eVersion 4.0 - see revision notes at end of text
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The Laughing Corpse
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by
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Laurell K. Hamilton
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Book 2 of the Anita Blake Vampire Hunter Series
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1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40
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Chapter 1
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Harold Gaynor's house sat in the middle of intense green lawn and the
graceful sweep of trees. The house gleamed in the hot August sunshine.
Bert Vaughn, my boss, parked the car on the crushed gravel of the
driveway. The gravel was so white, it looked like handpicked rock salt.
Somewhere out of sight the soft whir of sprinklers pattered. The grass
was absolutely perfect in the middle of one of the worst droughts
Missouri has had in over twenty years. Oh, well. I wasn't here to talk
with Mr. Gaynor about water management. I was here to talk about raising
the dead.

Not resurrection. I'm not that good. I mean zombies. The shambling dead.
Rotting corpses. Night of the living dead. That kind of zombie. Though
certainly less dramatic than Hollywood would ever put up on the screen.
I am an animator. It's a job, that's all, like selling.

Animating had only been a licensed business for about five years. Before
that it had just been an embarrassing curse, a religious experience, or
a tourist attraction. It still is in parts of New Orleans, but here in
St. Louis it's a business. A profitable one, thanks in large part to my
boss. He's a rascal, a scalawag, a rogue, but damn if he doesn't know
how to make money. It's a good trait for a business manager.

Bert was six-three, a broad-shouldered, ex-college football player with
the beginnings of a beer gut. The dark blue suit he wore was tailored so
that the gut didn't show. For eight hundred dollars the suit should have
hidden a herd of elephants. His white-blond hair was trimmed in a crew
cut, back in style after all these years. A boater's tan made his pale
hair and eyes dramatic with contrast.

Bert adjusted his blue and red striped tie, mopping a bead of sweat off
his tanned forehead. "I heard on the news there's a movement there to
use zombies in pesticide-contaminated fields. It would save lives."

"Zombies rot, Bert, there's no way to prevent that, and they don't stay
smart enough long enough to be used as field labor."

"It was just a thought. The dead have no rights under law, Anita."

"Not yet."

It was wrong to raise the dead so they could slave for us. It was just
wrong, but no one listens to me. The government finally had to get into
the act. There was a nationwide committee being formed of animators and
other experts. We were supposed to look into the working conditions of
local zombies.

Working conditions. They didn't understand. You can't give a corpse nice
working conditions. They don't appreciate it anyway. Zombies may walk,
even talk, but they are very, very dead.

Bert smiled indulgently at me. I fought an urge to pop him one right in
his smug face, "I know you and Charles are working on that committee,"
Bert said. "Going around to all the businesses and checking up on the
zombies. It makes great press for Animators, Inc."

"I don't do it for good press," I said.

"I know. You believe in your little cause."

"You're a condescending bastard," I said, smiling sweetly up at him.

He grinned at me. "I know."

I just shook my head; with Bert you can't really win an insult match. He
doesn't give a damn what I think of him, as long as I work for him.

My navy blue suit jacket was supposed to be summer weight but it was a
lie. Sweat trickled down my spine as soon as I stepped out of the car.

Bert turned to me, small eyes narrowing. His eyes lend themselves to
suspicious squints. "You're still wearing your gun," he said.

"The jacket hides it, Bert. Mr. Gaynor will never know." Sweat started
collecting under the straps of my shoulder holster. I could feel the
silk blouse beginning to melt. I try not to wear silk and a shoulder rig
at the same time. The silk starts to look indented, wrinkling where the
straps cross. The gun was a Browning Hi-Power 9mm, and I liked having it
near at hand.

"Come on, Anita. I don't think you'll need a gun in the middle of the
afternoon, while visiting a client." Bert's voice held that patronizing
tone that people use on children. Now, little girl, you know this is for
your own good.

Bert didn't care about my well-being. He just didn't want to spook
Gaynor. The man had already given us a check for five thousand dollars.
And that was just to drive out and talk to him. The implication was that
there was more money if we agreed to take his case. A lot of money. Bert
was all excited about that part. I was skeptical. After all, Bert didn't
have to raise the corpse. I did.

The trouble was, Bert was probably right. I wouldn't need the gun in
broad daylight. Probably. "All right, open the trunk."

Bert opened the trunk of his nearly brand-new Volvo. I was already
taking off the jacket. He stood in front of me, hiding me from the
house. God forbid that they should see me hiding a gun in the trunk.
What would they do, lock the doors and scream for help?

I folded the holster straps around the gun and laid it in the clean
trunk. It smelled like new car, plastic and faintly unreal. Bert shut
the trunk, and I stared at it as if I could still see the gun.

"Are you coming?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said. I didn't like leaving my gun behind, for any reason. Was
that a bad sign? Bert motioned for me to come on.

I did, walking carefully over the gravel in my high-heeled black pumps.
Women may get to wear lots of pretty colors, but men get the comfortable
shoes.

Bert was staring at the door, smile already set on his face. It was his
best professional smile, dripping with sincerity. His pale grey eyes
sparkled with good cheer. It was a mask. He could put it on and off like
a light switch. He'd wear the same smile if you confessed to killing
your own mother. As long as you wanted to pay to have her raised from
the dead.

The door opened, and I knew Bert had been wrong about me not needing a
gun. The man was maybe five-eight, but the orange polo shirt he wore
strained over his chest. The black sport jacket seemed too small, as if
when he moved the seams would split, like an insect's skin that had been
outgrown. Black acid-washed jeans showed off a small waist, so he looked
like someone had pinched him in the middle while the clay was still wet.
His hair was very blond. He looked at us silently. His eyes were empty,
dead as a doll's. I caught a glimpse of shoulder holster under the sport
jacket and resisted an urge to kick Bert in the shins.

Either my boss didn't notice the gun or he ignored it. "Hello, I'm Bert
Vaughn and this is my associate, Anita Blake. I believe Mr. Gaynor is
expecting us." Bert smiled at him charmingly.

The bodyguard--what else could he be--moved away from the door. Bert
took that for an invitation and walked inside. I followed, not at all
sure I wanted to. Harold Gaynor was a very rich man. Maybe he needed a
bodyguard. Maybe people had threatened him. Or maybe he was one of those
men who have enough money to keep hired muscle around whether they need
it or not.

Or maybe something else was going on. Something that needed guns and
muscle, and men with dead, emotionless eyes. Not a cheery thought.

The air-conditioning was on too high and the sweat gelled instantly. We
followed the bodyguard down a long central hall that was paneled in
dark, expensive-looking wood. The hall runner looked oriental and was
probably handmade.

Heavy wooden doors were set in the right-hand wall. The bodyguard opened
the doors and again stood to one side while we walked through. The room
was a library, but I was betting no one ever read any of the books. The
place was ceiling to floor in dark wood bookcases. There was even a
second level of books and shelves reached by an elegant sweep of narrow
staircase. All the books were hardcover, all the same size, colors muted
and collected together like a collage. The furniture was, of course, red
leather with brass buttons worked into it.

A man sat near the far wall. He smiled when we came in. He was a large
man with a pleasant round face, double-chinned. He was sitting in an
electric wheelchair, with a small plaid blanket over his lap, hiding his
legs.

"Mr. Vaughn and Ms. Blake, how nice of you to drive out." His voice went
with his face, pleasant, damn near amiable.

A slender black man sat in one of the leather chairs. He was over six
feet tall, exactly how much over was hard to tell. He was slumped down,
long legs stretched out in front of him with the ankles crossed. His
legs were taller than I was. His brown eyes watched me as if he were
trying to memorize me and would be graded later.

The blond bodyguard went to lean against the bookcases. He couldn't
quite cross his arms, jacket too tight, muscles too big. You really
shouldn't lean against a wall and try to look tough unless you can cross
your arms. Ruins the effect.

Mr. Gaynor said, "You've met Tommy." He motioned towards the sitting
bodyguard. "That's Bruno."

"Is that your real name or just a nickname?" I asked, looking straight
into Bruno's eyes.

He shifted just a little in his chair. "Real name."

I smiled.

"Why?" he asked.

"I've just never met a bodyguard who was really named Bruno."

"Is that supposed to be funny?" he asked.

I shook my head. Bruno. He never had a chance. It was like naming a girl
Venus. All Brunos had to be bodyguards. It was a rule. Maybe a cop? Naw,
it was a bad guy's name. I smiled.

Bruno sat up in his chair, one smooth, muscular motion. He wasn't
wearing a gun that I could see, but there was a presence to him.
Dangerous, it said, watch out.

Guess I shouldn't have smiled.

Bert interrupted, "Anita, please. I do apologize, Mr. Gaynor . . . Mr.
Bruno. Ms. Blake has a rather peculiar sense of humor."

"Don't apologize for me, Bert. I don't like it." I don't know what he
was so sore about anyway. I hadn't said the really insulting stuff out
loud.

"Now, now," Mr. Gaynor said. "No hard feelings. Right, Bruno?"

Bruno shook his head and frowned at me, not angry, sort of perplexed.

Bert flashed me an angry look, then turned smiling to the man in the
wheelchair. "Now, Mr. Gaynor, I know you must be a busy man. So, exactly
how old is the zombie you want raised?"

"A man who gets right down to business. I like that." Gaynor hesitated,
staring at the door. A woman entered.

She was tall, leggy, blond, with cornflower-blue eyes. The dress, if it
was a dress, was rose-colored and silky. It clung to her body the way it
was supposed to, hiding what decency demanded, but leaving very little
to the imagination. Long pale legs were stuffed into pink spike heels,
no hose. She stalked across the carpet, and every man in the room
watched her. And she knew it.

She threw back her head and laughed, but no sound came out. Her face
brightened, her lips moved, eyes sparkled, but in absolute silence, like
someone had turned the sound off. She leaned one hip against Harold
Gaynor, one hand on his shoulder. He encircled her waist, and the
movement raised the already short dress another inch.

Could she sit down in the dress without flashing the room? Naw.

"This is Cicely," he said. She smiled brilliantly at Bert, that little
soundless laugh making her eyes sparkle. She looked at me and her eyes
faltered, the smile slipped. For a second uncertainty filled her eyes.
Gaynor patted her hip. The smile flamed back into place. She nodded
graciously to both of us.

"I want you to raise a two-hundred-and-eighty-three-year old corpse."

I just stared at him and wondered if he understood what he was asking.

"Well," Bert said, "that is nearly three hundred years old. Very old to
raise as a zombie. Most animators couldn't do it at all."

"I am aware of that," Gaynor said. "That is why I asked for Ms. Blake.
She can do it."

Bert glanced at me. I had never raised anything that old. "Anita?"

"I could do it," I said.

He smiled back at Gaynor, pleased.

"But I won't do it."

Bert turned slowly back to me, smile gone.

Gaynor was still smiling. The bodyguards were immobile. Cicely looked
pleasantly at me, eyes blank of any meaning.

"A million dollars, Ms. Blake," Gaynor said in his soft pleasant voice.

I saw Bert swallow. His hands convulsed on the chair arms. Bert's idea
of sex was money. He probably had the biggest hard-on of his life.

"Do you understand what you're asking, Mr. Gaynor?" I asked.

He nodded. "I will supply the white goat." His voice was still pleasant
as he said it, still smiling. Only his eyes had gone dark; eager,
anticipatory.

I stood up. "Come on, Bert, it's time to leave."

Bert grabbed my arm. "Anita, sit down, please."

I stared at his hand until he let go of me. His charming mask slipped,
showing me the anger underneath, then he was all pleasant business
again. "Anita. It is a generous payment."

"The white goat is a euphemism, Bert. It means a human sacrifice."

My boss glanced at Gaynor, then back to me. He knew me well enough to
believe me, but he didn't want to. "I don't understand," he said.

"The older the zombie the bigger the death needed to raise it. After a
few centuries the only death 'big enough' is a human sacrifice," I said.

Gaynor wasn't smiling anymore. He was watching me out of dark eyes.
Cicely was still looking pleasant, almost smiling. Was there anyone home
behind those so blue eyes? "Do you really want to talk about murder in
front of Cicely?" I asked.

Gaynor beamed at me, always a bad sign. "She can't understand a word we
say. Cicely's deaf."

I stared at him, and he nodded. She looked at me with pleasant eyes. We
were talking of human sacrifice and she didn't even know it. If she
could read lips, she was hiding it very well. I guess even the
handicapped, um, physically challenged, can fall into bad company, but
it seemed wrong.

"I hate a woman who talks constantly," Gaynor said.

I shook my head. "All the money in the world wouldn't be enough to get
me to work for you."

"Couldn't you just kill lots of animals, instead of just one?" Bert
asked. Bert is a very good business manager. He knows shit about raising
the dead.

I stared down at him. "No."

Bert sat very still in his chair. The prospect of losing a million
dollars must have been real physical pain for him, but he hid it. Mr.
Corporate Negotiator. "There has to be a way to work this out," he said.
His voice was calm. A professional smile curled his lips. He was still
trying to do business. My boss did not understand what was happening.

"Do you know of another animator that could raise a zombie this old?"
Gaynor asked.

Bert glanced up at me, then down at the floor, then at Gaynor. The
professional smile had faded. He understood now that it was murder we
were talking about. Would that make a difference?

I had always wondered where Bert drew the line. I was about to find out.
The fact that I didn't know whether he would refuse the contract told
you a lot about my boss. "No," Bert said softly, "no, I guess I can't
help you either, Mr. Gaynor."

"If it's the money, Ms. Blake, I can raise the offer."

A tremor ran through Bert's shoulders. Poor Bert, but he hid it well.
Brownie point for him.

"I'm not an assassin, Gaynor," I said.

"That ain't what I heard," Tommy of the blond hair said.

I glanced at him. His eyes were still as empty as a doll's. "I don't
kill people for money."

"You kill vampires for money," he said.

"Legal execution, and I don't do it for the money," I said.

Tommy shook his head and moved away from the wall. "I hear you like
staking vampires. And you aren't too careful about who you have to kill
to get to 'em."

"My informants tell me you have killed humans before, Ms. Blake," Gaynor
said.

"Only in self-defense, Gaynor. I don't do murder."

Bert was standing now. "I think it is time to leave."

Bruno stood in one fluid movement, big dark hands loose and half-cupped
at his sides. I was betting on some kind of martial arts.

Tommy was standing away from the wall. His sport jacket was pushed back
to expose his gun, like an old-time gunfighter. It was a .357 Magnum. It
would make a very big hole.

I just stood there, staring at them. What else could I do? I might be
able to do something with Bruno, but Tommy had a gun. I didn't. It sort
of ended the argument.

They were treating me like I was a very dangerous person. At five-three
I am not imposing. Raise the dead, kill a few vampires, and people start
considering you one of the monsters. Sometimes it hurt. But now . . . it
had possibilities. "Do you really think I came in here unarmed?" I
asked. My voice sounded very matter-of-fact.

Bruno looked at Tommy. He sort of shrugged. "I didn't pat her down."

Bruno snorted.

"She ain't wearing a gun, though," Tommy said.

"Want to bet your life on it?" I said. I smiled when I said it, and slid
my hand, very slowly, towards my back. Make them think I had a hip
holster at the small of my back. Tommy shifted, flexing his hand near
his gun. If he went for it, we were going to die. I was going to come
back and haunt Bert.

Gaynor said, "No. No need for anyone to die here today, Ms. Blake."

"No," I said, "no need at all." I swallowed my pulse back into my throat
and eased my hand away from my imaginary gun. Tommy eased away from his
real one. Goody for us.

Gaynor smiled again, like a pleasant beardless Santa. "You of course
understand that telling the police would be useless."

I nodded. "We have no proof. You didn't even tell us who you wanted
raised from the dead, or why."

"It would be your word against mine," he said.

"And I'm sure you have friends in high places." I smiled when I said it.

His smile widened, dimpling his fat little cheeks. "Of course."

I turned my back on Tommy and his gun. Bert followed. We walked outside
into the blistering summer heat. Bert looked a little shaken. I felt
almost friendly towards him. It was nice to know that Bert had limits,
something he wouldn't do, even for a million dollars.

"Would they really have shot us?" he asked. His voice sounded
matter-of-fact, firmer than the slightly glassy look in his eyes. Tough
Bert. He unlocked the trunk without being asked.

"With Harold Gaynor's name in our appointment book and in the computer?"
I got my gun out and slipped on the holster rig. "Not knowing who we'd
mentioned this trip to?" I shook my head. "Too risky."

"Then why did you pretend to have a gun?" He looked me straight in the
eyes as he asked, and for the first time I saw uncertainty in his face.
Ol' money bags needed a comforting word, but I was fresh out.

"Because, Bert, I could have been wrong."

Chapter 2
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The bridal shop was just off 70 West in St. Peters. It was called The
Maiden Voyage. Cute. There was a pizza place on one side of it and a
beauty salon on the other. It was called Full Dark Beauty Salon. The
windows were blacked out, outlined in bloodred neon. You could get your
hair and nails done by a vampire, if you wanted to.

Vampirism had only been legal for two years in the United States of
America. We were still the only country in the world where it was legal.
Don't ask me; I didn't vote for it. There was even a movement to give
the vamps the vote. Taxation without representation and all that.

Two years ago if a vampire bothered someone I just went out and staked
the son of a bitch. Now I had to get a court order of execution. Without
it, I was up on murder charges, if I was caught. I longed for the good
old days.

There was a blond mannequin in the wedding shop window wearing enough
white lace to drown in. I am not a big fan of lace, or seed pearls, or
sequins. Especially not sequins. I had gone out with Catherine twice to
help her look for a wedding gown. It didn't take long to realize I was
no help. I didn't like any of them.

Catherine was a very good friend or I wouldn't have been here at all.
She told me if I ever got married I'd change my mind. Surely being in
love doesn't cause you to lose your sense of good taste. If I ever buy a
gown with sequins on it, someone just shoot me.

I also wouldn't have chosen the bridal dresses Catherine picked out, but
it was my own fault that I hadn't been around when the vote was taken. I
worked too much and I hated to shop. So, I ended up plunking down $120
plus tax on a pink taffeta evening gown. It looked like it had run away
from a junior high prom.

I walked into the air-conditioned hush of the bridal shop, high heels
sinking into a carpet so pale grey it was nearly white. Mrs. Cassidy,
the manager, saw me come in. Her smile faltered for just a moment before
she got it under control. She smiled at me, brave Mrs. Cassidy.

I smiled back, not looking forward to the next hour.

Mrs. Cassidy was somewhere between forty and fifty, trim figure, red
hair so dark it was almost brown. The hair was tied in a French knot
like Grace Kelly used to wear. She pushed her gold wire-framed glasses
more securely on her nose and said, "Ms. Blake, here for the final
fitting, I see."

"I hope it's the final fitting," I said.

"Well, we have been working on the . . . problem. I think we've come up
with something." There was a small room in back of the desk. It was
filled with racks of plastic-covered dresses. Mrs. Cassidy pulled mine
out from between two identical pink dresses.

She led the way to the dressing rooms with the dress draped over her
arms. Her spine was very straight. She was gearing for another battle. I
didn't have to gear up, I was always ready for battle. But arguing with
Mrs. Cassidy about alterations to a formal beat the heck out of arguing
with Tommy and Bruno. It could have gone very badly, but it hadn't.
Gaynor had called them off, for today, he had said.

What did that mean exactly? It was probably self-explanatory. I had left
Bert at the office still shaken from his close encounter. He didn't deal
with the messy end of the business. The violent end. No, I did that, or
Manny, or Jamison, or Charles. We, the animators of Animators, Inc, we
did the dirty work. Bert stayed in his nice safe office and sent clients
and trouble our way. Until today.

Mrs. Cassidy hung the dress on a hook inside one of the dressing stalls
and went away. Before I could go inside, another stall opened, and
Kasey, Catherine's flower girl, stepped out. She was eight, and she was
glowering. Her mother followed behind her, still in her business suit.
Elizabeth (call me Elsie) Markowitz was tall, slender, black-haired,
olive skinned, and a lawyer. She worked with Catherine and was also in
the wedding.

Kasey looked like a smaller, softer version of her mother.

The child spotted me first and said, "Hi, Anita. Isn't this dress
dumb-looking?"

"Now, Kasey," Elsie said, "it's a beautiful dress. All those nice pink
ruffles."

The dress looked like a petunia on steroids to me. I stripped off my
jacket and started moving into my own dressing room before I had to give
my opinion out loud.

"Is that a real gun?" Kasey asked.

I had forgotten I was still wearing it. "Yes," I said.

"Are you a policewoman?"

"No."

"Kasey Markowitz, you ask too many questions." Her mother herded her
past me with a harried smile. "Sorry about that, Anita."

"I don't mind," I said. Sometime later I was standing on a little raised
platform in front of a nearly perfect circle of mirrors. With the
matching pink high heels the dress was the right length at least. It
also had little puff sleeves and was an off-the-shoulder look. The dress
showed almost every scar I had.

The newest scar was still pink and healing on my right forearm. But it
was just a knife wound. They're neat, clean things compared to my other
scars. My collarbone and left arm have both been broken. A vampire bit
through them, tore at me like a dog with a piece of meat. There's also
the cross-shaped burn mark on my left forearm. Some inventive human
vampire slaves thought it was amusing. I didn't.

I looked like Frankenstein's bride goes to the prom. Okay, maybe it
wasn't that bad, but Mrs. Cassidy thought it was. She thought the scars
would distract people from the dress, the wedding party, the bride. But
Catherine, the bride herself, didn't agree. She thought I deserved to be
in the wedding, because we were such good friends. I was paying good
money to be publicly humiliated. We must be good friends.

Mrs. Cassidy handed me a pair of long pink satin gloves. I pulled them
on, wiggling my fingers deep into the tiny holes. I've never liked
gloves. They make me feel like I'm touching the world through a curtain.
But the bright pink things did hide my arms. Scars all gone. What a good
girl. Right.

The woman fluffed out the satiny skirt, glancing into the mirror. "It
will do, I think." She stood, tapping one long, painted fingernail
against her lipsticked mouth. "I believe I have come up with something
to hide that, uh . . . well . . ." She made vague hand motions towards
me.

"My collarbone scar?" I said.

"Yes." She sounded relieved.

It occurred to me for the first time that Mrs. Cassidy had never once
said the word "scar." As if it were dirty, or rude. I smiled at myself
in the ring of mirrors. Laughter caught at the back of my throat.

Mrs. Cassidy held up something made of pink ribbon and fake orange
blossoms. The laughter died. "What is that?" I asked.

"This," she said, stepping towards me, "is the solution to our problem."

"All right, but what is it?"

"Well, it is a collar, a decoration."

"It goes around my neck?"

"Yes."

I shook my head. "I don't think so."

"Ms. Blake, I have tried everything to hide that, that . . . mark. Hats,
hairdos, simple ribbons, corsages . . ." She literally threw up her
hands. "I am at my wit's end."

This I could believe. I took a deep breath. "I sympathize with you, Mrs.
Cassidy, really I do. I've been a royal pain in the ass."

"I would never say such a thing."

"I know, so I said it for you. But that is the ugliest piece of fru-fru
I've ever laid eyes on."

"If you, Ms. Blake, have any better suggestions, then I am all ears."
She half crossed her arms over her chest. The offending piece of
"decoration" trailed nearly to her waist.

"It's huge," I protested.

"It will hide your"--she set her mouth tight--"scar."

I felt like applauding. She'd said the dirty word. Did I have any better
suggestions? No. I did not. I sighed. "Put it on me. The least I can do
is look at it."

She smiled. "Please lift your hair."

I did as I was told. She fastened it around my neck. The lace itched,
the ribbons tickled, and I didn't even want to look in the mirror. I
raised my eyes, slowly, and just stared.

"Thank goodness you have long hair. I'll style it myself the day of the
wedding so it helps the camouflage."

The thing around my neck looked like a cross between a dog collar and
the world's biggest wrist corsage. My neck had sprouted pink ribbons
like mushrooms after a rain. It was hideous, and no amount of
hairstyling was going to change that. But it hid the scar completely,
perfectly. Ta-da.

I just shook my head. What could I say? Mrs. Cassidy took my silence for
assent. She should have known better. The phone rang and saved us both.
"I'll be just a minute, Ms. Blake." She stalked off, high-heels silent
on the thick carpet.

I just stared at myself in the mirrors. My hair and eyes match, black
hair, eyes so dark brown they look black. They are my mother's Latin
darkness. But my skin is pale, my father's Germanic blood. Put some
makeup on me and I look not unlike a china doll. Put me in a puffy pink
dress and I look delicate, dainty, petite. Dammit.

The rest of the women in the wedding party were all five-five or above.
Maybe some of them would actually look good in the dress. I doubted it.

Insult to injury, we all had to wear hoop skirts underneath. I looked
like a reject from Gone With the Wind.

"There, don't you look lovely." Mrs. Cassidy had returned. She was
beaming at me.

"I look like I've been dipped in Pepto-Bismol," I said.

Her smile faded around the edges. She swallowed. "You don't like this
last idea." Her voice was very stiff.

Elsie Markowitz came out of the dressing rooms. Kasey was trailing
behind, scowling. I knew how she felt. "Oh, Anita," Elsie said, "you
look adorable."

Great. Adorable, just what I wanted to hear. "Thanks."

"I especially like the ribbons at your throat. We'll all be wearing
them, you know."

"Sorry about that," I said.

She frowned at me. "I think they just set off the dress."

It was my turn to frown. "You're serious, aren't you?"

Elsie looked puzzled. "Well, of course I am. Don't you like the
dresses?"

I decided not to answer on the grounds that it might piss someone off. I
guess, what can you expect from a woman who has a perfectly good name
like Elizabeth, but prefers to be named after a cow?

"Is this the absolutely last thing we can use for camouflage, Mrs.
Cassidy?" I asked.

She nodded, once, very firmly.

I sighed, and she smiled. Victory was hers, and she knew it. I knew I
was beaten the moment I saw the dress, but if I'm going to lose, I'm
going to make someone pay for it. "All right. It's done. This is it.
I'll wear it."

Mrs. Cassidy beamed at me. Elsie smiled. Kasey smirked. I hiked the hoop
skirt up to my knees and stepped off the platform. The hoop swung like a
bell with, me as the clapper.

