyr decided to take it as one anyway. “Everyone likes Cian.”

“You’re not everyone.”

“He’s a nice guy.” In fact, he was so damn agreeable that even accidental rudeness toward him felt like kicking a puppy.

The screech of unoiled hinges announced the arrival of another patron. And he didn’t have to look up to know who had entered the diner. The timing couldn’t have been more accurate if he had planned it.

“Is that him?” Orrin asked.

Aster didn’t skulk into the room with his head down like most new souls. He strutted across the threshold, chin jutted, and shoulders back like he had something to prove.

Tyr choked back a sigh. “That’s him.”

“He’s coming this way.” A quiet chuckle rolled from the elf’s lips. “I think you have an admirer.”

More like a parasite. And his cue to get the hell out of there.

Draining the last of his coffee, he placed the cup gently on the table, careful not to damage it further, and slid out of the booth so he stood waiting when Aster approached.

“Sit.” He pointed to his vacated seat. “Listen. Don’t be a dick. Got it?”

Aster’s gaze darted between him and Orrin, a frown tugging at his mouth. “You’re not staying?”

“No.”

“But—”

“Sit,” he repeated, adding a touch of warning in the form of a low growl.

Instead of fear or panic, the kid rolled his eyes and huffed. “Fine, but you should really take your own advice and not be such a dick.”

“Maybe,” he allowed, a smirk curving his lips. “But not today.”

He waited for Aster to settle into the booth, then sent Orrin a questioning look. When he received a nod of dismissal, he sighed in relief and headed for the door.

The kid might think himself special, but Tyr had met a thousand other souls just like him. Cocky. Try-hard. The ones too proud to admit they didn’t have it all figured out. They were all the same.

Much like the Underworld itself.

Unmoving. Unchanging. A place that operated on uniformity and predictability, where nothing interesting or exciting ever happened.

Especially not to Tyr.