The phone rang. Mrs. Cassidy went to answer it, a lift in her step, a
song in her heart, and me out of her shop. Joy in the afternoon.

I was struggling to get the wide skirt through the narrow little door
that led to the changing rooms when she called, "Ms. Blake, it's for
you. A Detective Sergeant Storr."

"See, Mommy, I told you she was a policewoman," Kasey said.

I didn't explain because Elsie had asked me not to, weeks ago. She
thought Kasey was too young to know about animators and zombies and
vampire slayings. Not that any child of eight could not know what a
vampire was. They were pretty much the media event of the decade.

I tried to put the phone to my left ear, but the damned flowers got in
the way. Pressing the receiver in the bend of my neck and shoulder, I
reached back to undo the collar. "Hi, Dolph, what's up?"

"Murder scene." His voice was pleasant, like he should sing tenor.

"What kind of murder scene?"

"Messy."

I finally pulled the collar free and dropped the phone.

"Anita, you there?"

"Yeah, having some wardrobe trouble."

"What?"

"It's not important. Why do you want me to come down to the scene?"

"Whatever did this wasn't human."

"Vampire?"

"You're the undead expert. That's why I want you to come take a look."

"Okay, give me the address, and I'll be right there." There was a
notepad of pale pink paper with little hearts on it. The pen had a
plastic cupid on the end of it. "St. Charles, I'm not more than fifteen
minutes from you."

"Good." He hung up.

"Good-bye to you, too, Dolph." I said it to empty air just to feel
superior. I went back into the little room to change.

I had been offered a million dollars today, just to kill someone and
raise a zombie. Then off to the bridal shop for a final fitting. Now a
murder scene. Messy, Dolph had said. It was turning out to be a very
busy afternoon.

Chapter 3
---------

Messy, Dolph had called it. A master of understatement. Blood was
everywhere, splattered over the white walls like someone had taken a can
of paint and thrown it. There was an off-white couch with brown and gold
patterned flowers on it. Most of the couch was hidden under a sheet. The
sheet was crimson. A bright square of afternoon sunlight came through
the clean, sparkling windows. The sunlight made the blood cherry-red,
shiny.

Fresh blood is really brighter than you see it on television and the
movies. In large quantities. Real blood is screaming fire-engine red, in
large quantities, but darker red shows up on the screen better. So much
for realism.

Only fresh blood is red, true red. This blood was old and should have
faded, but some trick of the summer sunshine kept it shiny and new.

I swallowed very hard and took a deep breath.

"You look a little green, Blake," a voice said almost at my elbow.

I jumped, and Zerbrowski laughed. "Did I scare ya?"

"No," I lied.

Detective Zerbrowski was about five-seven, curly black hair going grey,
dark-rimmed glasses framed brown eyes. His brown suit was rumpled; his
yellow and maroon tie had a smudge on it, probably from lunch. He was
grinning at me. He was always grinning at me.

"I gotcha, Blake, admit it. Is our fierce vampire slayer gonna upchuck
on the victims?"

"Putting on a little weight there, aren't you, Zerbrowski?"

"Ooh, I'm hurt," he said. He clutched hands to his chest, swaying a
little. "Don't tell me you don't want my body, the way I want yours."

"Lay off, Zerbrowski. Where's Dolph?"

"In the master bedroom." Zerbrowski gazed up at the vaulted ceiling with
its skylight. "Wish Katie and I could afford something like this."

"Yeah," I said. "It's nice." I glanced at the sheet-covered couch. The
sheet clung to whatever was underneath, like a napkin thrown over
spilled juice. There was something wrong with the way it looked. Then it
hit me, there weren't enough bumps to make a whole human body. Whatever
was under there was missing some parts.

The room sort of swam. I looked away, swallowing convulsively. It had
been months since I had actually gotten sick at a murder scene. At least
the air-conditioning was on. That was good. Heat always makes the smell
worse.

"Hey, Blake, do you really need to step outside?" Zerbrowski took my arm
as if to lead me towards the door.

"Thanks, but I'm fine." I looked him straight in his baby browns and
lied. He knew I was lying. I wasn't all right, but I'd make it.

He released my arm, stepped back, and gave me a mock salute. "I love a
tough broad."

I smiled before I could stop it. "Go away, Zerbrowski."

"End of the hall, last door on the left. You'll find Dolph there." He
walked away into the crowd of men. There are always more people than you
need at a murder scene, not the gawkers outside but uniforms,
plainclothes, technicians, the guy with the video camera. A murder scene
was like a bee swarm, full of frenzied movement and damn crowded. I
threaded my way through the crowd. My plastic-coated ID badge was
clipped to the collar of my navy-blue jacket. It was so the police would
know I was on their side and hadn't just snuck in. It also made carrying
a gun into a crowd of policemen safer.

I squeezed past a crowd that was gathered like a traffic jam beside a
door in the middle of the hall. Voices came, disjointed, "Jesus, look at
the blood . . . Have they found the body yet? . . . You mean what's left
of it? . . . No."

I pushed between two uniforms. One said, "Hey!" I found a cleared space
just in front of the last door on the left-hand side. I don't know how
Dolph had done it but he was alone in the room. Maybe they were just
finished in here.

He knelt in the middle of the pale brown carpet. His thick hands,
encased in surgical gloves, were on his thighs. His black hair was cut
so short it left his ears sort of stranded on either side of a large
blunt face. He saw me and stood. He was six-eight, built big like a
wrestler. The canopied bed behind him suddenly looked small.

Dolph was head of the police's newest task force, the spook squad.
Official title was the Regional Preternatural Investigation Team,
R-P-I-T, pronounced "rip it." It handled all supernatural crime. It was
a place to dump the troublemakers. I never wondered what Zerbrowski had
done to get on the spook squad. His sense of humor was too strange and
absolutely merciless. But Dolph. He was the perfect policeman. I had
always sort of figured he had offended someone high up, offended them by
being too good at his job. Now that I could believe.

There was another sheet-covered bundle on the carpet beside him.

"Anita." He always talks like that, one word at a time.

"Dolph," I said.

He knelt between the canopy bed and the blood-soaked sheet. "You ready?"

"I know you're the silent type, Dolph, but could you tell me what I'm
supposed to be looking for?"

"I want to know what you see, not what I tell you you're supposed to
see."

For Dolph it was a speech. "Okay," I said, "let's do it."

He pulled back the sheet. It peeled away from the bloody thing
underneath. I stood and I stared and all I could see was a lump of
bloody meat. It could have been from anything: a cow, horse, deer. But
human? Surely not.

My eyes saw it, but my brain refused what it was being shown. I squatted
beside it, tucking my skirt under my thighs. The carpeting squeezed
underfoot like rain had gotten to it, but it wasn't rain.

"Do you have a pair of gloves I can borrow? I left my crime scene gear
at the office."

"Right jacket pocket." He lifted his hands in the air. There were blood
marks on the gloves. "Help yourself. The wife hates me to get blood on
the dry cleaning."

I smiled. Amazing. A sense of humor is mandatory at times. I had to
reach across the remains. I pulled out two surgical gloves; one size
fits all. The gloves always felt like they had powder in them. They
didn't feel like gloves at all, more like condoms for your hands.

"Can I touch it without damaging evidence?"

"Yes."

I poked the side of it with two fingers. It was like poking a side of
fresh beef. A nice, solid feel to it. My fingers traced the bumps of
bone, ribs under the flesh. Ribs. Suddenly I knew what I was looking at.
Part of the rib cage of a human being. There was the shoulder, white
bone sticking out where the arm had been torn away. That was all. All
there was. I stood too quickly and stumbled. The carpet squeeshed
underfoot.

The room was suddenly very hot. I turned away from the body and found
myself staring at the bureau. Its mirror was splattered so heavily with
blood, it looked like someone had covered it in layers of red fingernail
polish. Cherry Blossom Red, Carnival Crimson, Candy Apple.

I closed my eyes and counted very slowly to ten. When I opened them the
room seemed cooler. I noticed for the first time that a ceiling fan was
slowly turning. I was fine. Heap big vampire slayer. Ri-ight.

Dolph didn't comment as I knelt by the body again. He didn't even look
at me. Good man. I tried to be objective and see whatever there was to
see. But it was hard. I liked the remains better when I couldn't figure
out what part of the body they were. Now all I could see was the bloody
remains. All I could think of was this used to be a human body. "Used to
be" was the operative phrase.

"No signs of a weapon that I can see, but the coroner will be able to
tell you that." I reached out to touch it again, then stopped. "Can you
help me raise it up so I can see inside the chest cavity? What's left of
the chest cavity."

Dolph dropped the sheet and helped me lift the remains. It was lighter
than it looked. Raised on its side there was nothing underneath. All the
vital organs that the ribs protect were gone. It looked for all the
world like a side of beef ribs, except for the bones where the arm
should have connected. Part of the collarbone was still attached.

"Okay," I said. My voice sounded breathy. I stood, holding my
blood-spattered hands out to my sides. "Cover it, please."

He did, and stood. "Impressions?"

"Violence, extreme violence. More than human strength. The body's been
ripped apart by hand."

"Why by hand?"

"No knife marks." I laughed, but it choked me. "Hell, I'd think someone
had used a saw on the body like butchering a cow, but the bones..." I
shook my head. "Nothing mechanical was used to do this."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah, where is the rest of the fucking body?"

"Down the hall, second door on the left."

"The rest of the body?" The room was getting hot again.

"Just go look. Tell me what you see."

"Dammit, Dolph, I know you don't like to influence your experts, but I
don't like walking in there blind."

He just stared at me.

"At least answer one question."

"Maybe, what?"

"Is it worse than this?"

He seemed to think about that for a moment. "No, and yes."

"Damn you."

"You'll understand after you've seen it."

I didn't want to understand. Bert had been thrilled that the police
wanted to put me on retainer. He had told me I would gain valuable
experience working with the police. All I had gained so far was a wider
variety of nightmares.

Dolph walked ahead of me to the next chamber of horrors. I didn't really
want to find the rest of the body. I wanted to go home. He hesitated in
front of the closed door until I stood beside him. There was a cardboard
cutout of a rabbit on the door like for Easter. A needlework sign hung
just below the bunny. Baby's Room.

"Dolph," my voice sounded very quiet. The noise from the living room was
muted.

"Yes."

"Nothing, nothing." I took a deep breath and let it out. I could do
this. I could do this. Oh, God, I didn't want to do this. I whispered a
prayer under my breath as the door swung inward. There are moments in
life when the only way to get through is with a little grace from on
high. I was betting this was going to be one of them.

Sunlight streamed through a small window. The curtains were white with
little duckies and bunnies stitched around the edges. Animal cutouts
danced around the pale blue walls. There was no crib, only one of those
beds with handrails halfway down. A big boy bed, wasn't that what they
were called?

There wasn't as much blood in here. Thank you, dear God. Who says
prayers never get answered? But in a square of bright August sunshine
sat a stuffed teddy bear. The teddy bear was candy-coated with blood.
One glassy eye stared round and surprised out of the spiky fake fur.

I knelt beside it. The carpet didn't squeeze, no blood soaked in. Why
was the damn bear sitting here covered in congealing blood? There was no
other blood in the entire room that I could see.

Did someone just set it here? I looked up and found myself staring at a
small white chest of drawers with bunnies painted on it. When you have a
motif, I guess you stick with it. On the white paint was one small,
perfect handprint. I crawled towards it and held up my hand near it
comparing size. My hands aren't big, small even for a woman's, but this
handprint was tiny. Two, three, maybe four. Blue walls, probably a boy.

"How old was the child?"

"Picture in the living room has Benjamin Reynolds, age three, written on
the back."

"Benjamin," I whispered it, and stared at the bloody handprint. "There's
no body in this room. No one was killed here."

"No."

"Why did you want me to see it?" I looked up at him, still kneeling.

"Your opinion isn't worth anything if you don't see everything."

"That damn bear is going to haunt me."

"Me, too," he said.

I stood, resisting the urge to smooth my skirt down in back. It was
amazing how many times I touched my clothing without thinking and
smeared blood on myself. But not today.

"Is it the boy's body under the sheet in the living room?" As I said it,
I prayed that it wasn't.

"No," he said.

Thank God. "Mother's body?"

"Yes."

"Where is the boy's body?"

"We can't find it." He hesitated, then asked, "Could the thing have
eaten the child's body completely?"

"You mean so there wouldn't be anything left to find?"

"Yes," he said. His face looked just the tiniest bit pale. Mine probably
did, too.

"Possible, but even the undead have a limit to what they can eat." I
took a deep breath. "Did you find any signs of - regurgitation."

"Regurgitation." He smiled. "Nice word. No, the creature didn't eat and
then vomit. At least we haven't found it."

"Then the boy's probably still around somewhere."

"Could he be alive?" Dolph asked.

I looked up at him. I wanted to say yes, but I knew the answer was
probably no. I compromised. "I don't know."

Dolph nodded.

"The living room next?" I asked.

"No." He walked out of the room without another word. I followed. What
else could I do? But I didn't hurry. If he wanted to play tough, silent
policeman, he could damn well wait for me to catch up.

I followed his broad back around the corner through the living room into
the kitchen. A sliding glass door led out onto a deck. Glass was
everywhere. Shiny slivers of it sparkled in the light from yet another
skylight. The kitchen was spotless, like a magazine ad, done in blue
tile and rich light-colored wood. "Nice kitchen," I said.

I could see men moving around the yard. The party had moved outside. The
privacy fence hid them from the curious neighbors, as it had hidden the
killer last night. There was just one detective standing beside the
shiny sink. He was scribbling something in a notebook.

Dolph motioned me to have a closer look. "Okay," I said. "Something
crashed through the sliding glass door. It must have made a hell of a
lot of noise. This much glass breaking even with the air-conditioning on
. . . You'd hear it."

"You think so?" he asked.

"Did any of the neighbors hear anything?" I asked.

"No one will admit to it," he said.

I nodded. "Glass breaks, someone comes to check it out, probably the
man. Some sexist stereotypes die hard."

"What do you mean?" Dolph asked.

"The brave hunter protecting his family," I said.

"Okay, say it was the man, what next?"

"Man comes in, sees whatever crashed through the window, yells for his
wife. Probably tells her to get out. Take the kid and run."

"Why not call the police?" he asked.

"I didn't see a phone in the master bedroom." I nodded towards the phone
on the kitchen wall. "This is probably the only phone. You have to get
past the bogeyman to reach the phone."

"Go on."

I glanced behind me into the living room. The sheet-covered couch was
just visible. "The thing, whatever it was, took out the man. Quick,
disabled him, knocked him out, but didn't kill him."

"Why not kill?"

"Don't test me, Dolph. There isn't enough blood in the kitchen. He was
eaten in the bedroom. Whatever did it wouldn't have dragged a dead man
off to the bedroom. It chased the man into the bedroom and killed him
there."

"Not bad, want to take a shot at the living room next?"

Not really, but I didn't say it out loud. There was more left of the
woman, Her upper body was almost intact. Paper bags enveloped her hands.
We had samples of something under her fingernails. I hoped it helped.
Her wide brown eyes stared up at the ceiling. The pajama top clung wetly
to where her waist used to be. I swallowed hard and used my index finger
and thumb to raise the pajama top.

Her spine glistened in the hard sunshine, wet and white and dangling,
like a cord that had been ripped out of its socket.

Okay. "Something tore her apart, just like the . . . man in the
bedroom."

"How do you know it's a man?"

"Unless they had company, it has to be the man. They didn't have a
visitor, did they?"

Dolph shook his head. "Not as far as we know."

"Then it has to be the man. Because she still has all her ribs, and both
arms." I tried to swallow the anger in my voice. It wasn't Dolph's
fault. "I'm not one of your cops. I wish you'd stop asking me questions
that you already have the answers to."

He nodded. "Fair enough. Sometimes I forget you're not one of the boys."

"Thank you for that."

"You know what I mean."

"I do, and I even know you mean it as a compliment, but can we finish
discussing this outside, please?"

"Sure." He slipped off his bloody gloves and put them in a garbage sack
that was sitting open in the kitchen. I did the same.

The heat fastened round me like melting plastic, but it felt good, clean
somehow. I breathed in great lungfuls of hot, sweating air. Ah, summer.

"I was right though, it wasn't human?" he asked.

There were two uniformed police officers keeping the crowd off the lawn
and in the street. Children, parents, kids on bikes. It looked like a
freaking circus.

"No, it wasn't human. There was no blood on the glass that it came
through."

"I noticed. What's the significance?"

"Most dead don't bleed, except for vampires."

"Most?"

"Freshly dead zombies can bleed, but vampires bleed almost like a
person."

"You don't think it was a vampire then?"

"If it was, then it ate human flesh. Vampires can't digest solid food."

"Ghoul?"

"Too far from a cemetery, and there'd be more destruction of the house.
Ghouls would tear up furniture like wild animals."

"Zombie?"

I shook my head. "I honestly don't know. There are such things as
flesh-eating zombies. They're rare, but it happens."

"You told me that there have been three reported cases. Each time the
zombies stay human longer and don't rot."

I smiled. "Good memory. That's right. Flesh-eating zombies don't rot, as
long as you feed them. Or at least don't rot as quickly."

"Are they violent?"

"Not so far," I said.

"Are zombies violent?" Dolph asked.

"Only if told to be."

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"You can order a zombie to kill people if you're powerful enough."

"A zombie as a murder weapon?"

I nodded. "Something like that, yes."

"Who could do something like that?"

"I'm not sure that's what happened here," I said.

"I know. But who could do it?"

"Well, hell, I could, but I wouldn't. And nobody I know that could do it
would do it."

"Let us decide that," he said. He had gotten his little notebook out.

"You really want me to give you names of friends so you can ask them if
they happened to have raised a zombie and sent it to kill these people?"

"Please."

I sighed. "I don't believe this. All right, me, Manny Rodriguez, Peter
Burke, and. . ." I stopped words already forming a third name.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. I just remembered that I've got Burke's funeral to go to this
week. He's dead so I don't think he's a suspect."

Dolph was looking at me hard, suspicion plain on his face. "You sure
this is all the names you want to give me?"

"If I think of anyone else, I'll let you know," I said. I was at my
wide-eyed most sincere. See, nothing up my sleeve.

"You do that, Anita."

"Sure thing."

He smiled and shook his head. "Who are you protecting?"

"Me," I said. He looked puzzled. "Let's just say I don't want to get
someone mad at me."

"Who?"

I looked up into the clear August sky. "You think we'll get rain?"

"Dammit, Anita, I need your help."

"I've given you my help," I said.

"The name."

"Not yet. I'll check it out, and if it looks suspicious, I promise to
share it with you."

"Well, isn't that just generous of you?" A flush was creeping up his
neck. I had never seen Dolph angry before. I feared I was about to.

"The first death was a homeless man. We thought he'd passed out from
liquor and ghouls got him. We found him right next to a cemetery. Open
and shut, right?" His voice was rising just a bit with each word.

"Next we find this couple, teenagers caught necking in the boy's car.
Dead, still not too far from the cemetery. We called in an exterminator
and a priest. Case closed." He lowered his voice, but it was like he had
swallowed the yelling. His voice was strained and almost touchable with
its anger.

"Now this. It's the same beastie, whatever the hell it is. But we are
miles from the nearest frigging cemetery. It isn't a ghoul, and maybe if
I had called you in with the first or even the second case, this
wouldn't have happened. But I figure I'm getting good at this
supernatural crap. I've had some experience now, but it isn't enough. It
isn't nearly enough." His big hands were crushing his notebook.

"That's the longest speech I've ever heard you make," I said.

He half laughed. "I need the name, Anita."

"Dominga Salvador. She's the voodoo priest for the entire Midwest. But
if you send police down there she won't talk to you. None of them will."

"But they'll talk to you?"

"Yes," I said.

"Okay, but I better hear something from you by tomorrow."

"I don't know if I can set up a meeting that soon."

"Either you do it, or I do it," he said.

"Okay, okay, I'll do it, somehow."

"Thanks, Anita. At least now we have someplace to start."

"It might not be a zombie at all, Dolph. I'm just guessing."

"What else could it be?"

"Well, if there had been blood on the glass, I'd say maybe a
lycanthrope."

"Oh, great, just what I need--a rampaging shapeshifter."

"But there was no blood on the glass."

"So probably some kind of undead," he said.

"Exactly."

"You talk to this Dominga Salvador and give me a report ASAP."

"Aye, aye, Sergeant."

He made a face at me and walked back inside the house. Better him than
me. All I had to do was go home, change clothes, and prepare to raise
the dead. At full dark tonight I had three clients lined up or would
that be lying down?

Ellen Grisholm's therapist thought it would be therapeutic for Ellen to
confront her child-molesting father. The trouble was the father had been
dead for several months. So I was going to raise Mr. Grisholm from the
dead and let his daughter tell him what a son of a bitch he was. The
therapist said it would be cleansing. I guess if you have a doctorate,
you're allowed to say things like that.

The other two raisings were more usual; a contested will, and a
prosecution's star witness that had had the bad taste to have a heart
attack before testifying in court. They still weren't sure if the
testimony of a zombie was admissible in court, but they were desperate
enough to try, and to pay for the privilege.

I stood there in the greenish-brown grass. Glad to see the family hadn't
been addicted to sprinklers. A waste of water. Maybe they had even
recycled their pop cans, newspapers. Maybe they had been decent
earth-loving citizens. Maybe not.

One of the uniforms lifted the yellow Do-Not-Cross tape and let me out.
I ignored all the staring people and got in my car. It was a late-model
Nova. I could have afforded something better but why bother? It ran.

The steering wheel was too hot to touch. I turned on the
air-conditioning and let the car cool down. What I had told Dolph about
Dominga Salvador had been true. She wouldn't talk to the police, but
that hadn't been the reason I tried to keep her name out of it.

If the police came knocking on Seora Dominga's door, she'd want to know
who sent them. And she'd find out. The Seora was the most powerful
vaudun priest I had ever met.

Raising a murderous zombie was just one of many things she could do, if
she wanted to.

Frankly, there were things worse than zombies that could come crawling
through your window some dark night. I knew as little about that side of
the business as I could get away with. The Seora had invented most of
it.

No, I did not want Dominga Salvador angry with me. So it looked like I
was going to have to talk with her tomorrow. It was sort of like getting
an appointment to see the godfather of voodoo. Or in this case the
godmother. The trouble was this godmother was unhappy with me. Dominga
had sent me invitations to her home. To her ceremonies. I had politely
declined. I think my being a Christian disappointed her. So I had
managed to avoid a face to face, until now.

I was going to ask the most powerful vaudun priest in the United States,
maybe in all of North America, if she just happened to raise a zombie.
And if that zombie just happened to be going around killing people, on
her orders? Was I crazy? Maybe. It looked like tomorrow was going to be
another busy day.

Chapter 4
---------

The alarm screamed. I rolled over swatting at the buttons on top of the
digital clock. Surely to God, I'd hit the snooze button soon. I finally
had to prop myself up on one elbow and actually open my eyes. I turned
off the alarm and stared at the glowing numbers. 6:00 A.M. Shit. I'd
only gotten home at three.

Why had I set the alarm for six? I couldn't remember. I am not at my
best after only three hours of sleep. I lay back down in the still warm
nest of sheets. My eyes were fluttering shut when I remembered. Dominga
Salvador.

She had agreed to meet me at 7:00 A.M. today. Talk about a breakfast
meeting. I struggled out of the sheet, and just sat on the side of the
bed for a minute. The apartment was absolutely still. The only sound was
the hush-hush of the air-conditioning. Quiet as a funeral.

I got up then, thoughts of blood-coated teddy bears dancing in my head.

Fifteen minutes later I was dressed. I always showered after coming in
from work no matter how late it was. I couldn't stand the thought of
going to bed between nice clean sheets smeared with dried chicken blood.
Sometimes it's goat blood, but more often chicken.

I had compromised on the outfit, caught between showing respect and not
melting in the heat. It would have been easy if I hadn't planned to
carry a gun with me. Call me paranoid, but I don't leave home without
it.

The acid washed jeans, jogging socks, and Nikes were easy. An Uncle
Mike's inter-pants holster complete with a Firestar 9mm completed the
outfit. The Firestar was my backup piece to the Browning Hi-Power. The
Browning was far too bulky to put down an inter-pants holster, but the
Firestar fit nicely.

Now all I needed was a shirt that would hide the gun, but leave it
accessible to grab and shoot. This was harder than it sounded. I finally
settled on a short, almost middrift top that just barely fell over my
waistband. I turned in front of the mirror.

The gun was invisible as long as I didn't forget and raise my arms too
high. The top, unfortunately, was a pale, pale pink. What had possessed
me to buy this top, I really didn't remember. Maybe it had been a gift?
I hoped so. The thought that I had actually spent money on anything pink
was more than I could bear.

I hadn't opened the drapes at all yet. The entire apartment was in
twilight. I had special-ordered very heavy drapes. I rarely saw
sunlight, and I didn't miss it much. I turned on the light over my fish
tank. The angelfish rose towards the top, mouths moving in slow-motion
begging.

Fish are my idea of pets. You don't walk them, pick up after them, or
have to housebreak them. Clean the tank occasionally, feed them, and
they don't give a damn how many hours of overtime you work.

The smell of strong brewed coffee wafted through the apartment from my
Mr. Coffee. I sat at my little two-seater kitchen table sipping hot,
black Colombian vintage. Beans fresh from my freezer, ground on the
spot. There was no other way to drink coffee. Though in a pinch I'll
take it just about any way I can get it.

The doorbell chimed. I jumped, spilling coffee onto the table. Nervous?
Me? I left my Firestar on the kitchen table instead of taking it to the
door with me. See, I'm not paranoid. Just very, very careful.

I checked the peephole and opened the door. Manny Rodriguez stood in the
doorway. He's about two inches taller than I am. His coal-black hair is
streaked with grey and white. Thick waves of it frame his thin face and
black mustache. He's fifty-two, and with one exception, I would still
rather have him backing me in a dangerous situation than anyone else I
know.

We shook hands, we always do that. His grip was firm and dry. He grinned
at me, flashing very white teeth in his brown face. "I smell coffee."

I grinned back. "You know it's all I have for breakfast." He walked in,
and I locked the door behind him, habit.

"Rosita thinks you don't take care of yourself." He dropped into a
near-perfect imitation of his wife's scolding voice, a much thicker
Mexican accent than his own. "She doesn't eat right, so thin. Poor
Anita, no husband, not even a boyfriend." He grinned.

"Rosita sounds like my stepmother. Judith is sick with worry that I'll
be an old maid."

"You're what, twenty-four?"

"Mm-uh."

He just shook his head. "Sometimes I do not understand women."

It was my turn to grin. "What am I, chopped liver?"

"Anita, you know I didn't mean..."

"I know, I'm one of the boys. I understand."

"You are better than any of the boys at work."

"Sit down. Let me pour coffee in your mouth before your foot fits in
again."

"You are being difficult. You know what I meant." He stared at me out of
his solid brown eyes, face very serious.

I smiled. "Yeah, I know what you meant."

I picked one of the dozen or so mugs from my kitchen cabinet. My
favorite mugs dangled from a mug-tree on the countertop.

Manny sat down, sipping coffee, glancing at his cup. It was red with
black letters that said, "I'm a coldhearted bitch but I'm good at it."
He laughed coffee up his nose.

I sipped my own coffee from a mug decorated with fluffy baby penguins:
I'd never admit it, but it is my favorite mug.

"Why don't you bring your penguin mug to work?" he asked.

Bert's latest brainstorm was that we all use personalized coffee cups at
work. He thought it would add a homey note to the office. I had brought
in a grey on grey cup that said, "It's a dirty job and I get to do it."
Bert had made me take it home.

"I enjoy yanking Bert's chain."

"So you're going to keep bringing in unacceptable cups."

I smiled. "Mm-uh."

He just shook his head.

"I really appreciate you coming to see Dominga with me."

He shrugged. "I couldn't let you go see the devil woman alone, could I?"

I frowned at the nickname, or was it an insult? "That's what your wife
calls Dominga, not what I call her."

He glanced down at the gun still lying on the tabletop. "But you'll take
a gun with you, just in case."

I looked at him over the top of my cup. "Just in case."

"If it comes to shooting our way out, Anita, it will be too late. She
has bodyguards all over the place."

"I don't plan to shoot anybody. We are just going to ask a few
questions. That's all."

He smirked. "Por favor, Seora Salvador, did you raise a killer zombie
recently?"

"Knock it off, Manny. I know it's awkward."

"Awkward?" He shook his head. "Awkward, she says. If you piss off
Dominga Salvador, it's a hell of a lot more than just awkward."

"You don't have to come."

"You called me for backup." He smiled that brilliant teeth flashing
smile that lit up his entire face. "You didn't call Charles or Jamison.
You called me, and, Anita, that is the best compliment you could give an
old man."

"You're not an old man." And I meant it.

"That is not what my wife keeps telling me. Rosita has forbidden me to
go vampire hunting with you, but she can't curtail my zombie-related
activities, not yet anyway."

The surprise must have shone on my face, because he said, "I know she
talked to you two years back, when I was in the hospital."

"You almost died," I said.

"And you had how many broken bones?"

"Rosita made a reasonable request, Manny. You have four children to
think of."

"And I'm too old to be slaying vampires." His voice held irony, and
almost bitterness.

"You'll never be too old," I said.

"A nice thought." He drained his coffee mug. "We better go. Don't want
to keep the Seora waiting."

"God forbid," I said.

"Amen," he said.

I stared at him as he rinsed his mug out in the sink. "Do you know
something you're not telling me?"

"No," he said.

I rinsed my own cup, still staring at him. I could feel a suspicious
frown between my eyes. "Manny?"

"Honest Mexican, I don't know nuthin'."

"Then what's wrong?"

"You know I was vaudun before Rosita converted me to pure Christianity."

"Yeah, so?"

"Dominga Salvador was not just my priestess. She was my lover."

I stared at him for a few heartbeats. "You're kidding?"

His face was very serious as he said, "I wouldn't joke about something
like that."

I shrugged. People's choices of lovers never failed to amaze me. "That's
why you could get me a meeting with her on such short notice."

He nodded.

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Because you might have tried to sneak over there without me."

"Would that have been so bad?"

He just stared at me, brown eyes very serious. "Maybe."

I got my gun from the table and fitted it to the inter-pants holster.
Eight bullets. The Browning could hold fourteen. But let's get real; if
I needed more than eight bullets, I was dead. And so was Manny.

"Shit," I whispered.

"What?"

"I feel like I'm going to visit the bogeyman."

Manny made a back and forth motion with his head. "Not a bad analogy."

Great, just freaking, bloody great. Why was I doing this? The image of
Benjamin Reynolds's blood-coated teddy bear flashed into my mind. All
right, I knew why I was doing it. If there was even a remote chance that
the boy could still be alive, I'd go into hell itself--if I stood a
chance of coming back out. I didn't mention this out loud. I did not
want to know if hell was a good analogy, too.

Chapter 5
---------

The neighborhood was older houses; fifties, forties. The lawns were
dying to brown for lack of water. No sprinklers here. Flowers struggled
to survive in beds close to the houses. Mostly petunias, geraniums, a
few rosebushes. The streets were clean, neat, and one block over you
could get yourself shot for wearing the wrong color of jacket.

Gang activity stopped at Seora Salvador's neighborhood. Even teenagers
with automatic pistols fear things you can't stop with bullets no matter
how good a shot you are. Silver plated bullets will harm a vampire, but
not kill it. It will kill a lycanthrope, but not a zombie. You can hack
the damn things to pieces, and the disconnected body parts will crawl
after you. I've seen it. It ain't pretty. The gangs leave the Seora's
turf alone. No violence. It is a place of permanent truce.

There are stories of one Hispanic gang that thought it had protection
against gris-gris. Some people say that the gang's ex-leader is still
down in Dominga's basement, obeying an occasional order. He was great
show-and-tell to any juvenile delinquents who got out of hand.

Personally, I had never seen her raise a zombie. But then I'd never seen
her call the snakes either. I'd just as soon keep it that way.

Seora Salvador's two-story house is on about a half acre of land. A
nice roomy yard. Bright red geraniums flamed against the whitewashed
walls. Red and white, blood and bone. I was sure the symbolism was not
lost on casual passersby. It certainly wasn't lost on me.

Manny parked his car in the driveway behind a cream colored Impala. The
two-car garage was painted white to match the house. There was a little
girl of about five riding a tricycle furiously up and down the sidewalk.
A slightly older pair of boys were sitting on the steps that led up to
the porch. They stopped playing and looked at us.

A man stood on the porch behind them. He was wearing a shoulder holster
over a sleeveless blue T-shirt. Sort of blatant. All he needed was a
flashing neon sign that said "Bad Ass."

There were chalk markings on the sidewalk. Pastel crosses and unreadable
diagrams. It looked like a children's game, but it wasn't. Some devoted
fans of the Seora had chalked designs of worship in front of her house.
Stubs of candles had melted to lumps around the designs. The girl on the
tricycle peddled back and forth over the designs. Normal, right?

I followed Manny over the sun-scorched lawn. The little girl on the
tricycle was watching us now, small brown face unreadable.

Manny removed his sunglasses and smiled up at the man. "Buenos das,
Antonio. It has been a long time."

"S, " Antonio said. His voice was low and sullen. His deeply tanned
arms were crossed loosely over his chest. It put his right hand right
next to his gun butt.

I used Manny's body to shield me from sight and casually put my hands
close to my own gun. The Boy Scout motto, "Always be prepared." Or was
that the Marines?

"You've become a strong, handsome man," Manny said.

"My grandmother says I must let you in," Antonio said.

"She is a wise woman," Manny said.

Antonio shrugged. "She is the Seora." He peered around Manny at me.
"Who is this?"

"Seorita Anita Blake." Manny stepped back so I could move forward. I
did, right hand loose on my waist like I had an attitude, but it was the
closest I could stay to my gun.

Antonio looked down at me. His dark eyes were angry, but that was all.
He didn't have near the gaze of Harold Gaynor's bodyguards. I smiled.
"Nice to meet you."

He squinted at me suspiciously for a moment, then nodded. I continued to
smile at him, and a slow smile spread over his face. He thought I was
flirting with him. I let him think it.

He said something in Spanish. All I could do was smile and shake my
head. He spoke softly, and there was a look in his dark eyes, a curve to
his mouth. I didn't have to speak the language to know I was being
propositioned. Or insulted.

Manny's neck was stiff, his face flushed. He said something from between
clenched teeth.

It was Antonio's turn to flush. His hand started to go for his gun. I
stepped up two steps, touching his wrist as if I didn't know what was
going on. The tension in his arm was like a wire, straining.

I beamed up at him as I held his wrist. His eyes flicked from Manny to
me, then the tension eased, but I didn't let go of his wrist until his
arm fell to his side. He raised my hand to his lips, kissing it. His
mouth lingered on the back of my hand, but his eyes stayed on Manny.
Angry, rage-filled.

Antonio carried a gun, but he was an amateur. Amateurs with guns
eventually get themselves killed. I wondered if Dominga Salvador knew
that? She may have been a whiz at voodoo but I bet she didn't know much
about guns, and what it took to use one on a regular basis. Whatever it
took, Antonio didn't have it. He'd kill you all right. No sweat. But for
the wrong reasons. Amateur's reasons. Of course, you'll be just as dead.

He guided me up on the porch beside him, still holding my hand. It was
my left hand. He could hold that all day. "I must check you for weapons,
Manuel."

"I understand," Manny said. He stepped up on the porch and Antonio
stepped back, keeping room between them in case Manny jumped him. That
left me with a clear shot of Antonio's back. Careless; under different
circumstances, deadly.

He made Manny lean against the porch railing like a police frisk.
Antonio knew what he was doing, but it was an angry search, lots of
quick jerky hand movements, as if just touching Manny's body enraged
him. A lot of hate in old Tony.

It never occurred to him to pat me down for weapons. Tsk-tsk.

A second man came to the screen door. He was in his late forties, maybe.
He was wearing a white undershirt with a plaid shirt unbuttoned over it.
The sleeves were folded back as far as they'd go. Sweat stood out on his
forehead. I was betting there was a gun at the small of his back. His
black hair had a pure white streak just over the forehead. "What is
taking so long, Antonio?" His voice was thick and held an accent.

"I searched him for weapons."

The older man nodded. "She is ready to see you both."

Antonio stood to one side, taking up his post on the porch once more. He
made a kissing noise as I walked past. I felt Manny stiffen, but we made
it into the living room without anyone getting shot. We were on a roll.

The living room was spacious, with a dining-room set taking up the
left-hand side. There was a wall piano in the living room. I wondered
who played. Antonio? Naw.

We followed the man through a short hallway into a roomy kitchen. Golden
oblongs of sunshine lay heavy on a black and white tiled floor. The
floor and kitchen were old, but the appliances were new. One of those
deluxe refrigerators with an ice maker and water dispenser took up a
hunk of the back wall. All the appliances were done in a pale yellow:
Harvest Gold, Autumn Bronze.

Sitting at the kitchen table was a woman in her early sixties. Her thin
brown face was seamed with a lot of smile lines. Pure white hair was
done in a bun at the nape of her neck. She sat very straight in her
chair, thin-boned hands folded on the tabletop. She looked terribly
harmless. A nice old granny. If a quarter of what I'd heard about her
was true, it was the greatest camouflage I'd ever seen.

She smiled and held out her hands. Manny stepped forward and took the
offering, brushing his lips on her knuckles. "It is good to see you,
Manuel." Her voice was rich, a contralto with the velvet brush of an
accent.

"And you, Dominga." He released her hands and sat across from her.

Her quick black eyes flicked to me, still standing in the doorway. "So,
Anita Blake, you have come to me at last."

It was a strange thing to say. I glanced at Manny. He gave a shrug with
his eyes. He didn't know what she meant either. Great. "I didn't know
you were eagerly awaiting me, Seora."

"I have heard stories of you, chica. Wondrous stories." There was a hint
in those black eyes, that smiling face, that was not harmless.

"Manny?" I asked.

"It wasn't me."

"No, Manuel does not talk to me anymore. His little wife forbids it."
That last sentence was angry, bitter.

Oh, God. The most powerful voodoo priestess in the Midwest was acting
like a scorned lover. Shit.

She turned those angry black eyes to me. "All who deal in vaudun come to
Seora Salvador eventually."

"I do not deal in vaudun."

She laughed at that. All the lines in her face flowed into the laughter.
"You raise the dead, the zombie, and you do not deal in vaudun. Oh,
chica, that is funny." Her voice sparkled with genuine amusement. So
glad I could make her day.

"Dominga, I told you why we wished this meeting. I made it very clear. .
." Manny said.

She waved him to silence. "Oh, you were very careful on the phone,
Manuel." She leaned towards me. "He made it very clear that you were not
here to participate in any of my pagan rituals." The bitterness in her
voice was sharp enough to choke on.

"Come here, chica," she said. She held out one hand to me, not both. Was
I supposed to kiss it as Manny had done. I didn't think I'd come to see
the pope.

I realized then that I didn't want to touch her. She had done nothing
wrong. Yet, the muscles in my shoulders were screaming with tension. I
was afraid, and I didn't know why.

I stepped forward and took her hand, uncertain what to do with it. Her
skin was warm and dry. She sort of lowered me to the chair closest to
her, still holding my hand. She said something in her soft, deep voice.

I shook my head. "I'm sorry I don't understand Spanish."

She touched my hair with her free hand. "Black hair like the wing of a
crow. It does not come from any pale skin."

"My mother was Mexican."

"Yet you do not speak her tongue."

She was still holding my hand, and I wanted it back. "She died when I
was young. I was raised by my father's people."

"I see."

I pulled my hand free and instantly felt better. She had done nothing to
me. Nothing. Why was I so damn jumpy? The man with the streaked hair had
taken up a post behind the Seora. I could see him clearly. His hands
were in plain sight. I could see the back door and the entrance to the
kitchen. No one was sneaking up behind me. But the hair at the base of
my skull was standing at attention.

I glanced at Manny, but he was staring at Dominga. His hands were
gripped together on the tabletop so tightly that his knuckles were
mottled.

I felt like someone at a foreign film festival without subtitles. I
could sort of guess what was going on, but I wasn't sure I was right.
The creeping skin on my neck told me some hocus-pocus was going on.
Manny's reaction said that just maybe the hocus-pocus was meant for him.

Manny's shoulders slumped. His hands relaxed their awful tension. It was
a visible release of some kind. Dominga smiled, a brilliant flash of
teeth. "You could have been so powerful, mi corazn."

"I did not want the power, Dominga," he said.

I stared from one to the other, not exactly sure what had just happened.
I wasn't sure I wanted to know. I was willing to believe that ignorance
was bliss. It so often is.

She turned her quick black eyes to me. "And you, chica, do you want
power?" The creeping sensation at the base of my skull spread over my
body. It felt like insects marching on my skin. Shit.

"No." A nice simple answer. Maybe I should try those more often.

"Perhaps not, but you will."

I didn't like the way she said that. It was ridiculous to be sitting in
a sunny kitchen at 7:28 in the morning, and be scared. But there it was.
My gut was twitching with it.

She stared at me. Her eyes were just eyes. There was none of that
seductive power of a vampire. They were just eyes, and yet . . . The
hair on my neck tried to crawl down my spine.

Goose bumps broke out on my body, a rush of prickling warmth. I licked
my lips and stared at Dominga Salvador.

It was a slap of magic. She was testing me. I'd had it done before.
People are so fascinated with what I do. Convinced that I know magic. I
don't. I have an affinity with the dead.

It's not the same.

I stared into her nearly black eyes and felt myself sway forward. It was
like falling without movement. The world sort of swung for a moment,
then steadied. Warmth burst out of my body, like a twisting rope of
heat. It went outward to the old woman. It hit her solid, and I felt it
like a jolt of electricity.

I stood up, gasping for air. "Shit!"

"Anita, are you all right?" Manny was standing now, too. He touched my
arm gently.

"I'm not sure. What the hell did she do to me?"

"It is what you have done to me, chica," Dominga said. She looked a
little pale around the edges. Sweat beaded on her forehead.

The man stood away from the wall, his hands loose and ready. "No,"
Dominga said, "Enzo, I am all right." Her voice was breathy as if she
had been running:

I stayed standing. I wanted to go home now, please.

"We did not come here for games, Dominga," Manny said. His voice had
deepened with anger and, I think, fear. I agreed with that last emotion.

"It is not a game, Manuel. Have you forgotten everything I taught you.
Everything you were?"

"I have forgotten nothing, but I did not bring her here to be harmed."

"Whether she is harmed or not is up to her, mi corazn."

I didn't much like that last part. "You're not going to help us. You're
just going to play cat and mouse. Well, this mouse is leaving." I turned
to leave, keeping a watchful eye on Enzo. He wasn't an amateur.

"Don't you wish to find the little boy that Manny said was taken? Three
years old, very young to be in the hands of the bokor."

It stopped me. She knew it would. Damn her. "What is a bokor?"

She smiled. "You really don't know, do you?"

I shook my head.

The smile widened, all surprised pleasure. "Place your right hand palm
up on the table, por favor."

"If you know something about the boy, just tell me. Please."

"Endure my little tests, and I will help you."

"What sort of tests?" I hoped I sounded as suspicious as I felt.

Dominga laughed, an abrupt and cheery sound. It went with all the smile
lines in her face. Her eyes were practically sparkling with mirth. Why
did I feel like she was laughing at me?

"Come, chica, I will not hurt you," she said.

"Manny?"

"If she does anything that may harm you, I will say so."

Dominga gazed up at me, a sort of puzzled wonder on her face. "I have
heard that you can raise three zombies in a night, night after night.
Yet, you truly are a novice."

"Ignorance is bliss," I said.

"Sit, chica. This will not hurt, I promise."

This will not hurt. It promised more painful things later. I sat. "Any
delay could cost the boy his life." Try to appeal to her good side.

She leaned towards me. "Do you really think the child is still alive?"
Guess she didn't have a good side.

I leaned back from her. I couldn't help it, and I couldn't lie to her.
"No."

"Then we have time, don't we?"

"Time for what?"

"Your hand, chica, por favor, then I will answer your questions."

I took a deep breath and placed my right hand on the table, palm up. She
was being mysterious. I hated people who were mysterious.

She brought a small black bag from under the table, as if it had been
sitting in her lap the whole time. Like she'd planned this.

Manny was staring at the bag like something noisome was about to crawl
out. Close. Dominga Salvador pulled something noisome out of it.

It was a charm, a gris-gris made of black feathers, bits of bone, a
mummified bird's foot. I thought at first it was a chicken until I saw
the thick black talons. There was a hawk or eagle out there somewhere
with a peg leg.

I had visions of her digging the talons into my flesh, and was all
tensed to pull away. But she simply placed the gris-gris on my open
palm. Feathers, bits of bone, the dried hawk foot. It wasn't slimy. It
didn't hurt. In fact, I felt a little silly.

Then I felt it, warmth. The thing was warm, sitting there in my hand. It
hadn't been warm a second ago. "What are you doing to it?"

Dominga didn't answer. I glanced up at her, but her eyes were staring at
my hand, intent. Like a cat about to pounce.

I glanced back down. The talons flexed, then spread, then flexed. It was
moving in my hand. "Shiiit!" I wanted to stand up. To fling the vile
thing to the floor. But I didn't. I sat there with every hair on my body
tingling, my pulse thudding in my throat, and let the thing move in my
hand. "All right," my voice sounded breathy, "I've passed your little
test. Now get this thing the hell out of my hand."

Dominga lifted the claw gently from my hand. She was careful not to
touch my skin. I didn't know why, but it was a noticeable effort.

"Dammit, dammit!" I whispered under my breath. I rubbed my hand against
my stomach, touching the gun hidden there. It was comforting to know
that if worse came to worst, I could just shoot her. Before she scared
me to death. "Can we get down to business now?" My voice sounded almost
steady. Bully for me.

Dominga was cradling the claw in her hands. "You made the claw move. You
were frightened, but not surprised. Why?"

What could I say? Nothing I wanted her to know. "I have an affinity with
the dead. It responds to me like some people can read thoughts."

She smiled. "Do you really believe that your ability to raise the dead
is like mind reading? Parlor tricks?"

Dominga had obviously never met a really good telepath. If she had, she
wouldn't have been scornful: In their own way, they were just as scary
as she was.

"I raise the dead, Seora. It is just a job."

"You do not believe that any more than I do."

"I try real hard," I said.

"You've been tested before by someone." She made it a statement.

"My grandmother on my mother's side tested me, but not with that." I
pointed to the still flexing foot. It looked like one of those fake
hands that you can buy at Spencer's. Now that I wasn't holding it, I
could pretend it just had tiny little batteries in it somewhere. Right.

"She was vaudun?"

I nodded.

"Why did you not study with her?"

"I have an inborn gift for raising the dead. That doesn't dictate my
religious preferences."

"You are Christian." She made the word sound like something bad.

"That's it." I stood. "I wish I could say it's been a pleasure, but it
hasn't."

"Ask your questions, chica."

"What?" The change of subject was too fast for me.

"Ask whatever you came here to ask," she said.

I glanced at Manny. "If she says she will answer, she will answer." He
didn't look completely happy about it.

I sat down, again. The next insult and I'm outta here. But if she could
really help . . . oh, hell, she was dangling that thin little thread of
hope. And after what I'd seen at the Reynolds house, I was grabbing for
it.

I had planned to be as polite as possible on the wording of the
question, now I didn't give a shit. "Have you raised a zombie in the
last few weeks?"

"Some," she said.

Okay. I hesitated over the next question. The feel of that thing moving
in my hand flashed back on me. I rubbed my hand against my pants leg as
if I could rub the sensation away. What was the worst she could do to me
if I offended her? Don't ask. "Have you sent any zombies out on errands
. . . of revenge?" There; that was polite, amazing.

"None."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

She smiled. "I'd remember if I loosed murderers from the grave."

"Killer zombies don't have to be murderers," I said.

"Oh?" Her pale eyebrows raised. "Are you so very familiar with raising
'killer' zombies?"

I fought the urge to squirm like a schoolchild caught at a lie. "Only
one."

"Tell me."

"No." My voice was very firm. "No, that is a private matter." A private
nightmare that I was not going to share with the voodoo lady.

I decided to change the subject just a little. "I've raised murderers
before. They weren't more violent than regular undead."

"How many dead have you called from the grave?" she asked.

I shrugged. "I don't know."

"Give me an"--she seemed to be groping for a word - "estimation."

"I can't. It must have been hundreds."

"A thousand?" she asked.

"Maybe, I haven't kept count," I said.

"Has your boss at Animators, Incorporated, kept count?"

"I would assume that all my clients are on file, yes," I said.

She smiled. "I would be interested in knowing the exact number."

What could it hurt? "I'll find out if I can."

"Such an obedient girl." She stood. "I did not raise this `killer'
zombie of yours. If that is what is eating citizens." She smiled, almost
laughed, as if it were funny. "But I know people that would never speak
to you. People that could do this horrible deed. I will question them,
and they will answer me. I will have truth from them, and I will pass
this truth on to you, Anita."

She said my name like it was meant to be said, Ahneetah. Made it sound
exotic.

"Thank you very much, Seora Salvador."

"But there is one favor I will ask in return for this information," she
said.

Something unpleasant was about to be said, I'd have bet on it. "What
would that favor be, Seora?"

"I want you to pass one more test for me."

I stared at her, waiting for her to go on, but she didn't. "What sort of
test?" I asked.

"Come downstairs, and I will show you." Her voice was mild as honey.

"No, Dominga," Manny said. He was standing now. "Anita, nothing the
Seora could tell you would be worth what she wants."

"I can talk to people and things that will not talk to you, either of
you. Good Christians that you are."

"Come on, Anita, we don't need her help." He had started for the door. I
didn't follow him. Manny hadn't seen the slaughtered family. He hadn't
dreamed about blood-coated teddy bears last night. I had. I couldn't
leave if she could help me. Whether Benjamin Reynolds was dead or not
wasn't the point. The thing, whatever it was, would kill again. And I
was betting it had something to do with voodoo. It wasn't my area. I
needed help, and I needed it fast.

"Anita, come on." He touched my arm, pulling me a little towards the
door.

"Tell me about the test."

Dominga smiled triumphantly. She knew she had me. She knew I wasn't
leaving until I had her promised help. Damn.

"Let us retire to the basement. I will explain the test there."

Manny's grip on my arm tightened. "Anita, you don't know what you're
doing."

He was right, but. . . "Just stay with me, Manny, back me up. Don't let
me do anything that will really hurt. Okay?"

"Anita, anything she wants you to do down there will hurt. Maybe not
physically, but it will hurt."

"I have to do this, Manny." I patted his hand and smiled. "It'll be all
right."

"No," he said, "it won't be."

I didn't know what to say to that, except that he was probably right.
But it didn't matter. I was going to do it. Whatever she asked, within
reason, if it would stop the killings. If it would fix it so that I
never had to see another half-eaten body.

Dominga smiled. "Let us go downstairs." '

"May I speak with Anita alone, Seora, por favor," Manny said. His hand
was still on my arm. I could feel the tension in his hand.

"You will have the rest of this beautiful day to talk to her, Manuel.
But I have only this short time. If she does this test for me now, I
promise to aid her in any way I can to catch this killer."

It was a powerful offer. A lot of people would talk to her just out of
pure terror. The police can't inspire that. All they can do is arrest
you. It wasn't enough of a deterrent. Having the undead crawl through
your window . . . that was a deterrent.

Four, maybe five people were already dead. It was a bad way to die.
"I've already said I'd do it. Let's go."

She walked around the table and took Manny's arm. He jumped like she'd
struck him. She pulled him away from me. "No harm will come to her,
Manuel. I swear."

"I do not trust you, Dominga."

She laughed. "But it is her choice, Manuel. I have not forced her."

"You have blackmailed her, Dominga. Blackmailed her with the safety of
others."

She looked back over her shoulder. "Have I blackmailed you, chica?"

"Yes," I said.

"Oh, she is your student, corazn. She has your honesty. And your
bravery."

"She is brave, but she has not seen what lies below."

I wanted to ask what exactly was in the basement, but I didn't. I really
didn't want to know. I've had people warn me about supernatural shit
before. Don't go in that room; the monster will get you. There usually
is a monster, and it usually tries to get me. But up till now I've been
faster or luckier than the monsters. Here's to my luck holding.

I wished that I could heed Manny's warning. Going home sounded very good
about now, but duty reared its ugly head. Duty and a whisper of
nightmares. I didn't want to see another butchered family.

Dominga led Manny from the room. I followed with Enzo bringing up the
rear. What a day for a parade.

Chapter 6
---------

The basement stairs were steep, wooden slats. You could feel the
vibrations in the stairs as we tromped down them. It was not comforting.
The bright sunlight from the door spilled into absolute darkness. The
sunlight faltered, seemed to fade as if it had no power in this cavelike
place. I stopped on the grey edge of daylight, staring down into the
night-dark of the room. I couldn't even make out Dominga and Manny. They
had to be just in front of me, didn't they?

Enzo the bodyguard waited at my back like some patient mountain. He made
no move to hurry me. Was it my decision then? Could I just pack up my
toys and go home?

"Manny," I called.

A voice came distantly. Too far away. Maybe it was an acoustic trick of
the room. Maybe not. "I'm here, Anita."

I strained to see where the voice was coming from, but there was nothing
to see. I took two steps farther down into the inky dark and stopped
like I'd hit a wall. There was the damp rock smell of most basements,
but under that something stale, sour, sweet. That almost indescribable
smell of corpses. It was faint here at the head of the stairs. I was
betting it would get worse the farther down I went.

My grandmother had been a priestess of vaudun. Her Humfo had not smelled
like corpses. The line between good and evil wasn't as clear cut in
voodoo as in Wicca or Christianity and satanism, but it was there.
Dominga Salvador was on the wrong side of the line. I had known that
when I came. It still bothered me.

Grandmother Flores had told me that I was a necromancer. It was more
than being a voodoo priestess, and less. I had a sympathy with the dead,
all dead. It was hard to be vaudun and a necromancer and not be evil.
Too tempting, Grandma said. She had encouraged my being Christian.
Encouraged my father to cut me off from her side of the family.
Encouraged it for love of me and fear for my soul.

And here I was going down the steps into the jaws of temptation. What
would Grandma Flores say to that? Probably, go home. Which was good
advice. The tight feeling in my stomach was saying the same thing.

The lights came on. I blinked on the stairs. The one dim bulb at the
foot of the staircase seemed as bright as a star. Dominga and Manny
stood just under the bulb, looking up at me.

Light. Why did I feel instantly better? Silly, but true. Enzo let the
door swing shut behind us. The shadows were thick, but down a narrow
bricked hallway more bare light bulbs dangled.

I was almost at the bottom of the stairs. That sweet, sour smell was
stronger. I tried breathing through my mouth, but that only made it clog
the back of my throat. The smell of rotting flesh clings to the tongue.

Dominga led the way between the narrow walls. There were regular patches
in the walls. Places where it looked like cement had been put
over--doors. Paint had been smoothed over the cement, but there had been
doors, rooms, at regular intervals. Why wall them up? Why cover the
doors in cement? What was behind them?

I rubbed fingertips across the rough cement. The surface was bumpy and
cool. The paint wasn't very old. It would have flaked in this dampness.
It hadn't. What was behind this blocked up door?

The skin just between my shoulder blades started to itch. I fought an
urge to glance back at Enzo. I was betting he was behaving himself. I
was betting that being shot was the least of my worries.

The air was cool and damp. A very basement of a basement. There were
three doors, two to the right, one to the left that were just doors. One
door had a shiny new padlock on it. As we walked past it, I heard the
door sigh as if something large had leaned against it.

I stopped. "What's in there?"

Enzo had stopped when I stopped. Dominga and Manny had rounded a corner,
and we were alone. I touched the door. The wood creaked, rattling
against its hinges. Like some giant cat had rubbed against the door. A
smell rolled out from under the door. I gagged and backed away. The
stench clung to my mouth and throat. I swallowed convulsively and tasted
it all the way down.

The thing behind the door made a mewling sound. I couldn't tell if it
was human or animal. It was bigger than a person, whatever it was. And
it was dead. Very, very dead.

I covered my nose and mouth with my left hand. The right was free just
in case. In case that thing should come crashing out. Bullets against
the walking dead. I knew better, but the gun was still a comfort. In a
pinch I could shoot Enzo. But somehow I knew that if the thing rattling
the door got out, Enzo would be in as much danger as I was.

"We must go on, now," he said.

I couldn't tell anything from his face. We might have been walking down
the street to the corner store. He seemed impervious, and I hated him
for it. If I'm terrified, by God, everyone else should be, too.

I eyed the supposedly unlocked door to my left. I had to know. I yanked
it open. The room was maybe eight by four, like a cell. The cement floor
and whitewashed walls were clean, empty. It looked like a cell waiting
for its next occupant. Enzo slammed the door shut. I didn't fight him.
It wasn't worth it. If I was going to go one on one with someone who
outweighed me by over a hundred pounds, I was going to be picky about
where I drew the line. An empty room wasn't worth it.

Enzo leaned against the door. Sweat glimmered across his face in the
harsh light. "Do not try any other doors, seorita. It could be very
bad."

I nodded. "Sure, no problem." An empty room and he was sweating. Nice to
know something frightened him. But why this room and not the one with
the mewling stench behind it? I didn't have a clue.

"We must catch up with the Seora." He made a gracious motion like a
matre d' showing me to a chair. I went where he pointed. Where else was
I going to go?

The hallway fed into a large rectangular chamber. It was painted the
same startling white as the cell had been. The whitewashed floor was
covered in brilliant red and black designs. Verve it was called. Symbols
drawn in the voodoo sanctuary to summon the lao, the gods of vaudun.

The symbols acted as walls bordering a path. They led to the altar. If
you stepped off the path you messed up all those carefully formed
symbols. I didn't know if that would be good or bad. Rule number three
hundred sixty-nine when dealing with unfamiliar magic: when in doubt,
leave it alone.

I left it alone.

The end of the room gleamed with candles. The warm, rich light flickered
and filled the white walls with heat and light. Dominga stood in the
midst of that light, that whiteness, and gleamed with evil. There was no
other word for it. She wasn't just bad, she was evil. It gleamed around
her like darkness made liquid and touchable. The smiling old woman was
gone. She was a creature of power.

Manny stood off to one side. He was staring at her. He glanced at me.
His eyes were showing a lot of white. The altar was directly behind
Dominga's straight back. Dead animals spilled off the top of it to form
a pool on the floor. Chickens, dogs, a small pig, two goats. Lumps of
fur and dried blood that I couldn't identify. The altar looked like a
fountain where dead things flowed out of the center, sluggish and thick.

The sacrifices were fresh. No smell of decay. The glazed eyes of a goat
stared at me. I hated killing goats. They always seemed so much more
intelligent than chickens. Or maybe I just thought they were cuter.

A tall woman stood to the right of the altar. Her skin gleamed nearly
black in the candlelight as .if she had been carved of some heavy,
gleaming wood. Her hair was short and neat, falling to her shoulders.
Wide cheekbones, full lips, expert makeup. She wore a long silky dress,
the bright scarlet of fresh blood. It matched her lipstick.

To the right of the altar stood a zombie. It had once been a woman.
Long, pale brown hair fell nearly to her waist. Someone had brushed it
until it gleamed. It was the only thing about the corpse that looked
alive. The skin had turned a greyish color. The flesh had narrowed down
around the bones like shrink wrap. Muscles moved under the thin, rotting
skin, stringy and shrunken. The nose was almost gone, giving it a
half-finished look. A crimson gown hung loose and flapping on the
skeletal remains.

There was even an attempt at makeup. Lipstick had been abandoned when
the lips shriveled up but a dusting of mauve eye shadow outlined the
bulging eyes. I swallowed very hard and turned to stare at the first
woman.

She was a zombie. One of the best preserved and most lifelike I had ever
seen, but no matter how luscious she looked, she was dead. The woman,
the zombie, stared back at me. There was something in her perfect brown
eyes that no zombie has for long. The memory of who and what they were
fades within a few days, sometimes hours. But this zombie was afraid.
The fear was like a shiny, bright pain in her eyes. Zombies didn't have
eyes like that.

I turned back to the more decayed zombie and found her staring at me,
too. The bulging eyes were staring at me. With most of the flesh holding
the eyes in the socket gone, her facial expressions weren't as good, but
she managed. It managed to be afraid. Shit.

Dominga nodded, and Enzo motioned me farther into the circle. I didn't
want to go.

"What the hell is going on here, Dominga?"

She smiled, almost a laugh. "I am not accustomed to such rudeness."

"Get used to it," I said. Enzo sort of breathed down my back. I did my
best to ignore him. My right hand was sort of casually near my gun,
without looking like I was reaching for my gun. It wasn't easy. Reaching
for a gun usually looks like reaching for a gun. No one seemed to notice
though. Goody for our side.

"What have you done to the two zombies?"

"Inspect them yourself, chica. If you are as powerful as the stories
say, you will answer your own question."

"And if I can't figure it out?" I asked.

She smiled, but her eyes were as flat and black as a shark's. "Then you
are not as powerful as the stories."

"Is this the test?"

"Perhaps."

I sighed. The voodoo lady wanted to see how tough I really was. Why?
Maybe there wasn't a reason. Maybe she was just a sadistic power-hungry
bitch. Yeah, I could believe that. Then again, maybe there was a purpose
to the theatrics. If so, I still didn't know what it was.

I glanced at Manny. He gave a barely perceivable shrug. He didn't know
what was going on either. Great.

I didn't like playing Dominga's games, especially when I didn't know the
rules. The zombies were still staring at me. There was something in
their eyes. It was fear, and something worse--hope. Shit. Zombies didn't
have hope. They didn't have anything. They were dead. These weren't
dead. I had to know. Here's hoping that curiosity didn't kill the
animator.

I stepped around Dominga carefully, watching her out of the corner of my
eye. Enzo stayed behind blocking the path between the verve. He looked
big and solid standing there, but I could get past him, if I wanted it
bad enough. Bad enough to kill him. I hoped I wouldn't want it that bad.

The decayed zombie stared down at me. She was tall, almost six feet.
Skeletal feet peeked out from underneath the red gown. A tall, slender
woman, probably beautiful, once. Bulging eyes rolled in the nearly bare
sockets. A wet, sucking sound accompanied the movements.

I'd thrown up the first time I heard that sound. The sound of eyeballs
rolling in rotting sockets. But that was four years ago, when I was new
at this. Decaying flesh didn't make me flinch anymore or throw up. As a
general rule.

The eyes were pale brown with a lot of green in them. The smell of some
expensive perfume floated around her. Powdery and fine, like talcum
powder in your nose, sweet, flowery. Underneath was the stink of rotting
flesh. It wrinkled my nose, caught at the back of my throat. The next
time I smelled this delicate, expensive perfume, I would think of
rotting flesh. Oh, well, it smelled too expensive to buy, anyway.

She was staring at me. She, not it, she. There was the force of
personality in her eyes. I call most zombies "it" because it fits. They
may come from the grave very alive-looking, but it doesn't last. They
rot. Personality and intelligence goes first, then the body. It's always
that order. God is not cruel enough to force anyone to be aware while
their body decays around them. Something had gone very wrong with this
one.

I stepped around Dominga Salvador. For no reason that I could name, I
stayed out of reach. She had no weapon, I was almost sure of that. The
danger she represented had nothing to do with knives or guns. I simply
didn't want her to touch me, not even by accident.

The zombie on the left was perfect. Not a sign of decay. The look in her
eyes was alert, alive. God help us. She could have gone anywhere and
passed for human. How had I known she wasn't alive? I wasn't even sure.
None of the usual signs were there, but I knew dead when I felt it. Yet
. . . I stared up at the second woman. Her lovely, dark face stared
back. Fear screamed out of her eyes.

Whatever power let me raise the dead told me this was a zombie, but my
eyes couldn't tell. It was amazing. If Dominga could raise zombies like
this, she had me beat hands down.

I have to wait three days before I raise a corpse. It gives the soul
time to leave the area. Souls usually hover around for a while. Three
days is average. I can't call shit from the grave if the soul's still
present. It has been theorized that if an animator could keep the soul
intact while raising the body, we'd get resurrection. You know,
resurrection, the real thing, like in Jesus and Lazarus. I didn't
believe that. Or maybe I just know my limitations.

I stared up at this zombie and knew what was different. The soul was
still there. The soul was still inside both bodies. How? How in Jesus'
name did she do it?

"The souls. The souls are still in the bodies." My voice held the
distaste I felt. Why bother to hide it?

"Very good, chica."

I went to stand to her left, keeping Enzo in sight. "How did you do it?"

"The soul was captured at the moment it took flight from the body."

I shook my head. "That doesn't explain anything."

"Don't you know how to capture souls in a bottle?"

Souls in a bottle? Was she kidding? No, she wasn't. "No, I don't." I
tried not to sound superior as I said it.

"I could teach you so much, Anita, so very much."

"No, thanks," I said. "You captured their souls, then you raised the
body, and put the soul back in." I was guessing, but it sounded right.

"Very, very good. That is it exactly." She was staring at me so hard
that it was uncomfortable. Her empty, black eyes were memorizing me.

"But why is the second zombie rotting? The theory is with the soul
intact, the zombie won't decay?"

"It is no longer a theory. I have proved it," she said.

I stared at the rotted corpse, and it stared back. "Then why is that one
rotting, and this one isn't?" Just two necromancers talking shop. Tell
me, do you raise your zombies only during the dark of the moon?

"The soul may be put into the body, then removed again, as often as I
wish."

I stared at Dominga Salvador now. I stared and tried not to let my jaw
drop, not to let the dawning horror slip across my face. She would enjoy
shocking me. I didn't want her taking pleasure from me, for any reason.

"Let me test my understanding here," I said in my best executive trainee
voice. "You put the soul into the body and it didn't rot. Then you took
the soul out of the body, making it an ordinary zombie, and it did rot."

"Exactly," she said.

"Then you put the soul back in the rotted corpse, and the zombie was
aware and alive again. Did the rotting stop when the soul went back in?"

"Yes. "

Shit. "So you could keep the zombie over there rotted just that much
forever?"

"Yes."

Double shit. "And this one?" I pointed this time, like I was doing a
lecture.

"Many people would pay dearly for her."

"Wait a minute, you mean sell her as a sex slave?"

"Perhaps."

"But. . ." The idea was too horrible. She was a zombie, which meant she
didn't need to eat or sleep or anything. You could keep her in a closet
and take her out like a toy. A perfectly obedient slave.

"Are they as obedient as normal zombies, or does the soul give them free
will?"

"They seem to be very obedient."

"Maybe they're just scared of you," I said.

She smiled. "Perhaps."

"You can't just keep the soul imprisoned forever."

"I can't," she said.

"The soul needs to go on."

"To your Christian heaven or hell?"

"Yes," I said.

"These were wicked women, chica. Their own families gave them to me.
Paid me to punish them."

"You took money for this?"

"It is illegal to tamper with dead bodies without permission of the
family," she said.

I don't know if she had planned to horrify me. Maybe not. But with that
one sentence she let me know that what she was doing was perfectly
legal. The dead had no rights. This was the reason we needed some laws
to protect zombies. Shit.

"No one deserves to spend eternity locked in a corpse," I said.

"We could do this to criminals on death row, chica. They could be made
to serve society after death."

I shook my head. "No, it's wrong."

"I have created a non-rotting zombie, chica. Animators, I believe you
call yourselves, have been searching for the secret for years. I have
it, and people will pay for it."

"It's wrong. I may not know much about voodoo, but even among your own
people, it's wrong. How can you keep the souls prisoner and not allow
them to go on and join with the lao?"

She shrugged and sighed. She suddenly looked tired. "I was hoping,
chica, that you would help me. With two of us working, we could create
more zombies much faster. We could be wealthy beyond our dreams."

"You've asked the wrong girl."

"I see that now. I had hoped that since you were not vaudun, you would
not see it as wrong."

"Christian, Buddhist, Moslem, you name it, Dominga, no one's going to
think it's all right."

"Perhaps, perhaps not. It does not hurt to ask."

I glanced at the rotted zombie. "At least put your first experiment out
of its misery."

Dominga glanced at the zombie. "She makes a powerful demonstration, does
she not?"

"You've created a non-rotting zombie, great. Don't be sadistic."

"You think I am being cruel?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Manuel, am I being cruel?"

Manny stared at me while he answered. His eyes were trying to tell me
something. I couldn't tell what. "Yes, Seora, you are being cruel."

She glanced over at him then, surprise in the movement of her body, her
face. "Do you really think I am cruel, Manuel? Your beloved amante?"

He nodded slowly. "Yes."

"You were not so quick to judge a few years back, Manuel. You slew the
white goat for me, more than once."

I turned towards Manny. It was like that moment in a movie where the
main character has a revelation about someone. There should be music and
camera angles when you learn one of your best friends participated in
human sacrifice. More than once she had said. More than once.

"Manny?" My voice was a hoarse whisper. This, for me, was worse than the
zombies. The hell with strangers. This was Manny, and it couldn't be
true.

"Manny?" I said it again. He wouldn't look at me. Bad sign.

"You didn't know, chica? Didn't your Manny tell you of his past?"

"Shut up," I said.

"He was my most treasured helper. He would have done anything for me."

Shut up!" I screamed it at her. She stopped, her face thinning with
anger. Enzo took two steps into the altar area. "Don't." I wasn't even
sure who I was saying it to. "I need to hear from him, not from you."

The anger was still in her face. Enzo loomed like an avalanche about to
be unleashed. Dominga gave one sharp nod. "Ask him then, chica."

"Manny, is she telling the truth? Did you perform human sacrifices?" My
voice sounded so normal. It shouldn't have. My stomach was so tight, it
hurt. I wasn't afraid anymore, or at least not of Dominga. The truth; I
was afraid of the truth.

He looked up. His hair fell across his face framing his eyes. A lot of
pain in those eyes. Almost flinching.

"It's the truth, isn't it?" My skin felt cold. "Answer me, dammit." My
voice still sounded ordinary, calm.

"Yes," he said.

"Yes, you committed human sacrifice?"

He glared at me now, anger helping him meet my eyes. "Yes, Yes!"

It was my turn to look away. "God, Manny, how could you?" My voice was
soft now, not ordinary. If I didn't know better, I'd say it sounded like
I was on the verge of tears.

"It was nearly twenty years ago, Anita. I was vaudun and a necromancer.
I believed. I loved the Seora. Thought I did."

I stared up at him. The look on his face made my throat tight. "Manny,
dammit."

He didn't say anything. He just stood there looking miserable. And I
couldn't reconcile the two images. Manny Rodriguez and someone who would
slaughter the hornless goat in a ritual. He had taught me right from
wrong in this business. He had refused to do so many things. Things not
half as bad as this. It made no sense.

I shook my head. "I can't deal with this right now." I heard myself say
it out loud, and hadn't really meant to. "Fine, you've dropped your
little bombshell, Seora Salvador. You said you'd help us, if I passed
your test. Did I pass?" When in doubt, concentrate on one disaster at a
time.

"I wanted to offer you a chance to help me with my new business
venture."

"We both know I'm not going to do that," I said.

"It is a pity, Anita. With training you could rival my powers."

Be just like her when I grew up. No thanks. "Thanks anyway, but I'm
happy where I am."

Her eyes flicked to Manny, back to me. "Happy?"

"Manny and I will deal with it, Seora. Now will you help me?"

"If I help you without you helping me in some way, you will owe me a
favor."

I didn't want to owe her a favor. "I would rather just trade
information."

"What could you possibly know that would be worth all the effort I will
expend hunting for your killer zombie?"

I thought about that for a moment. "I know that legislation is being
written right now, about zombies. Zombies are going to have rights, and
laws protecting them soon." I hoped it was soon. No need to tell her how
early in the process the legislation was.

"So, I must sell a few non-rotting zombies soon, before it becomes
illegal."

"I wouldn't think illegal would bother you much. Human sacrifice is
illegal, too."

She gave a tiny smile. "I do not do such things anymore, Anita. I have
given up my wicked ways."

I didn't believe that, and she knew I didn't believe it. Her smile
widened. "When Manuel left, I stopped such evil practices. Without his
urgings, I became a respectable bokar."

She was lying, but I couldn't prove it. And she knew that, too. "I gave
you valuable information. Now will you help me?"

She nodded graciously. "I will search among my followers to see if any
knows of your killer zombie." I had the sense that she was quietly
laughing at me.

"Manny, will she help us?"

"If the Seora says she will do a thing, it will be done. She is good
that way."

"I will find your killer if it has anything to do with vaudun," she
said.

"Great." I didn't say thank you, because it seemed wrong. I wanted to
call her a bitch and shoot her between the eyes, but then I would have
had to shoot Enzo, too. And how would I explain that to the police? She
was breaking no laws. Dammit.

"I don't suppose appealing to your better nature would make you forget
this mad scheme to use your new improved zombies for slaves?"

She smiled. "Chica, chica, I will be rich beyond your wildest dreams.
You can refuse to join me, but you cannot stop me."

"Don't bet on it," I said.

"What will you do, go to the police? I am breaking no laws. The only way
to stop me is to kill me." She looked directly at me while she said it.

"Don't tempt me."

Manny moved up beside me. "Don't, Anita, don't challenge her."

I was sort of mad at him, too, so what the hell. "I will stop you,
Seora Salvador. Whatever it takes."

"You call death magic against me, Anita, and it is you who will die."

I didn't know death magic from frijoles. I shrugged. "I was thinking
something more down to earth, like a bullet."

Enzo surged into the altar area, moving to stand between his boss-lady
and me. Dominga stopped him. "No, Enzo, she is angry this morning, and
shocked." Her eyes were still laughing at me. "She knows nothing of the
deeper magics. She cannot harm me, and she is too morally superior to
commit cold-blooded murder."

The worst part about it was that she was right. I couldn't just put a
bullet between her eyes, not unless she threatened me. I glanced at the
waiting zombies, patient as the dead, but underneath that endless
patience was fear, and hope, and. . . God, the line between life and
death was getting thinner all the time.

"At least lay to rest your first experiment. You've proved you can put
the soul in and out multiple times. Don't make her watch."

"But, Anita, I already have a buyer for her."

"Oh, Jesus, you don't mean . . . Oh, God, a necrophiliac."

"Those that love the dead better than you or I ever will, will pay
extraordinary amounts for such as her."

Maybe I could just shoot her. "You are a cold-hearted, amoral bitch."

"And you, chica, need to learn respect for your elders."

"Respect has to be earned," I said.

"I think, Anita Blake, that you need to remember why people fear the
dark. I will see that very soon you have a visitor to your window. Some
dark night when you are fast asleep in your warm, safe bed. Something
evil will creep into your room. I will earn your respect, if that is the
way you want it."

I should have been afraid, but I wasn't. I was angry and wanted to go
home. "You can force people to be afraid of you, Seora, but you can't
force them to respect you."

"We shall see, Anita. Call me after you have gotten my gift. It will be
soon."

"Will you still help locate the killer zombie?"

"I said I would, and I will."

"Good," I said. "May we go now?"

She waved Enzo back beside her. "By all means run out into the daylight
where you can be brave."

I walked to the pathway. Manny stayed right with me. We were careful not
to look at each other. We were too busy watching the Seora and her
pets. I stopped just inside the path. Manny touched my arm lightly, as
if he knew what I was about to say. I ignored him.

"I may not be willing to kill you in cold blood, but hurt me first, and
I'll put a bullet in you some bright, sunshiny day."

"Threats will not save you, chica," she said.

I smiled sweetly. "You either, bitch."

Her face went all thin and angry. I smiled wider.

"She does not mean it, Seora," Manny said. "She will not kill you."

"Is this true, chica?" Her voice was a rich growl of sound, pleasant and
frightening at the same time.

I gave Manny a quick dirty look. It was a good threat. I didn't like
weakening it with common sense, or truth. "I said, I'd shoot you. I
didn't say I'd kill you. Now did I?"

"No, you did not."

Manny grabbed my arm and started pulling me backwards towards the
stairs. He was pulling on my left arm, leaving my right free for my gun.
Just in case.

Dominga never moved. Her black, angry eyes stared at me until we rounded
the corner. Manny pulled me into the hallway with its cement covered
doors. I pulled free of him. We stared at each other for a heartbeat.

"What's behind the doors?"

"I don't know."

Doubt must have shown on my face because he said, "God as my witness,
Anita, I don't know. It wasn't like this twenty years ago."

I just stared at him as if looking would change things. I wish Dominga
Salvador had kept Manny's secret to herself. I had not wanted to know.

"Anita, we have to get out of here, now." The light bulb over our head
went out, like someone had snuffed it. We both looked up. There was
nothing to see. My arms broke out in goose bumps. The bulb just ahead of
us dimmed, then blinked off.

Manny was right. We needed to leave now. I broke into a half jog towards
the stairs. Manny stayed with me. The door with its shiny padlock
rattled and thumped as if the thing were trying to get out. Another
light bulb flashed off. The darkness was snapping at our heels. We were
at a full run by the time we hit the stairs. There were two bulbs left.

We were halfway up the stairs when the last light vanished. The world
went black. I froze on the stairs unwilling to move without being able
to see. Manny's arm brushed mine, but I couldn't see him. The darkness
was complete. I could have touched my eyeballs and not seen my finger.
We grabbed hands and held on. His hand wasn't much bigger than mine. It
was warm and familiar, and damn comforting.

The cracking of wood was loud as a shotgun blast in the dark. The stench
of rotting meat filled the stairwell. "Shit!" The word echoed and
bounced in the blackness. I wished I hadn't said it. Something large
pulled itself into the corridor. It couldn't be as big as it sounded.
The wet, slithering sounds moved towards the stairs. Or sounded like
they did.

I stumbled up two steps. Manny didn't need any urging. We stumbled
through the darkness, and the sounds below hurried. The light under the
door was so bright, it almost hurt. Manny flung open the door. The
sunlight blazed against my eyes. We were both momentarily blinded.

Something screamed behind us, caught in the edge of daylight. The scream
was almost human. I started to turn, to look. Manny slammed the door. He
shook his head. "You don't want to see. I don't want to see."

He was right. So why did I have this urge to yank the door open, to
stare down into the dark until I saw something pale and shapeless? A
screaming nightmare of a sight. I stared at the closed door, and I let
it go.

"Do you think it will come out after us?" I asked.

"Into the daylight?" Manny asked.

"Yeah," I said.

"I don't think so. Let's leave without finding out."

I agreed. The August sunlight streamed into the living room. Warm and
real. The scream, the darkness, the zombies, all of it seemed wrong for
the sunlight. Things that go bump in the morning. It didn't sound quite
right.

I opened the screen door calmly, slowly. Panicked, me? But I was
listening so hard I could hear blood rush in my ears. Listening for
slithery sounds of pursuit. Nothing.

Antonio was still on guard outside. Should we warn him about the
possibility of a Lovecraftian horror nipping at our heels?

"Did you fuck the zombie downstairs?" Antonio asked.

So much for warning old Tony.

Manny ignored him.

"Go fuck yourself," I said.

He said, "Heh!"

I kept walking down the porch steps. Manny stayed with me. Antonio
didn't draw his gun and shoot us. The day was looking up.

The little girl on the tricycle had stopped by Manny's car. She stared
up at me as I got in the passenger side door. I stared back into huge
brown eyes. Her face was darkly tanned. She couldn't have been more than
five.

Manny got in the driver's side door. He put the car in gear, and we
pulled away. The little girl and I stared at each other. Just before we
turned the corner she started pedaling up and down the sidewalk again.

Chapter 7
---------

The air conditioner blasted cold air into the car. Manny drove through
the residential streets. Most of the driveways were empty. People off to
work. Small children playing in the yards. A few moms out on the front
steps. I didn't see any daddies at home with the kids. Things change,
but not that much. The silence stretched out between us. It was not a
comfortable silence.

Manny glanced at me furtively out of the corner of his eye.

I slumped in the passenger seat, the seat belt digging across my gun.
"So," I said, "you used to perform human sacrifice."

I think he flinched. "Do you want me to lie?"

"No, I want to not know. I want to live in blessed ignorance."

"It doesn't work that way, Anita," he said.

"I guess it doesn't," I said. I adjusted the lap strap so it didn't
press over my gun. Ah, comfort. If only everything else were that easy
to fix. "What are we going to do about it?"

"About you knowing?" he asked. He glanced at me as he asked. I nodded.

"You aren't going to rant and rave? Tell me what an evil bastard I am?"

"Doesn't seem much point in it," I said.

He looked at me a little longer this time. "Thanks."

"I didn't say it was alright, Manny. I'm just not going to yell at you.
Not yet, anyway."

He passed a large white car full of dark-skinned teenagers. Their car
stereo was up so loud, my teeth rattled. The driver had one of those
high-boned, flat faces, straight off of an Aztec carving. Our eyes met
as we moved by them. He made kissing motions with his mouth. The others
laughed uproariously.

I resisted the urge to flip them off. Mustn't encourage the little
tykes.

They turned right. We went straight. Relief.

Manny stopped two cars back from a light. Just beyond the light was the
turnoff 40 West. We'd take 270 up to Olive and then a short jaunt to my
apartment. We had forty-five minutes to an hour of travel time. Not a
problem normally. Today I wanted away from Manny. I wanted some time to
digest. To decide how to feel.

"Talk to me, Anita, please."

"Honest to God, Manny, I don't know what to say." Truth, try to stick to
the truth between friends. Yeah.

"I've known you for four years, Manny. You are a good man. You love your
wife, your kids. You've saved my life. I've saved yours. I thought I
knew you."

"I haven't changed."

"Yes," I looked at him as I said it, "you have. Manny Rodriguez would
never under any circumstance take part in human sacrifice."

"It's been twenty years."

"There's no statute of limitations on murder."

"You going to the cops?" His voice was very quiet.

The light changed. We waited our turn and merged into the morning
traffic. It was as heavy as it ever got in St. Louis. It's not the
gridlock of L.A., but stop and jerk is still pretty darn annoying.
Especially this morning.

"I don't have any proof. Just Dominga Salvador's word. I wouldn't
exactly call her a reliable witness."

"If you had proof?"

"Don't push me on this, Manny." I stared out the window. There was a
silver Miada with the top down. The driver was white-haired, male, and
wore a jaunty little cap, plus racing gloves. Middle-age crisis.

"Does Rosita know?" I asked.

"She suspects, but she doesn't know for sure."

"Doesn't want to know," I said.

"Probably not." He turned and stared at me then.

A red Ford truck was nearly in front of us. I yelled, "Manny!"

He slammed on the brakes, and only the seat belt kept me from kissing
the dashboard.

"Jesus, Manny, watch your driving!"

He concentrated on traffic for a few seconds, then without looking at me
this time, "Are you going to tell Rosita?"

I thought about that for about a second. I shook my head, realized he
couldn't see it, and said, "I don't think so. Ignorance is bliss on this
one, Manny. I don't think your wife could deal with it."

"She'd leave me and take the kids."

I believed she would. Rosita was a very religious person. She took all
the commandments very seriously.

"She already thinks I'm risking my eternal soul by raising the dead,"
Manny said.

"She didn't have a problem until the pope threatened to excommunicate
all animators unless they stopped raising the dead."

"The Church is very important to Rosita."

"Me, too, but I'm a happy little Episcopalian now. Switch churches."

"It's not that easy," he said.

It wasn't. I knew that. But, hey, you do what you can, or what you have
to. "Can you explain why you would do human sacrifice? I mean, something
that will make sense to me?"

"No," he said. He pulled into the far lane. It seemed to be going a
little faster. It slowed down as soon as we pulled in. Murphy's law of
traffic.

"You won't even try to explain?"

"It's indefensible, Anita. I live with what I did. I can't do anything
else."

He had a point. "This has to change the way I think about you, Manny."

"In what way?"

"I don't know yet." Honesty. If we were very careful, we could still be
honest with each other. "Is there anything else you think I should know?
Anything that Dominga might spill later on?"

He shook his head. "Nothing worse."

"Okay," I said.

"Okay," he said. "That's it, no interrogation?"

"Not now, maybe not ever." I was tired all at once. It was 9:23 in the
morning, and I needed a nap. Emotionally drained. "I don't know how to
feel about this, Manny. I don't know how it changes our friendship, or
our working relationship, or even if it does. I think it does. Oh, hell,
I don't know."

"Fair enough," he said. "Let's move on to something we aren't confused
about."

"And what would that be?" I asked.

"The Seora will send something bad to your window, just like she said
she would."

"I figured that."

"Why did you threaten her?"

"I didn't like her."

"Oh, great, just great," he said. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"I am going to stop her, Manny. I figured she should know."

"Never give the bad guys a head start, Anita. I taught you that."

"You also taught me that human sacrifice is murder."

"That hurt," he said.

"Yes," I said, "it did."

"You need to be prepared, Anita. She will send something after you. Just
to scare you, I think, not to really harm."

"Because you made me 'fess up to not killing her," I said.

"No, because she doesn't really believe you'll kill her. She's intrigued
with your powers. I think she'd rather convert you than kill you."

"Have me as part of her zombie-making factory."

"Yes."

"Not in this lifetime."

"The Seora is not used to people saying no, Anita."

"Her problem, not mine."

He glanced at me, then back to the traffic. "She'll make it your
problem."

"I'll deal with it."

"You can't be that confident."

"I'm not, but what do you want me to do, break down and cry. I'll deal
with it when, and if, something noisome drags itself through my window."

"You can't deal with the Seora, Anita. She is powerful, more powerful
than you can ever imagine."

"She scared me, Manny. I am suitably impressed. If she sends something I
can't handle, I'll run. Okay?"

"Not okay. You don't know, you just don't know."

"I heard the thing in the hallway. I smelled it. I'm scared, but she's
just human, Manny. All the mumbo jumbo won't keep her safe from a
bullet."

"A bullet may take her out, but not down."

"What does that mean?"

"If she were shot, say in the head or heart, and seemed dead, I'd treat
her like a vampire. Head and heart taken out. Body burned." He glanced
at me sort of sideways.

I didn't say anything. We were talking about killing Dominga Salvador.
She was capturing souls and putting them into corpses. It was an
abomination. She would probably attack me first. Some supernatural
goodie come creeping into my home. She was evil and would attack me
first. Would it be murder to ambush her? Yeah. Would I do it anyway? I
let the thought take shape in my head. Rolled it over like a piece of
candy, tasting the idea. Yeah, I could do it.

I should have felt bad that I could plan a murder, for any reason, and
not flinch. I didn't feel bad. It was sort of comforting to know if she
pushed me, I could push back. Who was I to cast stones at Manny for
twenty-year-old crimes? Yeah, who indeed.

Chapter 8
---------

It was early afternoon. Manny had dropped me off without a word. He
hadn't asked to come up, and I hadn't offered. I still didn't know what
to think about him, Dominga Salvador, and non-rotting zombies, complete
with souls. I decided not to think. What I needed was good physical
activity. As luck would have it, I had judo class this afternoon.

I have a black belt, which sounds a lot more impressive than it really
is. In the dojo with referees and rules, I do okay. Out in the real
world where most bad guys outweigh me by a hundred pounds, I trust a
gun.

I was actually reaching for the doorknob when the bell chimed. I put the
overstuffed gym bag by the door and used the little peephole. I always
had to stand on tiptoe to see out of it.

The distorted image was blond, fair-eyed, and barely familiar. It was
Tommy, Harold Gaynor's muscle-bound bodyguard. This day was just getting
better and better.

I don't usually take a gun to judo class. It's in the afternoon. In the
summer that means daylight. The really dangerous stuff doesn't come out
until after dark. I untucked the red polo shirt I was wearing and
clipped my inter-pants holster back in place. The pocket-size 9mm dug in
just a little. If I had known I was going to need it, I would have worn
looser jeans.

The doorbell rang again. I hadn't called out to let him know I was in
here. He didn't seem discouraged. He rang the doorbell a third time,
leaning on it.

I took a deep breath and opened the door. I looked up into Tommy's pale
blue eyes. They were still empty, dead. A perfect blankness. Were you
born with a stare like that, or did you have to practice?

"What do you want?" I asked.

His lips twitched. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"I don't think so."

He shrugged massive shoulders. I could see the straps of his shoulder
holster imprinted on his suit jacket. He needed a better tailor.

A door opened to my left. A woman came out with a toddler in her arms.
She locked the door before turning and seeing us. "Oh, hi." She smiled
brightly.

"Hello," I said.

Tommy nodded.

The woman turned and walked towards the stairs. She was murmuring
something nonsensical and high-pitched to the toddler.

Tommy looked back at me. "You really want to do this in the hallway?"

"What are we doing?"

"Business. Money."

I looked at his face, and it told me nothing. The only comfort I had was
that if Tommy meant to do me harm he probably wouldn't have come to my
apartment to do it. Probably.

I stepped back, holding the door very wide. I stayed out of arm's reach
as he walked into my apartment. He looked around. "Nice, clean."

"Cleaning service," I said. "Talk to me about business, Tommy. I've got
an appointment."

He glanced at the gym bag by the door. "Work or pleasure?" he asked.

"None of your business," I said.

Again that bare twist of lips. I realized it was his version of a smile.
"Down in the car I got a case full of money. A million five, half now,
half after you raise the zombie."

I shook my head. "I gave Gaynor my answer."

"But that was in front of your boss. This is just you and me. No one'll
know if you take it. No one."

"I didn't say no because there were witnesses. I said no because I don't
do human sacrifice." I could feel myself smiling. This was ridiculous. I
thought about Manny then. Alright, maybe it wasn't ridiculous. But I
wasn't doing it.

"Everyone has their price, Anita. Name it. We can meet it."

He had never once mentioned Gaynor's name. Only I had. He was being so
bloody careful, too careful. "I don't have a price, Tommy-boy. Go back
to Mr. Harold Gaynor and tell him that."

His face clouded up then. A wrinkling between his eyes. "I don't know
that name."

"Oh, give me a break. I'm not wearing a wire."

"Name your price. We can meet it," he said.

"There is no price."

"Two million, tax-free," he said.

"What zombie could be worth two million dollars, Tommy?" I stared at his
softly frowning face. "What could Gaynor hope to gain that would allow
him to make a profit on that kind of expenditure?"

Tommy just stared at me. "You don't need to know that."

"I thought you'd say that. Go away, Tommy. I'm not for sale." I stepped
back towards the door, planning to escort him out. He moved forward
suddenly, faster than he looked. Muscled arms wide to grab me.

I pulled the Firestar and pointed it at his chest. He froze. Dead eyes,
blinking at me. His large hands balled into fists. A nearly purple flush
crept up his neck into his face. Rage.

"Don't do it," I said, my voice sounded soft.

"Bitch," he wheezed it at me.

"Now, now, Tommy, don't get nasty. Ease down, and we can all live to see
another glorious day."

His pale eyes flicked from the gun to my face, then back to the gun.
"You wouldn't be so tough without that piece."

If he wanted me to offer to arm wrestle him, he was in for a
disappointment. "Back off, Tommy, or I'll drop you here and now. All the
muscle in the world won't help you."

I watched something move behind his dead eyes, then his whole body
relaxed. He took a deep breath through his nose. "Okay, you got the drop
on me today. But if you keep disappointing my boss, I'm gonna find you
without that gun." His lips twitched. "And we'll see how tough you
really are."

A little voice in my head said, "Shoot him now." I knew as surely as I
knew anything that dear Tommy would be at my back someday. I didn't want
him there, but . . . I couldn't just kill him because I thought he might
come after me someday. It wasn't a good enough reason. And how would I
ever have explained it to the police?

"Get out, Tommy." I opened the door without taking either my gaze or the
gun off the man. "Get out and tell Gaynor that if he keeps annoying me,
I'll start sending his bodyguards home in boxes."

Tommy's nostrils flared just a bit at that, veins straining in his neck.
He walked very stiffly past me and out into the hall. I held the gun at
my side and watched him, listening to his footsteps retreat down the
stairs. When I was as sure as I could be that he was gone, I put my gun
back in its holster, grabbed my gym bag, and headed for judo class.
Mustn't let these little interruptions spoil my exercise program.
Tomorrow I would miss my workout for sure. I had a funeral to attend.
Besides, if Tommy really did challenge me to arm wrestling, I was going
to need all the help I could get.

Chapter 9
---------

I hate funerals. At least this one wasn't for anyone I had particularly
liked. Cold, but true. Peter Burke had been an unscrupulous SOB when
alive. I didn't see why death should automatically grant him sainthood.
Death, especially violent death, will turn the meanest bastard in the
world into a nice guy. Why is that?

I stood there in the bright August sunlight in my little black dress and
dark sunglasses, watching the mourners. They had set up a canopy over
the coffin, flowers, and chairs for the family. Why was I here, you
might ask, if I had not been a friend? Because Peter Burke had been an
animator. Not a very good one, but we are a small, exclusive club. If
one of us dies, we all come. It's a rule. There are no exceptions. Maybe
your own death, but then again being that we raise the dead, maybe not.

There are things you can do to a corpse so it won't rise again as a
vampire, but a zombie is a different beast. Short of cremation, an
animator can bring you back. Fire was about the only thing a zombie
respected or feared.

We could have raised Peter and asked him who put a gun to his head. But
they had put a 357 Magnum with an expanding point just behind his ear.
There wasn't enough left of his head to fill a plastic bag. You could
raise him as a zombie, but he couldn't talk. Even the dead need mouths.

Manny stood beside me, uncomfortable in his dark suit. Rosita, his wife,
stood spine absolutely straight. Thick brown hands gripping her black
patent leather purse. She is what my stepmother used to call
large-boned. Her black hair was cut just below the ears and loosely
permed. The hair needed to be longer. It emphasized how perfectly round
her face was.

Charles Montgomery stood just behind me like a tall dark mountain.
Charles looks like he played football somewhere. He has the ability to
frown and make people run for cover. He just looks like a hard ass.
Truth is, Charles faints at the sight of anything but animal blood. It's
lucky for him he looks like such a big black dude. He has almost no
tolerance for pain. He cries at Walt Disney movies, like when Bambi's
mother dies. It's endearing as hell.

His wife, Caroline, was working. She hadn't been able to switch shifts
with anyone. I wondered how hard she had tried. Caroline is okay but she
sort of looks down on what we do. Mumbo jumbo she calls it. She's a
registered nurse. I guess after dealing with doctors all day, she has to
look down on someone.

Up near the front of the crowd was Jamison Clarke. He was tall; thin,
and the only red-haired, green-eyed black man I've ever met. He nodded
at me across the grave. I nodded back.

We were all here; the animators of Animators, Incorporated. Bert and
Mary, our daytime secretary, were holding down the fort. I hoped Bert
didn't book us in anything we couldn't handle. Or would refuse to
handle. He did that if you didn't watch him.

The sun slapped my back like a hot metal hand. The men kept pulling at
their ties and high collars. The smell of chrysanthemums was thick like
wax at the back of my throat. No one ever gives you football mums unless
you die. Carnations, roses, snapdragons, they all have happier lives,
but mums, and glads - they're the funeral flowers. At least the tall
spires of gladiolus had no scent.

A woman sat in the front line of chairs under the canopy. She was
leaning over her knees like a broken doll. Her sobs were loud enough to
drown out the words of the priest. Only his quiet, soothing rhythm
reached me as I stood near the back.

Two small children were gripping the hands of an older man. Grampa? The
children were pale, hollow-eyed. Fear vied with tears on their faces.
They watched their mother break down completely, useless to them. Her
grief was more important than theirs. Her loss greater. Bullshit.

My own mother had died when I was eight. You never really filled in the
hole. It was like a piece of you gone missing. An ache that never quite
goes away. You deal with it. You go on, but it's there.

A man sat beside her, rubbing her back in endless circles. His hair was
nearly black, cut short and neat. Broad shouldered. From the back he
looked eerily like Peter Burke. Ghosts in sunlight.

The cemetery was dotted with trees. The shade rustled and flickered pale
grey in the sunlight. On the other side of the gravel driveway that
twined through the cemetery were two men. They stood quietly, waiting.
Grave diggers. Waiting to finish the job.

I looked back at the coffin under its blanket of pink carnations. There
was a bulky mound just behind it, covered in bright green fake grass.
Underneath was the fresh dug earth waiting to go back in the hole.

Mustn't let the loved ones think about red-clay soil pouring down on the
gleaming coffin. Clods of dirt hitting the wood, covering your husband,
father. Trapping them forever inside a lead-lined box. A good coffin
will keep the water and worms out, but it doesn't stop decay.

I knew what would be happening to Peter Burke's body. Cover it in satin,
wrap a tie round its neck, rouge the cheeks, close the eyes; it's still
a corpse.

The funeral ended while I wasn't looking. The people rose gratefully in
one mass movement. The dark-haired man helped the grieving widow to
stand. She nearly fell. Another man rushed forward and supported her
other side. She sagged between them, feet dragging on the ground.

She looked back over her shoulder, head almost lolling on her neck. She
screamed, loud and ragged, then flung herself on the coffin. The woman
collapsed against the flowers, digging at the wood. Fingers scrambling
for the locks on the coffin. The ones that held the lid down.

Everyone just froze for a moment, staring. I saw the two children
through the crowd still standing, wide-eyed. Shit. "Stop her," I said it
too loud. People turned to stare. I didn't care.

I pushed my way through the vanishing crowd and the aisles of chairs.
The dark-haired man was holding the widow's hands while she screamed and
struggled. She had collapsed to the ground, and her black dress had
worked up high on her thighs.

She was wearing a white slip. Her mascara had run like black blood down
her face.

I stood in front of the man and the two children. He was staring at the
woman like he would never move again. "Sir," I said. He didn't react.
"Sir?"

He blinked, staring down at me like I had just appeared in front of him.
"Sir, do you really think the children need to see all this?"

"She's my daughter," he said. His voice was deep and thick..

Drugged or just grief?

"I sympathize, sir, but the children should go to the car now."

The widow had begun to wail, loud and wordless, raw pain. The girl was
beginning to shake. "You're her father, but you're their grandfather.
Act like it. Get them out of here."

Anger flickered in his eyes then. "How dare you?"

He wasn't going to listen to me. I was just an intrusion on their grief.
The oldest, a boy of about five, was staring up at me. His brown eyes
were huge, his thin face so pale it looked ghostly.

"I think it is you who should go," the grandfather said.

"You're right. You are so right," I said. I walked around them out into
the grass and the summer heat. I couldn't help the children. I couldn't
help them, just as no one had been there to help me. I had survived. So
would they, maybe.

Manny and Rosita were waiting for me. Rosita hugged me. "You must come
to Sunday dinner after church."

I smiled. "I don't think I can make it, but thanks for asking."

"My cousin Albert will be there," she said. "He is an engineer. He will
be a good provider."

"I don't need a good provider, Rosita."

She sighed. "You make too much money for a woman. It makes you not need
a man."

I shrugged. If I ever did marry, which I'd begun to doubt, a it wouldn't
be for money. Love. Shit, was I waiting for love? Naw, not me.

"We have to pick up Tomas at kindergarten," Manny said. He was smiling
at me apologetically around Rosita's shoulder. She was nearly a foot
taller than he. She towered over me, too.

"Sure, tell the little guy hi for me."

"You should come to dinner," Rosita said, "Albert is a very handsome
man."

"Thanks for thinking of me, Rosita, but I'll skip it."

"Come on, wife," Manny said. "Our son is waiting for us."

She let him pull her towards the car, but her brown face was set in
disapproval. It offended some deep part of Rosita that I was twenty-four
and had no prospects of marriage. Her and my stepmother.

Charles was nowhere to be seen. Hurrying back to the office to see
clients. I thought Jamison had, too, but he stood in the grass, waiting
for me.

He was dressed impeccably, crossed-lapels, narrow red tie with small
dark dots on it. His tie clip was onyx and silver. He smiled at me,
always a bad sign.

His greenish eyes looked hollow, like someone had erased part of the
skin. If you cry enough, the skin goes from puffy red to hollow white.
"I'm glad so many of us showed up," he said.

"I know he was a friend of yours, Jamison. I'm sorry."

He nodded and looked down at his hands. He was holding a pair of
sunglasses loosely. He looked up at me, eyes staring straight into mine.
All serious.

"The police won't tell the family anything," he said. "Peter gets blown
away, and they don't have a clue who did it."

I wanted to tell him the police were doing their best, because they
were. But there are a hell of a lot of murders in St. Louis over a year.
We were giving Washington, D.C. a run for their money as murder capital
of the United States. "They're doing their best, Jamison."

"Then why won't they tell us anything?" His hands convulsed. The sound
of breaking plastic was a crumbling sharp sound. He didn't seem to
notice.

"I don't know," I said.

"Anita, you're in good with the police. Could you ask?" His eyes were
naked, full of such real pain. Most of the time I could ignore, or even
dislike, Jamison. He was a tease, a flirt, a bleeding-heart liberal who
thought that vampires were just people with fangs. But today . . . today
he was real.

"What do you want me to ask?"

"Are they making any progress? Do they have any suspects? That sort of
thing."

They were vague questions, but important ones. "I'll see what I can find
out."

He gave a watery smile. "Thanks, Anita, really, thanks." He held out his
hand. I took it. We shook. He noticed his broken sunglasses. "Damn,
ninety-five dollars down the tubes."

Ninety-five dollars for sunglasses? He had to be kidding. A group of
mourners were taking the family away at last. The mother was smothered
in well-meaning male relatives. They were literally carrying her away
from the grave. The children and Grampa brought up the rear. No one
listens to good advice.

A man stepped away from the crowd and walked towards us. He was the one
who reminded me of Peter Burke from the back. He was around six feet,
dark-complected, a black mustache, and thin almost goateelike beard
framing a handsome face. It was handsome, a dark movie-star face, but
there was something about the way he moved. Maybe it was the white
streak in his black hair just over the forehead. Whatever, you knew that
he would always play the villain.

"Is she going to help us?" he asked, no preamble, no hello.

"Yes," Jamison said. "Anna Blake, this is John Burke, Peter's brother."

John Burke, the John Burke, I wanted to ask. New Orleans's greatest
animator and vampire slayer? A kindred spirit. We shook hands. His grip
was strong, almost painfully so, as if he wanted to see if I would
flinch. I didn't. He let go. Maybe he just didn't know his own strength?
But I doubted it.

"I am truly sorry about your brother," I said. I meant it. I was glad I
meant it.

He nodded. "Thank you for talking to the police about him."

"I'm surprised you couldn't get the New Orleans police to give you some
juice with our local police," I said.

He had the grace to look uncomfortable. "The New Orleans police and I
have had a disagreement."

"Really?" I said, eyes wide. I had heard the rumors, but I wanted to
hear the truth. Truth is always stranger than fiction.

"John was accused of participating in some ritual murders," Jamison
said. "Just because he's a practicing vaudun priest."

"Oh," I said. Those were the rumors. "How long have you been in town,
John?"

"Almost a week."

"Really?"

"Peter had been missing for two days before they found the . . . body."
He licked his lips. His dark brown eyes flicked to the scene behind me.
Were the grave diggers moving in? I glanced back, but the grave looked
just the same to me.

"Anything you could find out would be most appreciated," he said.

"I'll do what I can."

"I have to get back to the house." He shrugged, as if to loosen the
shoulder muscles. "My sister-in-law isn't taking it well."

I let it go. I deserved brownie points for that. One thing I didn't let
go. "Can you look after your niece and nephew?"

He looked at me, a puzzled frown between his black eyebrows.

"I mean, keep them out of the really dramatic stuff if you can."

He nodded. "It was rough for me to watch her throw herself on the
coffin. God, what must the kids be thinking?" Tears glittered in his
eyes like silver. He kept them open very wide so the tears wouldn't
spill out.

I didn't know what to say. I did not want to see him cry. "I'll talk to
the police, find out what I can. I'll tell Jamison when I have
anything."

John Burke nodded, carefully. His eyes were like a glass where only the
surface tension kept the water from spilling over.

I nodded to Jamison and left. I turned on the air-conditioning in my car
and let it run full blast. The two men were still standing in the hot
sunshine in the middle of summer brown grass when I put the car in gear
and drove away.

I would talk to the police and find out what I could. I also had another
name for Dolph. John Burke, biggest animator in New Orleans, voodoo
priest. Sounded like a suspect to me.

Chapter 10
----------

The phone was ringing as I shoved the key into my apartment door. I
yelled at it, "I'm coming, I'm coming!" Why do people do that? Yell at
the phone as if the other person can hear you and will wait?

I shoved the door open and scooped up the phone on the fourth ring.
"Hello."

"Anita?"

"Dolph," I said. My stomach tightened. "What's up?"

"We think we found the boy." His voice was quiet, neutral.

"Think," I said. "What do you mean, think?"

"You know what I mean, Anita," he said. He sounded tired.

"Like his parents?" It wasn't a question.

"Yeah."

"God, Dolph, is there much left?"

"Come and see. We're at the Burrell Cemetery. Do you know it?"

"Sure, I've done work there."

"Be here as soon as you can. I want to go home and hug my wife."

"Sure, Dolph, I understand." I was talking to myself. The phone had gone
dead. I stared at the receiver for a moment. My skin felt cold. I did
not want to go and view the remains of Benjamin Reynolds. I did not want
to know. I pulled a lot of air in through my nose and let it out slowly.

I stared down at the dark hose, high heels, dress. It wasn't my usual
crime scene attire, but it would take too long to change. I was usually
the last expert called in. Once I was through, they could cover the
body. And everyone could go home. I grabbed a pair of black Nikes for
walking over grass and through blood. Once you got bloodstains on dress
shoes, they never come clean.

I had the Browning Hi-Power, complete with holster sort of draped atop
my little black clutch purse. The gun had been in my car during the
funeral. I couldn't figure out a way to carry a gun of any kind while
wearing a dress. I know you see thigh holsters on television, but does
the word "chafing" mean anything to you?

I hesitated on getting my backup gun and shoving it in my purse, but
didn't. My purse, like all purses, seems to have a traveling black hole
in it. I'd never get the gun out in time if I really needed it.

I did have a silver knife in a thigh sheath under the short black skirt.
I felt like Kit Carson in drag, but after Tommy's little visit, I didn't
want to be unarmed. I had no illusions what would happen if Tommy did
catch me with no gun. Knives weren't as good, but they beat the hell out
of kicking my little feet and screaming.

I had never yet had to try to fast draw a knife from a thigh sheath. It
was probably going to look vaguely obscene, but if it kept me alive . .
. hey, I can take a little embarrassment.

Burrell Cemetery is at the crest of a hill. Some of the gravestones go
back centuries. The soft, weathered limestone is almost unreadable, like
hard candy that's been sucked clean. The grass is waist tall, luxuriant
with only the headstones standing like tired sentinels.

There is a house on the edge of the cemetery where the caretaker lives,
but he doesn't have to take care of much. The graveyard is full and has
been for years. The last person buried here could remember the 1904
World's Fair.

There is no road into the graveyard anymore. There is a ghost of one,
like a wagon track where the grass doesn't grow quite so high. The
caretaker's house was surrounded by police cars and the coroner's van.
My Nova seemed underdressed. Maybe I should get some buggy whip
antennae, or plaster Zombies "R" Us on the side of the car. Bert would
probably get mad.

I got a pair of coveralls from the trunk and slipped into them. They
covered me from neck to ankle. Like most coveralls the crotch hit at
knee level, I never understood why, but it meant my skirt didn't bunch
up. I bought them originally for vampire stakings, but blood is blood.
Besides, the weeds would play hell with my panty hose. I got a pair of
surgical gloves from the little Kleenex-like box in the trunk. Nikes
instead of dress shoes, and I was ready to view the remains.

Remains. Nice word.

Dolph stood like some ancient sentinel, towering over everyone else in
the field. I worked my way towards him, trying not to trip over broken
bits of headstone. A wind hot enough to scald rustled the grass. I was
sweating inside the overalls.

Detective Clive Perry came to meet me, as if I needed an escort.
Detective Perry was one of the most polite people I had ever met. He had
an old-world courtliness to him. A gentleman in the best sense of the
word. I always wanted to ask what he had done to end up on the spook
squad.

His slender black face was beaded with sweat. He still wore his suit
jacket even though it had to be over a hundred degrees. "Ms. Blake."

"Detective Perry," I said. I glanced up at the crest of the hill. Dolph
and a handful of men were standing around like they didn't know what to
do. No one was looking at the ground.

"How bad is it, Detective Perry?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Depends on what you compare it to."

"Did you see the tapes and pictures of the Reynolds house?"

"I did."

"Is it worse than that?" It was my new "worst thing I ever saw"
measurement. Before this it had been a vampire gang that had tried to
move in from Los Angeles. The respectable vampire community had chopped
them up with axes. The parts were still crawling around the room when we
found them. Maybe this wasn't worse. Maybe time had just dimmed the
memory.

"It isn't bloodier," he said, then he hesitated, "but it was a child. A
little boy."

I nodded. He didn't need to explain. It was always worse when it was a
child. I never knew exactly why. Maybe it was some primal instinct to
protect the young. Some deep hormonal thing. Whatever, kids were always
worse. I stared down at a white tombstone. It looked like dull, melted
ice. I didn't want to go up the hill. I didn't want to see.

I went up the hill. Detective Perry followed. Brave detective. Brave me.

A sheet rested on the grass like a tent. Dolph stood closest to it.
"Dolph," I said.

"Anita."

No one offered to pull back the sheet. "Is this it?"

"Yeah."

Dolph seemed to shake himself, or maybe it was a shiver. He reached down
and grabbed the edge of the sheet. "Ready?" he asked.

No, I wasn't ready. Don't make me look. Please don't make me look. My
mouth was dry. I could taste my pulse in my throat. I nodded.

The sheet flew back, caught by a gust of wind like a white kite. The
grass was trampled down. Struggles? Had Benjamin Reynolds been alive
when he was pulled down into the long grass? No, surely not. God, I
hoped not.

The footed pajamas had tiny cartoon figures on them. The pajamas had
been pulled back like the skin of a banana. One small arm was flung up
over his head like he was sleeping. Long-lashed eyelids helped the
illusion. His skin was pale and flawless, small cupid-bow mouth half
open. He should have looked worse, much worse.

There was a dirty brown stain on his pajamas, the cloth covering his
lower body. I did not want to see what had killed him. But that was why
I was here. I hesitated, fingers hovering over the torn cloth. I took a
deep breath, and that was a mistake. Hunkered over the body in the windy
August heat the smell was fresh. New death smells like an outhouse,
especially if the stomach or bowels have been ripped open. I knew what
I'd find when I lifted the bloody cloth. The smell told me.

I knelt with a sleeve over my mouth and nose for a few minutes,
breathing shallow and through my mouth, but it didn't really help. Once
you caught a whiff of it, your nose remembered. The smell crawled down
my throat and wouldn't let go.

Quick or slow? Did I jerk the cloth back or pull it? Quick. I jerked on
the cloth, but it stuck, dried blood catching. The cloth peeled back
with a wet, sucking sound.

It looked like someone had taken a giant ice cream scoop and gutted him.
Stomach, intestines, upper bowels, gone. The sunshine swam around me,
and I had to put a hand on the ground to keep from falling.

I glanced up at the face. His hair was pale brown like his mother's.
Damp curls traced his cheeks. My gaze was pulled back to the gaping ruin
that was his abdomen. There was some dark, heavy fluid leaking out of
the end of his small intestine.

I stumbled away from the crime scene, using the tombstones to help me
stand. I would have run if I hadn't known I would fall. The sky was
spinning to meet the ground. I collapsed in the smothering grass and
vomited.

I threw up until I was empty and the world stopped spinning. I wiped my
mouth on my sleeve and stood up using a crooked headstone for support.

No one said a word as I walked back to them. The sheet was covering the
body. The body. Had to think of it that way. Couldn't dwell on the fact
that it had been a small child. Couldn't. I'd go mad.

"Well?" Dolph asked.

"He hasn't been dead long. Dammit to hell, Dolph, it was late morning,
maybe just before dawn. He was alive, alive when that thing took him!" I
stared up at him and felt the hot beginnings of tears. I would not cry.
I had already disgraced myself enough for one day. I took a deep careful
breath and let it out. I would not cry.

"I gave you twenty-four hours to talk to this Dominga Salvador. Did you
find out anything?"

"She says she knows nothing of it. I believe her."

"Why?"

"Because if she wanted to kill people she wouldn't have to do anything
this dramatic."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"She could wish them to death," I said.

He widened his eyes. "You believe that?"

I shrugged. "Maybe. Yes. Hell, I don't know. She scares me."

He raised one thick eyebrow. "I'll remember that."

"I have another name to add to your list though," I said.

"Who?"

"John Burke. He's up from New Orleans for his brother's funeral."

He wrote the name in his little notebook. "If he's just visiting, would
he have time?"

"I can't think of a motive, but he could do it if he wanted to. Check
him out with the New Orleans police. I think he's under suspicion down
there for murder."

"What's he doing traveling out of state?"

"I don't think they have any proof," I said. "Dominga Salvador said
she'd help me. She's promised to ask around and tell me anything she
turns up."

"I've been asking around since you gave me her name. She doesn't help
anyone outside her own people. How did you get her to cooperate?"

I shrugged. "My winning personality."

He shook his head.

"It wasn't illegal, Dolph. Beyond that I don't want to talk about it."

He let it go. Smart man. "Tell me as soon as you hear anything, Anita.
We've got to stop this thing before it kills again."

"Agreed." I turned and looked out over the rolling grass. "Is this the
cemetery near where you found the first three victims?"

"Yes."

"Maybe part of the answer's here then," I said.

"What do you mean?"

"Most vampires have to return to their coffins before dawn. Ghouls stay
in underground tunnels, like giant moles. If it was either of those I'd
say the creature was out here somewhere waiting for nightfall."

"But," he said.

"But if it's a zombie it isn't harmed by sunlight and it doesn't need to
rest in a coffin. It could be anywhere, but I think it originally came
from this cemetery. If they used voodoo there will be signs of the
ritual."

"Like what?"

"A chalk verve, drawn symbols around the grave, dried blood, maybe a
fire." I stared off at the rustling grass. "Though I wouldn't want to
start an open fire in this place."

"If it wasn't voodoo?" he asked.

"Then it was an animator. Again you look for dried blood, maybe a dead
animal. There won't be as many signs and it's easier to clean up."

"Are you sure it's some kind of a zombie?" he asked.

"I don't know what else it could be. I think we should act like that's
what it is. It gives us someplace to look, and something to look for."

"If it's not a zombie we don't have a clue," he said.

"Exactly."

He smiled, but it wasn't pleasant. "I hope you're right, Anita."

"Me, too," I said.

"If it did come from here, can you find what grave it came from?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" he said.

"Maybe. Raising the dead isn't a science, Dolph. Sometimes I can feel
the dead under the ground. Restlessness. How old without looking at the
tombstone. Sometimes I can't." I shrugged.

"We'll give you any help you need."

"I have to wait until full dark. My . . . powers are better after dark."

"That's hours away. Can you do anything now?"

I thought about that for a moment. "No. I'm sorry but no."

"Okay, you'll come back tonight then?"

"Yeah," I said.

"What time? I'll send some men out."

"I don't know what time. And I don't know how long it will take. I could
be wandering out here for hours and find nothing."

"Or?"

"Or I could find the beastie itself."

"You'll need backup for that, just in case."

I nodded. "Agreed, but guns, even silver bullets, won't hurt it."

"What will?"

"Flamethrowers, napalm like the exterminators use on ghoul tunnels," I
said.

"Those aren't standard issue."

"Have an exterminator team standing by," I said.

"Good idea." He made a note.

"I need a favor," I said.

He looked up. "What?"

"Peter Burke was murdered, shot to death. His brother asked me to find
out what progress the police are making."

"You know we can't give out information like that."

"I know, but if you can get the facts I can feed just enough to John
Burke to keep in touch with him."

"You seem to be getting along well with all our suspects," he said.

"Yeah."

"I'll find out what I can from homicide. Do you know what jurisdiction
he was found in?"

I shook my head. "I could find out. It would give me an excuse to talk
to Burke again."

"You say he's suspected of murder in New Orleans."

"Mm-huh," I said.

"And he may have done this." He motioned at the sheet.

"Yep."

"You watch your back, Anita."

"I always do," I said.

"You call me as early tonight as you can. I don't want all my people
sitting around twiddling their thumbs on overtime."

"As soon as I can. I've got to cancel three clients just to make it."
Bert was not going to be pleased. The day was looking up.

"Why didn't it eat more of the boy?" Dolph asked.

"I don't know," I said.

He nodded. "Okay, I'll see you tonight then."

"Say hello to Lucille for me. How's she coming with her master's
degree?"

"Almost done. She'll have it before our youngest gets his engineering
degree."

"Great."

The sheet flapped in the hot wind. A trickle of sweat trailed down my
forehead. I was out of small talk. "See you later," I said, and started
down the hill. I stopped and turned back. "Dolph?"

"Yes?" he said.

"I've never heard of a zombie exactly like this one. Maybe it does rise
from its grave more like a vampire. If you kept that exterminator team
and backup hanging around until after dark, you might catch it rising
from the grave and be able to bag it."

"Is that likely?"

"No, but it's possible," I said.

"I don't know how I'll explain the overtime, but I'll do it."

"I'll be here as soon as I can."

"What else could be more important than this?" he asked.

I smiled. "Nothing you'd like to hear about."

"Try me," he said.

I shook my head.

He nodded. "Tonight, early as you can."

"Early as I can," I said.

Detective Perry escorted me back. Maybe politeness, maybe he just wanted
to get away from the corpus delicti. I didn't blame him. "How's your
wife, Detective?"

"We're expecting our first baby in a month."

I smiled up at him. "I didn't know. Congratulations."

"Thank you." His face clouded over, a frown puckering between his dark
eyes. "Do you think we can find this creature before it kills again?"

"I hope so," I said.

"What are our chances?"

Did he want reassurance or the truth. Truth. "I haven't the faintest
idea."

"I was hoping you wouldn't say that," he said.

"So was I, Detective. So was I."

Chapter 11
----------

What was more important than bagging the critter that had eviscerated an
entire family? Nothing, absolutely nothing. But it was a while until
full dark, and I had other problems. Would Tommy go back to Gaynor and
tell him what I said? Yes. Would Gaynor let it go? Probably not. I
needed information. I needed to know how far he would go. A reporter, I
needed a reporter. Irving Griswold to the rescue.

Irving had one of those pastel cubicles that passes for an office. No
roof, no door, but you got walls. Irving is five-three. I'd like him for
that reason if nothing else. You don't meet many men exactly my height.
Frizzy brown hair framed his bald spot like petals on a flower. He wore
a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, tie at half-mast.
His face was round, pink-cheeked. He looked like a bald cherub. He did
not look like a werewolf, but he was one. Even lycanthropy can't cure
baldness.

No one on the St. Louis Post-Dispatch knew Irving was a shapeshifter. It
is a disease, and it's illegal to discriminate against lycanthropes,
just like people with AIDS, but people do it anyway. Maybe the paper's
management would have been broad-minded, liberal, but I was with Irving.
Caution was better.

Irving sat in his desk chair. I leaned in the doorway of his cubicle.
"How's tricks?" Irving said.

"Do you really think you're funny, or is this just an annoying habit?" I
asked.

He grinned. "I'm hilarious. Ask my girlfriend."

"I'll bet," I said.

"What's up, Blake? And please tell me whatever it is is on the record,
not off."

"How would you like to do an article on the new zombie legislation
that's being cooked up?"

"Maybe," he said. His eyes narrowed, suspicion gleamed forth. "What do
you want in return?"

"This part is off the record, Irving, for now."

"It figures." He frowned at me. "Go on."

"I need all the information you have on Harold Gaynor."

"Name doesn't ring any bells," he said. "Should it?" His eyes had gone
from cheerful to steady. His concentration was nearly perfect when he
smelled a story.

"Not necessarily," I said. Cautious. "Can you get the information for
me?"

"In exchange for the zombie story?"

"I'll take you to all the businesses that use zombies. You can bring a
photographer and snap pictures of corpses."

His eyes lit up. "A series of articles with lots of semi-gruesome
pictures. You center stage in a suit. Beauty and the Beast. My editor
would probably go for it."

"I thought he might, but I don't know about the center stage stuff."

"Hey, your boss will love it. Publicity means more business."

"And sells more papers," I said.

"Sure," Irving said. He looked at me for maybe a minute. The room was
almost silent. Most had gone home. Irving's little pool of light was one
of just a few. He'd been waiting on me. So much for the press never
sleeps. The quiet breath of the air conditioner filled the early evening
stillness.

"I'll see if Harold Gaynor's in the computer," Irving said at last.

I smiled at him. "Remembered the name after me mentioning it just once,
pretty good."

"I am, after all, a trained reporter," he said. He swiveled his chair
back to his computer keyboard with exaggerated movements. He pulled
imaginary gloves on and adjusted the long tails of a tux.

"Oh, get on with it." I smiled a little wider.

"Do not rush the maestro." He typed a few words and the screen came to
life. "He's on file," Irving said. "A big file. It'd take forever to
print it all up." He swiveled the chair back to look at me. It was a bad
sign.

"I'll tell you what," he said. "I'll get the file together, complete
with pictures if we have any. I'll deliver it to your sweet hands."

"What's the catch?"

He put his fingers to his chest. "Moi, no catch. The goodness of my
heart."

"All right, bring it by my apartment."

"Why don't we meet at Dead Dave's, instead?" he said.

"Dead Dave's is down in the vampire district. What are you doing hanging
around out there?"

His sweet cherubic face was watching me very steadily. "Rumor has it
that there's a new Master Vampire of the City. I want the story."

I just shook my head. "So you're hanging around Dead Dave's to get
information?"

"Exactly."

"The vamps won't talk to you. You look human."

"Thanks for the compliment," he said. "The vamps do talk to you, Anita.
Do you know who the new Master is? Can I meet him, or her? Can I do an
interview?"

"Jesus, Irving, don't you have enough troubles without messing with the
king vampire?"

"It's a him then," he said.

"It's a figure of speech," I said.

"You know something. I know you do."

"What I know is that you don't want to come to the attention of a master
vampire. They're mean, Irving."

"The vampires are trying to mainstream themselves. They want positive
attention. An interview about what he wants to do with the vampire
community. His vision of the future. It would be very up-and-coming. No
corpse jokes. No sensationalism. Straight journalism."

"Yeah, right. On page one a tasteful little headline: THE MASTER VAMPIRE
OF ST. LOUIS SPEAKS OUT."

"Yeah, it'll be great."

"You've been sniffing newsprint again, Irving."

"I'll give you everything we have on Gaynor. Pictures."

"How do you know you have pictures?" I said.

He stared up at me, his round, pleasant face cheerfully blank.

"You recognized the name, you little son of. . ."

"Tsk, tsk, Anita. Help me get an interview with the Master of the City.
I'll give you anything you want."

"I'll give you a series of articles about zombies. Full-color pictures
of rotting corpses, Irving. It'll sell papers."

"No interview with the Master?" he said.

"If you're lucky, no," I said.

"Shoot."

"Can I have the file on Gaynor?"

He nodded. "I'll get it together." He looked up at me. "I still want you
to meet me at Dead Dave's. Maybe a vamp will talk to me with you
around."

"Irving, being seen with a legal executioner of vampires is not going to
endear you to the vamps."

"They still call you the Executioner?"

"Among other things."

"Okay, the Gaynor file for going along on your next vampire execution?"

"No," I said.

"Ah, Anita. . ."

"No."

He spread his hands wide. "Okay, just an idea. It'd be a great article."

"I don't need the publicity, Irving, not that kind anyway."

He nodded. "Yeah, yeah. I'll meet you at Dead Dave's in about two
hours."

"Make it an hour. I'd like to be out of the District before full dark."

"Is anybody gunning for you down there? I mean I don't want to endanger
you, Blake." He grinned. "You've given me too many lead stories. I
wouldn't want to lose you."

"Thanks for the concern. No, no one's after me. Far as I know."

"You don't sound real certain."

I stared at him. I thought about telling him that the new Master of the
City had sent me a dozen white roses and an invitation to go dancing. I
had turned him down. There had been a message on my machine and an
invitation to a black tie affair. I ignored it all. So far the Master
was behaving like the courtly gentleman he had been a few centuries
back. It couldn't last. Jean-Claude was not a person who took defeat
easily.

I didn't tell Irving. He didn't need to know. "I'll see you at Dead
Dave's in an hour. I'm gonna run home and change."

"Now that you mention it, I've never seen you in a dress before."

"I had a funeral today."

"Business or personal?"

"Personal," I said.

"Then I'm sorry."

I shrugged. "I've got to go if I'm going to have time to change and then
meet you. Thanks, Irving."

"It's not a favor, Blake. I'll make you pay for those zombie articles."

I sighed. I had images of him making me embrace the poor corpse. But the
new legislation needed attention. The more people who understood the
horror of it, the better chance it had to pass. In truth, Irving was
still doing me a favor. No need to let him know that, though.

I walked away into the dimness of the darkened office. I waved over my
shoulder without looking back. I wanted to get out of this dress and
into something I could hide a gun on. If I was going into Blood Square,
I might need it.

Chapter 12
----------

Dead Dave's is in the part of St. Louis that has two names. Polite: the
Riverfront. Rude: the Blood Quarter. It is our town's hottest vampire
commercial district. Big tourist attraction. Vampires have really put
St. Louis on the vacation maps. You'd think that the Ozark Mountains,
some of the best fishing in the country, the symphony, Broadway level
musicals, or maybe the Botanical Gardens would be enough, but no. I
guess it's hard to compete with the undead. I know I find it difficult.

Dead Dave's is all dark glass and beer signs in the windows. The
afternoon sunlight was fading into twilight. Vamps wouldn't be out until
full dark. I had a little under two hours. Get in, look over the file,
get out. Easy. Ri-ight.

I had changed into black shorts, royal-blue polo shirt, black Nikes with
a matching blue swish, black and white jogging socks, and a black
leather belt. The belt was there so the shoulder holster had something
to hang on. My Browning Hi-Power was secure under my left arm. I had
thrown on a short-sleeved dress shirt to hide the gun. The dress shirt
was in a modest black and royal-blue print. The outfit looked great.
Sweat trickled down my spine. Too hot for the shirt, but the Browning
gave me thirteen bullets. Fourteen if you're animal enough to shove the
magazine full and carry one in the chamber.

I didn't think things were that bad, yet. I did have an extra magazine
shoved into the pocket of my shorts. I know it picks up pocket lint, but
where else was I going to carry it? One of these days I promise to get a
deluxe holster with spaces for extra magazines. But all the models I'd
seen had to be cut down to my size and made me feel like the Frito
Bandito.

I almost never carry an extra clip when I've got the Browning. Let's
face it, if you need more than thirteen bullets, it's over. The really
sad part was the extra ammo wasn't for Tommy, or Gaynor. It was for
Jean-Claude. The Master Vampire of the City. Not that silver-plated
bullets would kill him. But they would hurt him, make him heal almost
human slow.

I wanted out of the District before dark. I did not want to run into
Jean-Claude. He wouldn't attack me. In fact, his intentions were good,
if not exactly honorable. He had offered me immortality without the
messy part of becoming a vampire. There was some implication that I got
him along with eternity. He was tall, pale, and handsome. Sexier than a
silk teddy.

He wanted me to be his human servant. I wasn't anyone's servant. Not
even for eternal life, eternal youth, and a little compromise of the
soul. The price was too steep. Jean-Claude didn't believe that. The
Browning was in case I had to make him believe it.

I stepped into the bar and was momentarily blind, waiting for my eyes to
adjust to the dimness. Like one of those old westerns where the good guy
hesitates at the front of the bar and views the crowd. I suspected he
wasn't looking for the bad guy at all. He had just come out of the sun
and couldn't see shit. No one ever shoots you while you're waiting for
your eyes to adjust. I wonder why?

It was after five on a Thursday. Most of the bar stools and all the
tables were taken. The place was cheek to jowl with business suits, male
and female. A spattering of work boots and tans that ended at the elbow,
but mostly upwardly mobile types. Dead Dave's had become trendy despite
efforts to keep it at bay.

It looked like happy hour was in high gear. Shit. All the yuppies were
here to catch a nice safe glimpse of a vampire. They would be slightly
sloshed when it happened. Increase the thrill I guess.

Irving was sitting at the rounded corner of the bar. He saw me and
waved. I waved back and started pushing my way towards him.

I squeezed between two gentlemen in suits. It took some maneuvering, and
a very uncool-looking hop to mount the bar stool.

Irving grinned broadly at me. There was a nearly solid hum of
conversation in the air. Words translated into pure noise like the
ocean. Irving had to lean into me to be heard over the murmuring sound.

"I hope you appreciate how many dragons I had to slay to save that seat
for you," he said. The faint smell of whiskey breathed along my cheek as
he spoke.

"Dragons are easy, try vampires sometimes," I said.

His eyes widened. Before his mouth could form the question, I said, "I'm
kidding, Irving." Sheesh, some people just don't have a sense of humor.
"Besides, dragons were never native to North America," I said.

"I knew that."

"Sure," I said.

He sipped whiskey from a faceted glass. The amber liquid shimmered in
the subdued light.

Luther, daytime manager and bartender, was down at the far end of the
bar dealing with a group of very happy people. If they had been any
happier they'd have been passed out on the floor.

Luther is large, not tall, fat. But it is solid fat, almost a kind of
muscle. His skin is so black, it has purple highlights. The cigarette
between his lips flared orange as he took a breath. He could talk around
a cig better than anyone I'd ever met.

Irving picked up a scuffed leather briefcase from off the floor near his
feet. He fished out a file over three inches thick. A large rubber band
wrapped it together.

"Jesus, Irving. Can I take it home with me?"

He shook his head. "A sister reporter is doing a feature on local
upstanding businessmen who are not what they seem. I had to promise her
dibs on my firstborn to borrow it for the night."

I looked at the stack of papers. I sighed. The man on my right nearly
rammed an elbow in my face. He turned. "Sorry, little lady, sorry. No
harm done." Little came out liddle, and sorry slushed around the edges.

"No harm," I said.

He smiled and turned back to his friend. Another business type who
laughed uproariously at something. Get drunk enough and everything is
funny.

"I can't possibly read the file here," I said.

He grinned. "I'll follow you anywhere."

Luther stood in front of me. He pulled a cigarette from the pack he
always carried with him. He put the tip of his still burning stub
against the fresh cigarette. The end flared red like a live coal. Smoke
trickled up his nose and out his mouth. Like a dragon.

He crushed the old cig in the clear glass ashtray he carried with him
from place to place like a teddy bear. He chain smokes, is grossly
overweight, and his grey hair puts him over fifty. He's never sick. He
should be the national poster child for the Tobacco Institute.

"A refill?" he asked Irving.

"Yeah, thanks."

Luther took the glass, refilled it from a bottle under the bar, and set
it back down on a fresh napkin.

"What can I get for ya, Anita?" he asked.

"The usual, Luther."

He poured me a glass of orange juice. We pretend it is a screwdriver.
I'm a teetotaler, but why would I come to a bar if I didn't drink?

He wiped the bar with a spotless white towel. "Gotta message for you
from the Master."

"The Master Vampire of the City?" Irving asked. His voice had that
excited lilt to it. He smelled news.

"What?" There was no excited lilt to my voice.

"He wants to see you, bad."

I glanced at Irving, then back at Luther. I tried to telepathically send
the message, not in front of the reporter. It didn't work.

"The Master's put the word out. Anybody who sees you gives you the
message."

Irving was looking back and forth between us like an eager puppy. "What
does the Master of the City want with you, Anita?"

"Consider it given," I said.

Luther shook his head. "You ain't going to talk to him, are you?"

"No," I said.

"Why not?" Irving asked.

"None of your business."

"Off the record," he said.

"No."

Luther stared at me. "Listen to me, girl, you talk to the Master. Right
now all the vamps and freaks are just supposed to tell you the Master
wants a powwow. The next order will be to detain you and take ya to
him."

Detain, it was a nice word for kidnap. "I don't have anything to say to
the Master."

"Don't let this get outta hand, Anita," Luther said. "Just talk to him,
no harm."

That's what he thought. "Maybe I will." Luther was right. It was talk to
him now or later. Later would probably be a lot less friendly.

"Why does the Master want to talk to you?" Irving asked. He was like
some curious, bright-eyed bird that had spied a worm.

I ignored the question, and thought up a new one. "Did your sister
reporter give you any highlights from this file? I don't really have
time to read War and Peace before morning."

"Tell me what you know about the Master, and I'll give you the
highlights."

"Thanks a lot, Luther."

"I didn't mean to sic him on you," he said. His cig bobbed up and down
as he spoke. I never understood how he did that. Lip dexterity. Years of
practice.

"Would everybody stop treating me like the bubonic fucking plague,"
Irving said. "I'm just trying to do my job."

I sipped my orange juice and looked at him. "Irving, you're messing with
things you don't understand. I cannot give you info on the Master. I
can't."

"Won't," he said.

I shrugged. "Won't, but the reason I won't is because I can't."

"That's a circular argument," he said.

"Sue me." I finished the juice. I didn't want it anyway. "Listen,
Irving, we had a deal. The file info for the zombie articles. If you're
going to break your word, deal's off. But tell me it's off. I don't have
time to sit here and play twenty damn questions."

"I won't go back on the deal. My word is my bond," he said in as stagy a
voice as he could manage in the murmurous noise of the bar.

"Then give me the highlights and let me get the hell out of the District
before the Master hunts me up."

His face was suddenly solemn. "You're in trouble, aren't you?"

"Maybe. Help me out, Irving. Please."

"Help her out," Luther said.

Maybe it was the please. Maybe it was Luther's looming presence.
Whatever, Irving nodded. "According to my sister reporter, he's crippled
in a wheelchair."

I nodded. Nondirective, that's me.

"He likes his women crippled."

"What do you mean?" I remembered Cicely of the empty eyes.

"Blind, wheelchair, amputee, whatever, old Harry'll go for it."

"Deaf," I said.

"Up his alley."

"Why?" I asked. Clever questions are us.

Irving shrugged. "Maybe it makes him feel better since he's trapped in a
chair himself. My fellow reporter didn't know why he was a deviant, just
that he was."

"What else did she tell you?"

"He's never even been charged with a crime, but the rumors are real
ugly. Suspected mob connections, but no proof. Just rumors."

"Tell me," I said.

"An old girlfriend tried to sue him for palimony. She disappeared."

"Disappeared as in probably dead," I said.

"Bingo."

I believed it. So he'd used Tommy and Bruno to kill before. Meant it
would be easier to give the order a second time. Or maybe Gaynor's given
the order lots of times, and just never gotten caught.

"What does he do for the mob that earns him his two bodyguards?"

"Oh, so you've met his security specialist."

I nodded.

"My fellow reporter would love to talk to you."

"You didn't tell her about me, did you?"

"Do I look like a stoolie?" He grinned at me.

I let that go. "What's he do for the mob?"

"Helps them clean money, or that's what we suspect."

"No evidence?" I said.

"None." He didn't look happy about it.

Luther shook his head, tapping his cig into the ashtray. Some ash
spilled onto the bar. He wiped it with his spotless towel. "He sounds
like bad news, Anita. Free advice, leave him the hell alone."

Good advice. Unfortunately. "I don't think he'll leave me alone."

"I won't ask, I don't want to know." Someone else was frantically
signaling for a refill. Luther drifted over to them. I could watch the
entire bar in the full-length mirror that took up the wall behind the
bar. I could even see the door without turning around. It was convenient
and comforting.

"I will ask," Irving said, "I do want to know."

I just shook my head.

"I know something you don't know," he said.

"And I want to know it?"

He nodded vigorously enough to make his frizzy hair bob.

I sighed. "Tell me."

"You first."

I had about enough. "I have shared all I am going to tonight, Irving.
I've got the file. I'll look through it. You're just saving me a little
time. Right now, a little time could be very important to me."

"Oh, shucks, you take all the fun out of being a hard-core reporter." He
looked like he was going to pout.

"Just tell me, Irving, or I'm going to do something violent."

He half laughed. I don't think he believed me. He should have. "Alright,
alright." He brought out a picture from behind his back with a flourish
like a magician.

It was a black and white photo of a woman. She was in her twenties, long
brown hair down in a modern style, just enough mousse to make it look
spiky. She was pretty. I didn't recognize her. The photo was obviously
not posed. It was too casual and there was a look to the face of someone
who didn't know she was being photographed.

"Who is she?"

"She was his girlfriend until about five months ago," Irving said.

"So she's . . . handicapped?" I stared down at the pretty, candid face.
You couldn't tell by the picture.

"Wheelchair Wanda."

I stared at him. I could feel my eyes going wide. "You can't be
serious."

He grinned. "Wheelchair Wanda cruises the streets in her chair. She's
very popular with a certain crowd."

A prostitute in a wheelchair. Naw, it was too weird. I shook my head.
"Okay, where do I find her?"

"I and my sister reporter want in on this."

"That's why you kept her picture out of the file."

He didn't even have the grace to look embarrassed. "Wanda won't talk to
you alone, Anita."

"Has she talked to your reporter friend?"

He frowned, the light of conquest dimming in his eyes. I knew what that
meant. "She won't talk to reporters will she, Irving?"

"She's afraid of Gaynor."

"She should be," I said.

"Why would she talk to you and not us?"

"My winning personality," I said.

"Come on, Blake."

"Where does she hang out, Irving?"

"Oh, hell." He finished his dwindling drink in one angry swallow. "She
stays near a club called The Grey Cat."

The Grey Cat, like that old joke, all cats are grey in the dark. Cute.
"Where's the club?"

Luther answered. I hadn't seen him come back. "On the main drag in the
Tenderloin, corner of Twentieth and Grand. But I wouldn't go down there
alone, Anita."

"I can take care of myself."

"Yeah, but you don't look like you can. You don't want to have to shoot
some dumb shmuck just because he copped a feel, or worse. Take someone
who looks mean, save yourself the aggravation."

Irving shrugged. "I wouldn't go down there alone."

I hated to admit it, but they were right. I may be heap big vampire
slayer but it doesn't show much on the outside. "Okay, I'll get Charles.
He looks tough enough to take on the Green Bay Packers, but his heart is
oh so gentle."

Luther laughed, puffing smoke. "Don't let of Charlie see too much. He
might faint."

Faint once in public and people never let you forget.

"I'll keep Charles safe." I put more money down on the bar than was
needed. Luther hadn't really given me much information this time, but
usually he did. Good information. I never paid full price for it. I got
a discount because I was connected with the police. Dead Dave had been a
cop before they kicked him off the force for being undead. Shortsighted
of them. He was still pissed about that, but he liked to help. So he fed
me information, and I fed the police selected bits of it.

Dead Dave came out of the door behind the bar. I glanced at the dark
glass windows. It looked the same, but if Dave was up, it was full dark.
Shit. It was a walk back to my car surrounded by vampires. At least I
had my gun. Comforting that.

Dave is tall, wide, short brown hair that had been balding when he died.
He lost no more hair but it didn't grow back either. He smiled at me
wide enough to flash fangs. An excited wiggle ran through the crowd, as
if the same nerve had been touched in all of them. The whispers spread
like rings in a pool. Vampire. The show was on.

Dave and I shook hands. His hand was warm, firm, and dry. Have you fed
tonight, Dave? He looked like he had, all rosy and cheerful. What did
you feed on, Dave? And was it willing? Probably. Dave was a good guy for
a dead man.

"Luther keeps telling me you stopped by but it's always in daylight.
Nice to see you're slumming after dark."

"Truthfully, I planned to be out of the District before full dark."

He frowned. "You packing?"

I gave him a discreet glimpse of my gun.

Irving's eyes widened. "You're carrying a gun." It only sounded like he
shouted it.

The noise level had died down to a waiting murmur. Quiet enough for
people to overhear. But then, that's why they had come, to listen to the
vampire. To tell their troubles to the dead. I lowered my voice and
said, "Announce it to the world, Irving."

He shrugged. "Sorry."

"How do you know newsboy over here?" Dave asked.

"He helps me sometimes with research."

"Research, well la-de-da." He smiled without showing any fang. A trick
you learn after a few years. "Luther give you the message?"

"Yeah."

"You going to be smart or dumb?"

Dave is sorta blunt, but I like him anyway. "Dumb probably," I said.

"Just because you got a special relationship with the new Master, don't
let it fool you. He's still a master vampire. They are freaking bad
news. Don't fuck with him."

"I'm trying to avoid it."

Dave smiled broad enough to show fang. "Shit, you mean . . . Naw, he
wants you for more than good tail."

It was nice to know he thought I'd be good tail. I guess. "Yeah," I
said.

Irving was practically bouncing in his seat. "What the hell is going on,
Anita?"

Very good question. "My business, not yours."

"Anita. . ."

"Stop pestering me, Irving. I mean it."

"Pestering? I haven't heard that word since my grandmother."

I looked him straight in the eyes and said, carefully, "Leave me the
fuck alone. That better?"

He put his hands out in an I-give-up gesture. "Heh, just trying to do my
job."

"Well, do it somewhere else."

I slid off the bar stool.

"The word's out to find you, Anita," Dave said. "Some of the other
vampires might get overzealous."

"You mean try to take me?"

He nodded.

"I'm armed, cross and all. I'll be okay."

"You want me to walk you to your car?" Dave asked.

I stared into his brown eyes and smiled. "Thanks, Dave, I'll remember
the offer, but I'm a big girl." Truth was a lot of the vampires didn't
like Dave feeding information to the enemy. I was the Executioner. If a
vampire stepped over the line, they sent for me. There was no such thing
as a life sentence for a vamp. Death or nothing. No prison can hold a
vampire.

California tried, but one master vampire got loose. He killed
twenty-five people in a one-night bloodbath. He didn't feed, he just
killed. Guess he was pissed about being locked up. They'd put crosses
over the doors and on the guards. Crosses don't work unless you believe
in them. And they certainly don't work once a master vampire has
convinced you to take them off.

I was the vampire's equivalent of an electric chair. They didn't like me
much. Surprise, surprise.

"I'll be with her," Irving said. He put money down on the bar and stood
up. I had the bulky file under my arm. I guess he wasn't going to let it
out of his sight. Great.

"She'll probably have to protect you, too," Dave said.

Irving started to say something, then thought better of it. He could
say, but I'm a lycanthrope, except he didn't want people to know. He
worked very, very hard at appearing human.

"You sure you'll be okay?" he asked. One more chance for a vampire guard
to my car.

He was offering to protect me from the Master. Dave hadn't been dead ten
years. He wasn't good enough. "Nice to know you care, Dave."

"Go on, get outta here," he said.

"Watch yourself, girl," Luther said.

I smiled brightly at both of them, then turned and walked out of the
near silent bar. The crowd couldn't have overheard much, if any, of the
conversation, but I could feel them staring at my back. I resisted an
urge to whirl around and go "boo." I bet somebody would have screamed.

It's the cross-shaped scar on my arm. Only vampires have them, right? A
cross shoved into unclean flesh. Mine had been a branding iron specially
made. A now dead master vampire had ordered it. Thought it would be
funny. Hardy-har.

Or maybe it was just Dave. Maybe they hadn't noticed the scar. Maybe I
was overly sensitive. Make friendly with a nice law-abiding vampire, and
people get suspicious. Have a few funny scars and people wonder if
you're human. But that's okay. Suspicion is healthy. It'll keep you
alive.

Chapter 13
----------

The sweltering darkness closed around me like a hot, sticky fist. A
streetlight formed a puddle of brilliance on the sidewalk, as if the
light had melted. All the streetlights are reproductions of
turn-of-the-century gas lamps. They rise black and graceful, but not
quite authentic. Like a Halloween costume. It looks good but is too
comfortable to be real.

The night sky was like a dark presence over the tall brick buildings,
but the streetlights held the darkness back. Like a black tent held up
by sticks of light. You had the sense of darkness without the reality.

I started walking for the parking garage just off First Street. Parking
on the Riverfront is damn near impossible. The tourists have only made
the problem worse.

The hard soles of Irving's dress shoes made a loud, echoing noise on the
stone of the street. Real cobblestones. Streets meant for horses, not
cars. It made parking a bitch, but it was . . . charming.

My Nike Airs made almost no sound on the street. Irving was like a
clattery puppy beside me. Most lycanthropes I've met have been stealthy.
Irving may have been a werewolf but he was more dog. A big, fun-loving
dog.

Couples and small groups passed us, laughing, talking, voices too
shrill. They had come to see vampires. Real-live vampires, or was that
real-dead vampires? Tourists, all of them. Amateurs. Voyeurs. I had seen
more undead than any of them. I'd lay money on that. The fascination
escaped me.

It was full dark now. Dolph and the gang would be awaiting me at Burrell
Cemetery. I needed to get over there. What about the file on Gaynor? And
what was I going to do with Irving? Sometimes my life is too full.

A figure detached itself from the darkened buildings. I couldn't tell if
he had been waiting or had simply appeared. Magic. I froze, like a
rabbit caught in headlights, staring.

"What's wrong, Blake?" Irving asked.

I handed him the file and he took it, looking puzzled. I wanted my hands
free in case I had to go for my gun. It probably wouldn't come to that.
Probably.

Jean-Claude, Master Vampire of the City, walked towards us. He moved
like a dancer, or a cat, a smooth, gliding walk. Energy and grace
contained, waiting to explode into violence.

He wasn't that tall, maybe five-eleven. His shirt was so white, it
gleamed. The shirt was loose, long, full sleeves made tight at the wrist
by three-buttoned cuffs. The front of the shirt had only a string to
close the throat. He'd left it untied, and the white cloth framed the
pale smoothness of his chest. The shirt was tucked into tight black
jeans, and only that kept it from billowing around him like a cape.

His hair was perfectly black, curling softly around his face. The eyes,
if you dared to look into them, were a blue so dark it was almost black.
Glittering, dark jewels.

He stopped about six feet in front of us. Close enough to see the dark
cross-shaped scar on his chest. It was the only thing that marred the
perfection of his body. Or what I'd seen of his body.

My scar had been a bad joke. His had been some poor sod's last attempt
to stave off death. I wondered if the poor sod had escaped? Would
Jean-Claude tell me if I asked? Maybe. But if the answer was no, I
didn't want to hear it.

"Hello, Jean-Claude," I said.

"Greetings, ma petite," he said. His voice was like fur, rich, soft,
vaguely obscene, as if just talking to him was something dirty. Maybe it
was.

"Don't call me ma petite," I said.

He smiled slightly, not a hint of fang. "As you like." He looked at
Irving. Irving looked away, careful not to meet Jean-Claude's eyes. You
never looked directly into a vampire's eyes. Never. So why was I doing
it with impunity. Why indeed?

"Who is your friend?" The last word was very soft and somehow
threatening.

"This is Irving Griswold. He's a reporter for the Post-Dispatch. He's
helping me with a little research."

"Ah," he said. He walked around Irving as if he were something for sale,
and Jean-Claude wanted to see all of him.

Irving gave nervous little glances so that he could keep the vampire in
view. He glanced at me, widening his eyes. "What's going on?"

"What indeed, Irving?" Jean-Claude said.

"Leave him alone, Jean-Claude."

"Why have you not come to see me, my little animator?"

Little animator wasn't much of an improvement over ma petite, but I'd
take it. "I've been busy."

The look that crossed his face was almost anger. I didn't really want
him mad at me. "I was going to come see you," I said.

"When?"

"Tomorrow night."

"Tonight." It was not a suggestion.

"I can't."

"Yes, ma petite, you can." His voice was like a warm wind in my head.

"You are so damn demanding," I said.

He laughed then. Pleasant and resonating like expensive perfume that
lingers in the room after the wearer has gone. His laughter was like
that, lingering in the ears like distant music. He had the best voice of
any master vampire I'd ever met. Everyone has their talents.

"You are so exasperating," he said, the edge of laughter still in his
voice. "What am I to do with you?"

"Leave me alone," I said. I was utterly serious. It was one of my
biggest wishes.

His face sobered completely, like someone had flipped a switch. On,
happy, off, unreadable. "Too many of my followers know you are my human
servant, ma petite. Bringing you under control is part of consolidating
my power." He sounded almost regretful. A lot of help that did me.

"What do you mean, bringing me under control?" My stomach was tight with
the beginnings of fear. If Jean-Claude didn't scare me to death, he was
going to give me an ulcer.

"You are my human servant. You must start acting like one."

"I am not your servant."

"Yes, ma petite, you are."

"Dammit, Jean-Claude, leave me alone."

He was suddenly standing next to me. I hadn't seen him move. He had
clouded my mind without me even blinking. I could taste my pulse at the
back of my throat. I tried to step back, but one pale slender hand
grabbed my right arm, just above the elbow. I shouldn't have stepped
back. I should have gone for my gun. I hoped I would live through the
mistake.

My voice came out flat, normal. At least I'd die brave. "I thought
having two of your vampire marks meant you couldn't control my mind."

"I cannot bewitch you with my eyes, and it is harder to cloud your mind,
but it can be done." His fingers encircled my arm. Not hurting. I didn't
try to pull away. I knew better. He could crush my arm without breaking
a sweat, or tear it from its socket, or bench press a Toyota. If I
couldn't arm wrestle Tommy, I sure as hell couldn't match Jean-Claude.

"He's the new Master of the City, isn't he?" It was Irving. I think we
had forgotten about him. It would have been better for Irving if we had.

Jean-Claude's grip tightened slightly on my right arm. He turned to look
at Irving. "You are the reporter that has been asking to interview me."

"Yes, I am." Irving sounded just the tiniest bit nervous, not much, just
the hint of tightness in his voice. He looked brave and resolute. Good
for Irving.

"Perhaps after I have spoken with this lovely young woman, I will grant
you your interview."

"Really?" Astonishment was plain in his voice. He grinned widely at me.
"That would be great. I'll do it any way you want. It. . ."

"Silence." The word hissed and floated. Irving fell quiet as if it were
a spell.

"Irving, are you alright?" Funny me asking. I was the one cheek to jowl
with a vampire, but I asked anyway.

"Yeah," Irving said. That one word was squeezed small with fear. "I've
just never felt anything like him."

I glanced up at Jean-Claude. "He is sort of one of a kind."

Jean-Claude turned his attention back to me. Oh, goody. "Still making
jokes, ma petite."

I stared up into his beautiful eyes, but they were just eyes. He had
given me the power to resist them. "It's a way to pass the time. What do
you want, Jean-Claude?"

"So brave, even now."

"You aren't going to do me on the street, in front of witnesses. You may
be the new Master, but you're also a businessman. You're mainstream
vampire. It limits what you can do."

"Only in public," he said, so soft that only I heard him.

"Fine, but we both agree you aren't going to do violence here and now."
I stared up at him. "So cut the theatrics and tell me what the bloody
hell you want."

He smiled then, a bare movement of lips, but he released my arm and
stepped back. "Just as you will not shoot me down in the street without
provocation."

I thought I had provocation, but nothing I could explain to the police.
"I don't want to be up on murder charges, that's true."

His smile widened, still not fangs. He did that better than any living
vampire I knew. Was living vampire an oxymoron? I wasn't sure anymore.

"So, we will not harm each other in public," he said.

"Probably not," I said. "What do you want? I'm late for an appointment."

"Are you raising zombies or slaying vampires tonight?"

"Neither," I said.

He looked at me, waiting for me to say more. I didn't. He shrugged and
it was graceful. "You are my human servant, Anita."

He'd used my real name, I knew I was in trouble now. "Am not," I said.

He gave a long sigh. "You bear two of my marks."

"Not by choice," I said.

"You would have died if I had not shared my strength with you."

"Don't give me crap about how you saved my life. You forced two marks on
me. You didn't ask or explain. The first mark may have saved my life,
great. The second mark saved yours. I didn't have a choice either time."

"Two more marks and you will have immortality. You will not age because
I do not age. You will remain human, alive, able to wear your crucifix.
Able to enter a church. It does not compromise your soul. Why do you
fight me?"

"How do you know what compromises my soul? You don't have one anymore.
You traded your immortal soul for earthly eternity. But I know that
vampires can die, Jean-Claude. What happens when you die? Where do you
go? Do you just go poof? No, you go to hell where you belong."

"And you think by being my human servant you will go with me?"

"I don't know, and I don't want to find out."

"By fighting me, you make me appear weak. I cannot afford that, ma
petite. One way or another, we must resolve this."

"Just leave me alone."

"I cannot. You are my human servant, and you must begin to act like
one."

"Don't press me on this, Jean-Claude."

"Or what, will you kill me? Could you kill me?"

I stared at his beautiful face and said, "Yes."

"I feel your desire for me, ma petite, as I desire you."

I shrugged. What could I say? "It's just a little lust, Jean-Claude,
nothing special." That was a lie. I knew it even as I said it.

"No, ma petite, I mean more to you than that."

We were attracting a crowd, at a safe distance. "Do you really want to
discuss this in the street?"

He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "Very true. You make me
forget myself, ma petite."

Great. "I really am late, Jean-Claude. The police are waiting for me."

"We must finish this discussion, ma petite," he said.

I nodded. He was right. I'd been trying to ignore it, and him. Master
vampires are not easy to ignore. "Tomorrow night."

"Where?" he asked.

Polite of him not to order me to his lair. I thought about where best to
do it. I wanted Charles to go down to the Tenderloin with me. Charles
was going to be checking the zombie working conditions at a new comedy
club. Good a place as any. "Do you know The Laughing Corpse?"

He smiled, a glimpse of fang touching his lips. A woman in the small
crowd gasped. "Yes."

"Meet me there at, say, eleven o'clock."

"My pleasure." The words caressed my skin like a promise. Shit.

"I will await you in my office, tomorrow night."

"Wait a minute. What do you mean, your office?" I had a bad feeling
about this.

His smile widened into a grin, fangs glistening in the streetlights.
"Why, I own The Laughing Corpse. I thought you knew."

"The hell you did."

"I will await you."

I'd picked the place. I'd stand by it. Dammit. "Come on, Irving."

"No, let the reporter stay. He has not had his interview."

"Leave him alone, Jean-Claude, please."

"I will give him what he desires, nothing more."

I didn't like the way he said desires. "What are you up to?"

"Me, ma petite, up to something?" He smiled.

"Anita, I want to stay," Irving said.

I turned to him. "You don't know what you're saying."

"I'm a reporter. I'm doing my job."

"Swear to me, swear to me you won't harm him."

"You have my word," Jean-Claude said.

"That you will not harm him in any way."

"That I will not harm him in any way." His face was expressionless, as
if all the smiles had been illusions. His face had that immobility of
the long dead. Lovely to look at, but empty of life as a painting.

I looked into his blank eyes and shivered. Shit. "Are you sure you want
to stay here?"

Irving nodded. "I want the interview."

I shook my head. "You're a fool."

"I'm a good reporter," he said.

"You're still a fool."

"I can take care of myself, Anita."

We looked at each other for a space of heartbeats. "Fine, have fun. May
I have the file?"

He looked down at his arms as if he had forgotten he was holding it.
"Drop it by tomorrow morning or Madeline is going to have a fit."

"Sure. No problem." I tucked the bulky file under my left arm as loosely
as I could manage it. It hampered my being able to draw my gun, but
life's imperfect.

I had information on Gaynor. I had the name of a recent ex-girlfriend. A
woman scorned. Maybe she'd talk to me. Maybe she'd help me find clues.
Maybe she'd tell me to go to hell. Wouldn't be the first time.

Jean-Claude was watching me with his still eyes. I took a deep breath
through my nose and let it out through my mouth. Enough for one night.
"See you both tomorrow." I turned and walked away. There was a group of
tourists with cameras. One was sort of tentatively raised in my
direction.

"If you snap my picture, I will take the camera away from you and break
it." I smiled while I said it.

The man lowered his camera uncertainly. "Geez, just a little picture."

"You've seen enough," I said. "Move on, the show's over." The tourists
drifted away like smoke when the wind blows through it. I walked down
the street towards the parking garage. I glanced back and found the
tourists had drifted back to surround Jean-Claude and Irving. The
tourists were right. The show wasn't over yet.

Irving was a big boy. He wanted the interview. Who was I to play
nursemaid on a grown werewolf? Would Jean-Claude find out Irving's
secret? If he did, would it make a difference? Not my problem. My
problem was Harold Gaynor, Dominga Salvador, and a monster that was
eating the good citizens of St. Louis, Missouri. Let Irving take care of
his own problems. I had enough of my own.

Chapter 14
----------

The night sky was a curving bowl of liquid black. Stars like pinprick
diamonds gave a cold, hard fight. The moon was a glowing patchwork of
greys and goldish-silver. The city makes you forget how dark the night,
how bright the moon, how very many stars.

Burrell Cemetery didn't have any streetlights. There was nothing but the
distant yellow gleam of a house's windows. I stood at the top of the
hill in my coveralls and Nikes, sweating.

The boy's body was gone. It was in the morgue waiting for the coroner's
attentions. I was finished with it. Never had to look at it again.
Except in my dreams.

Dolph stood beside me. He didn't say a word, just looked out over the
grass and broken tombstones, waiting. Waiting for me to do my magic. To
pull the rabbit out of the hat. The best that could happen was the
rabbit to be in and to destroy it. Next best thing was finding the hole
it had come from. That could tell us something. And something was better
than what we had right now.

The exterminators followed a few paces behind. The man was short, beefy,
grey hair cut in a butch. He looked like a retired football coach, but
he handled the flamethrower strapped to his back like it was something
alive. Thick hands caressing it.

The woman was young, no more than twenty. Thin blond hair tied back in a
ponytail. She was a little taller than me, small. Wisps of hair trailed
across her face. Her eyes were wide and searched the tall grass, side to
side. Like a gunner on point.

I hoped she didn't have an itchy trigger finger. I didn't want to be
eaten by a killer zombie, but I didn't want to be plastered with napalm
either. Burned alive or eaten alive? Is there anything else on the menu?

The grass rustled and whispered like dry autumn leaves. If we did use
the flamethrowers in here, it'd be a grass fire. We'd be lucky to outrun
it. But fire was the only thing that could stop a zombie. If it was a
zombie and not something else altogether.

I shook my head and started walking. Doubts would get us nowhere. Act
like you know what you're doing; it was a rule I lived by.

I am sure that Seora Salvador would have had a specific rite or
sacrifice to find a zombie's grave. Her way of doing all this had more
rules than my way. Of course her way enabled her to trap souls in
rotting corpses. I had never hated anyone enough to do that to them.
Kill them, yes, but entrap their soul and make it sit and wait and feel
its body rotting. No, that was worse than wicked. It was evil. She
needed to be stopped, and only death would do that. I sighed. Another
problem for another night.

It bothered me to hear Dolph's footsteps echoing mine. I glanced back at
the two exterminators. They killed everything from termites to ghouls,
but ghouls are cowards, scavengers mostly. Whatever we were after wasn't
a scavenger.

I could feel the three of them at my back. Their footsteps seemed louder
than mine. I tried to clear my mind and start the search, but all I
could hear was their footsteps. All I could sense was the woman's fear.
They were messing up my concentration.

I stopped. "Dolph, I need more room."

"What does that mean?"

"Hang back a little. You're ruining my concentration."

"We might be too far away to help."

"If the zombie rises out of the ground and leeches on me . . ." I
shrugged. "What are you going to do, shoot it with napalm and
crispy-critter me, too?"

"You said fire was the only weapon," he said.

"It is, but if the zombie actually grapples with anyone, tell the
exterminators not to fry the victim."

"If the zombie grabs one of us, we can't use the napalm?" he said.

"Bingo."

"You could have said this sooner."

"I just thought of it."

"Great," he said.

I shrugged. "I'll take point. My oversight. Just hang back and let me do
my job." I stepped in close to him to whisper, "And watch the woman. She
looks scared enough to start shooting shadows."

"They're exterminators, Anita, not police or vampire slayers."

"For tonight, our lives could depend on them, so keep an eye on her,
okay?"

He nodded and glanced back at the two exterminators. The man smiled and
nodded. The girl just stared. I could almost smell her fear.

She was entitled to it. Why did it bother me so much? Because she and I
were the only women here, and we had to be better than the men. Braver,
quicker, whatever. It was a rule for playing with the big boys.

I walked out into the grass alone. I waited until the only thing I could
hear was the grass; soft, dry, whispering. Like it was trying to tell me
something in a scratchy, frantic voice. Frantic, fearful. The grass
sounded afraid. That was stupid. Grass didn't feel shit. But I did, and
there was sweat on every inch of my body. Was it here? Was the thing
that had reduced a man to so much raw meat, here in the grass, hiding,
waiting?

No. Zombies weren't smart enough for that, but of course, it had been
smart enough to hide from the police. That was smart for a corpse. Too
smart. Maybe it wasn't a zombie at all. I had finally found something
that scared me more than vampires. Death didn't bother me much. Strong
Christian and all that. Method of death did. Being eaten alive. One of
my top three ways not to go out.

Who would ever have thought I'd be afraid of a zombie, any kind of
zombie? Nicely ironic that. I'd laugh later when my mouth wasn't so damn
dry.

There was that quiet waiting that all cemeteries have. As if the dead
held their collective breath, waiting, but for what? The resurrection?
Maybe. But I've dealt with the dead too long to believe in just one
answer. The dead are like the living. They do different things.

Most people die and go to heaven or hell, and that's that. But a few,
for whatever reason, don't work that way. Ghosts, restless spirits,
violence, evil, or simple confusion; all of these can trap a spirit on
earth. I'm not saying that it traps the soul. I don't believe that, but
some memory of the soul, the essence, lingers.

Was I expecting some specter to rise from the grass and rush screaming
towards me? No. I had never seen a ghost yet that could cause actual
physical harm. If it causes physical damage, it isn't a ghost; demon
maybe, or the spirit of some sorcerer, black magic, but ghosts don't
hurt.

That was almost a comforting thought.

The ground sloped out from under my feet. I stumbled and caught myself
on one of the leaning headstones. Sunken earth, a grave without a
marker. A tingling shock ran up my leg, a whisper of ghostly
electricity. I jerked back and sat down hard on the ground.

"Anita, you all right?" Dolph yelled.

I glanced back at him and found the grass completely hid me from view.
"I'm fine," I yelled. I got to my feet careful to avoid stepping on the
old grave. Whatever person lay under the earth, he, or she, was not a
happy camper. It was a hot spot, not a ghost, or even a haunt, but
something. It had probably been a full-blown ghost once, but time had
worn it away. Ghosts wear out like old clothes and go on to wherever old
ghosts go.

The sunken grave would fade away, probably in my lifetime. If I could
avoid killer zombies for a few years. And vampires. And gun-toting
humans. Oh, hell, the hot spot would probably outlast me.

I looked back to find Dolph and the exterminators maybe twenty yards
back. Twenty yards, wasn't that awfully far? I had told them to hang
back, but I hadn't meant for them to leave me hanging in the wind. I was
just never satisfied.

If I called them to come closer, you think they'd get mad? Probably. I
started walking again, trying not to step on any more graves. But it was
hard with most of the stones hidden in the long grass. So many unmarked
graves, so much neglect.

I could wander aimlessly all bloody night. Had I really thought that I
could just accidentally walk over the right grave?

Yes. Hope springs eternal, especially when the alternative isn't very
human.

Vampires were once ordinary human beings; zombies, too. Most
lycanthropes start out human, though there are a few rare inherited
curses. All the monsters start out normal except me. Raising the dead
wasn't a career choice. I didn't sit down in the guidance counselor's
office one day and say, "I'd like to raise the dead for a living." No,
it wasn't that neat or clean.

I have always had an affinity for the dead. Always. Not the newly dead.
No, I don't mess with souls, but once the soul departs, I know it. I can
feel it. Laugh all you want. It's the truth.

I had a dog when I was little. Just like most kids. And like most kids'
dogs, she died. I was thirteen. We buried Jenny in the backyard. I woke
up a week after Jenny died and found her curled up beside me. Thick
black fur coated with grave dirt. Dead brown eyes following my every
move, just like when she was alive.

I thought for one wild moment she was alive. It had been a mistake, but
I know dead when I see it. Feel it. Call it from the grave. I wonder
what Dominga Salvador would think about that story. Calling an animal
zombie. How shocking. Raising the dead by accident. How frightening. How
sick.

My stepmother, Judith, never quite recovered from the shock. She rarely
tells people what I do for a living. Dad? Well, Dad ignores it, too. I
tried ignoring it, but couldn't. I won't go into details, but does the
term "road kill" have any significance for you? It did for Judith. I
looked like a nightmare version of the Pied Piper.

My father finally took me to meet my maternal grandmother. She's not as
scary as Dominga Salvador, but she's . . . interesting. Grandma Flores
agreed with Dad. I should not be trained in voodoo, only in enough
control to stop the . . . problems. "Just teach her to control it," Dad
said.

She did. I did. Dad took me back home. It was never mentioned again. At
least not in front of me. I always wondered what dear stepmother said
behind closed doors. For that matter Dad wasn't pleased either. Hell, I
wasn't pleased.

Bert recruited me straight out of college. I never knew how he heard
about me. I refused him at first, but he waved money at me. Maybe I was
rebelling against parental expectations? Or maybe I had finally realized
that there is damn little employment opportunity for a B.S. in biology
with an emphasis on the supernatural. I minored in creatures of legend.
That was real helpful on my resume.

It was like having a degree in ancient Greek or the Romantic Poets,
interesting, enjoyable, but then what the hell can you do with it? I had
planned to go on to grad school and teach college. But Bert came along
and showed me a way to turn my natural talent into a job. At least I can
say I use my degree every day.

I never puzzled about how I came to do what I do. There was no mystery.
It was in the blood.

I stood in the graveyard and took a deep breath. A bead of sweat
trickled down my face. I wiped it with the back of my hand. I was
sweating like a pig, and I still felt cold. Fear, but not of the
bogeyman, of what I was about to do.

If it were a muscle, I would move it. If it were a thought, I would
think it. If it were a magic word, I could say it. It is nothing like
that. It is like my skin becomes cool even under cloth. I can feel all
my nerve endings naked to the wind. And even in this hot, sweating
August night, my skin felt cool. It is almost like a tiny, cool wind
emanates from my skin. But it isn't wind, no one else can feel it. It
doesn't blow through a room like a Hollywood horror movie. It isn't
flashy. It's quiet. Private. Mine.

The cool fingers of "wind" searched outward. Within a
ten-to-fifteen-foot circle I would be able to search the graves. As I
moved, the circle would move with me, searching.

How does it feel to search through the hard-packed earth for dead
bodies? Like nothing human. The closest I can come to describing it is
like phantom fingers rifling through the dirt, searching for the dead.
But, of course, that isn't quite what it feels like either. Close but no
cigar.

The coffin nearest me had been water-ruined years ago. Bits of warped
wood, shreds of bone, nothing whole. Bone and old wood, dirt, clean and
dead. The hot spot flared almost like a burning sensation. I couldn't
read its coffin. The hot spot could keep its secrets. It wasn't worth
forcing the issue. It was a life force of sorts, trapped to a dead grave
until it faded. That is bound to make you grumpy.

I walked slowly forward. The circle moved with me. I touched bones,
intact coffins, bits of cloth in newer graves. This was an old cemetery.
There were no decaying corpses. Death had progressed to the nice neat
stage.

Something grabbed my ankle. I jumped and walked forward without looking
down. Never look down. It's a rule. I got a brief glimpse just behind my
eyes of something pale and mist-like with wide screaming eyes.

A ghost, a real-live ghost. I had walked over its grave and it had let
me know it didn't like it. A ghost had grabbed me round the ankles. Big
deal. If you ignored them, the spectral hands would fade. If you noticed
them, you gave them substance, and you could be in deep shit.

Important safety tip with most of the spiritual world: if you ignore it,
it has less power. This does not work with demons or other demi-beings.
Other exceptions to the rule are vampires, zombies, ghouls,
lycanthropes, witches . . . Oh, hell, ignoring only works for ghosts.
But it does work.

Phantom hands tugged at my pants leg. I could feel skeletal fingers
pulling upwards, as if it would use me to pull itself from the grave.
Shit! I was eating my pulse between my teeth. Just keep walking. Ignore
it. It will go away. Dammit to hell.

The fingers slipped away, reluctantly. Some types of ghost seem to bear
a grudge against the living. A sort of jealousy. They cannot harm you,
but they scare the bejesus out of you and laugh while they're doing it.

I found an empty grave. Bits of wood decaying into the earth, but no
trace of bone. No body. Empty. The earth above it was thick with grass
and weeds. The earth was hard-packed and dry from the drought. The grass
and weeds had been disturbed. Bare roots were showing, almost as if
someone had tried to pull the grass up. Or something had come up
underneath the grass and left a trail.

I knelt on all fours above the dying grass. My hands stayed on top of
the hard, reddish dirt, but I could feel the inside of the grave like
rolling your tongue around your teeth. You can't see it, but you can
feel it.

The corpse was gone. The coffin was undisturbed. A zombie had come from
here. Was it the zombie we were looking for? No guarantees. But it was
the only zombie raising I could sense.

I stared out away from the grave. It was hard using just my eyes to
search the grass. I could almost see what lay under the dirt. But the
grave showed behind my eyes in my head somewhere where there were no
optic nerves. The graveyard that I could see with my eyes ended at a
fence maybe five yards away. Had I walked it all? Was this the only
grave that was empty?

I stood and looked out over the graves. Dolph and the two exterminators
were still with me about thirty yards back. Thirty yards? Some backup.

I had walked it all. There was the grabby ghost. The hot spot was there.
The newest grave over there. It was mine now. I knew this cemetery. And
everything that was restless. Everything that wasn't quite dead was
dancing above its grave. White misty phantoms. Sparkling angry lights.
Agitated. There was more than one way to wake the dead.

But they would quiet down and sleep, if that was the word. No permanent
damage. I glanced back down at the empty grave. No permanent damage.

I waved Dolph and the others over. I got a Ziploc bag out of the
coverall pocket and scooped some grave dirt into it.

The moonlight suddenly seemed dimmer. Dolph was standing over me. He did
sort of loom.

"Well?" he asked.

"A zombie came out of this grave," I said.

"Is it the killer zombie?"

"I don't know for sure."

"You don't know?"

"Not yet."

"When will you know?"

"I'll take it to Evans and let him do his touchie-feelie routine on it."

"Evans, the clairvoyant," Dolph said.

"Yep."

"He's a flake."

"True, but he's good."

"The department doesn't use him anymore."

"Bully for the department," I said. "He's still on retainer at
Animators, Inc."

Dolph shook his head. "I don't trust Evans."

"I don't trust anybody," I said. "So what's the problem?"

Dolph smiled. "Point taken."

I had rolled some of the grass and weeds, roots carefully intact, inside
a second bag. I crawled to the head of the grave and spread the weeds.
There was no marker. Dammit! The pale limestone had been chipped away at
the base. Shattered. Carried away. Shit.

"Why would they destroy the headstone?" Dolph asked.

"The name and date could have given us some clue to why the zombie was
raised and to what went wrong."

"Wrong, how?"

"You might raise a zombie to kill one or two people but not wholesale
slaughter. Nobody would do that."

"Unless they're crazy," he said.

I stared up at him. "That's not funny."

"No, it isn't."

A madman that could raise the dead. A murderous zombie corpse controlled
by a psychotic. Great. And if he, or she, could do it once. . .

"Dolph, if we have a crazy man running around, there could be more than
one zombie."

"And if it is crazy, then there won't be a pattern," he said.

"Shit."

"Exactly."

No pattern meant no motive. No motive meant we might not be able to
figure this out. "No, I don't believe that."

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because if I do believe it, it leaves us no place to go." I took out a
pocketknife that I brought for the occasion and started to chip at the
remains of the tombstone.

"Defacing a gravemarker is against the law," Dolph said.

"Isn't it though." I scrapped a few smaller pieces into a third bag, and
finally got a sizable chunk of marble, big as my thumb.

I stuffed all the bags into the pockets of my coveralls, along with the
pocketknife.

"You really think Evans will be able to read anything from those bits
and pieces?"

"I don't know." I stood and looked down at the grave. The two
exterminators were standing just a short distance away. Giving us
privacy. How very polite. "You know, Dolph, they may have destroyed the
tombstone, but the grave is still here."

"But the corpse is gone," he said.

"True, but the coffin might be able to tell us something. Anything might
help."

He nodded. "Alright, I'll get an exhumation order."

"Can't we just dig it up now, tonight?"

"No," he said. "I have to play by the rules." He stared at me very hard.
"And I don't want to come back out here and find the grave dug up. The
evidence won't mean shit if you tamper with it."

"Evidence? You really think this case will go to court?"

"Yes."

"Dolph, we just need to destroy the zombie."

"I want the bastards that raised it, Anita. I want them up on murder
charges."

I nodded. I agreed with him, but I thought it unlikely. Dolph was a
policeman, he had to worry about the law. I worried about simpler
things, like survival.

"I'll let you know if Evans has anything useful to say," I said.

"You do that."

"Wherever the beastie is, Dolph, it isn't here."

"It's out there, isn't it?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Killing someone else while we sit here and chase our tails."

I wanted to touch him. To let him know it was all right, but it wasn't
all right. I knew how he felt. We were chasing our tails. Even if this
was the grave of the killer zombie, it didn't get us any closer to
finding the zombie. And we had to find it. Find it, trap it, and destroy
it. The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question was, could we do all that
before it needed to feed again? I didn't have an answer. That was a lie.
I had an answer. I just didn't like it. Out there somewhere, the zombie
was feeding again.

Chapter 15
----------

The trailer park where Evans lives is in St. Charles just off Highway
94. Acres of mobile homes roll out in every direction. Of course,
there's nothing mobile about them. When I was a kid, trailers could be
hooked to the back of a car and moved. Simple. It was one of their
appeals. Some of these mobile homes had three and four bedrooms,
multiple baths. The only thing moving these puppies was a semitruck, or
a tornado.

Evans 's trailer is an older model. I think, if he had to, he could
chain it to the back of a pickup and move. Easier than hiring a moving
van, I guess. But I doubt Evans will ever move. Hell, he hasn't left the
trailer in nearly a year.

The windows were golden with light. There was a little makeshift porch
complete with an awning, guarding the door. I knew he would be up. Evans
was always up. Insomnia sounded so harmless. Evans had made it a
disease.

I was back in my black shorts outfit. The three bags of goodies were
stuffed in a fanny pack. If I went in there waving them around, Evans
would freak. I needed to work up to it, be subtle. Just thought I'd drop
by to see my old buddy. No ulterior motives here. Right.

I opened the screen door and knocked. Silence. No movement. Nothing. I
raised my hand to knock again, then hesitated. Had Evans finally gotten
to sleep? His first decent night's sleep since I'd known him. Drat. I
was still standing there with my hand half-raised when I felt him
staring at me.

I looked up at the little window in the door. A slice of pale face was
staring out from between the curtains. Evans's blue eye blinked at me.

I waved.

His face disappeared. The door unlocked, then opened. There was no sight
of Evans, just the open door. I walked in. Evans was standing behind the
door, hiding.

He closed the door by leaning against it. His breathing was fast and
shallow as if he'd been running. Stringy yellow hair trailed over a dark
blue bathrobe. His face was covered in bristly reddish beard.

"How are you doing, Evans?"

He leaned against the door, eyes too wide. His breathing was still too
fast. Was he on something?

"Evans, you all right?" When in doubt, reverse your word order.

He nodded. "What do you want?" His voice was breathy.

I didn't think he was going to believe I had just stopped by. Call it an
instinct. "I need your help."

He shook his head. "No."

"You don't even know what I want."

He shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

"May I sit down?" I asked. If directness wouldn't work, maybe politeness
would.

He nodded. "Sure."

I glanced around the small living-room area. I was sure there was a
couch under the newspapers, paper plates, half-full cups, old clothes.
There was a box of petrified pizza on the coffee table. The room smelled
stale.

Would he freak if I moved stuff? Could I sit on the pile that I thought
was the couch without everything collapsing? I decided to try. I'd sit
in the freaking moldy pizza box if Evans would agree to help me.

I perched on a pile of papers. There was definitely something large and
solid under the newspapers. Maybe the couch. "May I have a cup of
coffee?"

He shook his head. "No clean cups."

This I could believe. He was still pressed against the door as if afraid
to come any closer. His hands were plunged into the pockets of his
bathrobe.

"Can we just talk?" I asked.

He shook his head. I shook my head with him. He frowned at that. Maybe
somebody was home.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I told you, your help."

"I don't do that anymore."

"What?" I asked.

"You know," he said.

"No, Evans, I don't know. Tell me."

"I don't touch things anymore."

I blinked. It was an odd way to phrase it. I stared around at the piles
of dirty dishes, the clothes. It did look untouched. "Evans, let me see
your hands."

He shook his head. I didn't imitate him this time. "Evans, show me your
hands."

"No," it was loud, clear.

I stood up and started walking towards him. It didn't take long. He
backed away into the corner by the door and the doorway into the
bedroom. "Show me your hands."

Tears welled in his eyes. He blinked, and the tears slid down his
cheeks. "Leave me alone," he said.

My chest was tight. What had he done? God, what had he done? "Evans,
either you show me your hands voluntarily, or I make you do it." I
fought an urge to touch his arm, but that was not allowed.

He was crying harder now, small hiccupy sobs. He pulled his left hand
out of the robe pocket. It was pale, bony, whole. I took a deep breath.
Thank you, dear God.

"What did you think I'd done?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Don't ask."

He was looking at me now, really looking at me. I did have his
attention. "I'm not that crazy," he said.

I started to say, "I never thought you were," but obviously I had. I had
thought he had cut his hands off so he wouldn't have to touch anymore.
God, that was crazy. Seriously crazy. And I was here to ask him to help
me with a murder. Which of us was crazier? Don't answer that.

He shook his head. "What are you doing here, Anita?" The tears weren't
even dry on his face, but his voice was calm, ordinary.

"I need your help with a murder."

"I don't do that anymore. I told you."

"You told me once that you couldn't not have visions. Your clairvoyance
isn't something you can just turn off."

"That's why I stay in here. If I don't go out, I don't see anybody. I
don't have visions anymore."

"I don't believe you," I said.

He took a clean white handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it
around the doorknob. "Get out."

"I saw a three-year-old boy today. He'd been eaten alive."

He leaned his forehead into the door. "Don't do this to me, please."

"I know other psychics, Evans, but no one with your success rate. I need
the best. I need you."

He rubbed his forehead against the door. "Please don't."

I should have gone then, left, done what he said, but I didn't. I stood
behind him and waited. Come on, old buddy, old pal, risk your sanity for
me. I was the ruthless zombie raiser. I didn't feel guilt. Results were
all that mattered. Ri-ight.

But in a way, results were all that mattered. "Other people are going to
die unless we can stop it," I said.

"I don't care," he said.

"I don't believe you."

He stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket and whirled around.
"The little boy, you're not lying about that, are you?"

"I wouldn't lie to you."

He nodded. "Yeah, yeah." He licked his lips. "Give me what ya got."

I got the bags out of my purse and opened the one with the gravestone
fragments in it. Had to start somewhere.

He didn't ask what it was, that would be cheating. I wouldn't even have
mentioned the boy except I needed the leverage. Guilt is a wonderful
tool.

His hand shook as I dropped the largest rock fragment into his palm. I
was very careful that my fingers did not brush his hand. I didn't want
Evans inside my secrets. It might scare him off.

His hand clenched around the stone. A shock ran up his spine. He jerked,
eyes closed. And he was gone.

"Graveyard, grave." His head jerked to the side like he was listening to
something. "Tall grass. Hot. Blood, he's wiping blood on the tombstone."
He looked around the room with his closed eyes. Would he have seen the
room if his eyes had been open?

"Where does the blood come from?" he asked that. Was I supposed to
answer? "No, no!" He stumbled backwards, back smacking into the door.
"Woman screaming, screaming, no, no!"

His eyes flew open wide. He threw the rock fragment across the room.
"They killed her, they killed her!" He pressed his fists into his eyes.
"Oh, God, they slit her throat."

"Who is they?"

He shook his head, fists still shoved against his face. "I don't know."

"Evans, what did you see?"

"Blood." He stared at me between his arms, shielding his face. "Blood
everywhere. They slit her throat. They smeared the blood on the
tombstone."

I had two more items for him. Dare I ask? Asking didn't hurt. Did it? "I
have two more items for you to touch."

"No fucking way," he said. He backed away from me towards the short hall
that led to the bedroom. "Get out, get out, get the fuck out of my
house. Now!"

"Evans, what else did you see?"

"Get out!"

"Describe one thing about the woman. Help me, Evans!"

He leaned in the doorway and slid to sit on the floor. "A bracelet. She
wore a bracelet on her left wrist. Little dangling charms, hearts, bow
and arrow, music." He shook his head and buried his head against his
eyes. "Go away now."

I started to say thank you, but that didn't cut it. I picked my way over
the floor searching for the rock fragment. I found it in a coffee cup.
There was something green and growing in the bottom of it. I picked up
the stone and wiped it on a pair of jeans on the floor. I put it back in
the bag and shoved all of it inside the purse.

I stared around at the filth and didn't want to leave him here. Maybe I
was just feeling guilty for having abused him. Maybe. "Evans, thanks."

He didn't look up.

"If I had a cleaning person drop by, would you let her in to clean?"

"I don't want anybody in here."

"Animators, Inc., could pick up the tab. We owe you for this one."

He looked up then. Anger, pure anger was all that was in his face.
"Evans, get some help. You're tearing yourself apart."

"Get-the-fuck-out-of-my-house." Each word was hot enough to scald. I had
never seen Evans angry. Scared, yes, but not like this. What could I
say? It was his house.

I got out. I stood on the shaky porch until I heard the door lock behind
me. I had what I wanted, information. So why did I feel so bad? Because
I had bullied a seriously disturbed man. Okay, that was it. Guilt,
guilt, guilt.

An image flashed into my head, the blood-soaked sheet on the brown
patterned couch. Mrs. Reynolds's spine dangling wet and glistening in
the sunlight.

I walked to my car and got in. If abusing Evans could save one family,
then it was worth it. If it would keep me from having to see another
three-year-old boy with his intestines ripped out, I'd beat Evans with a
padded club. Or let him beat me.

Come to think of it, wasn't that what we'd just done?

Chapter 16
----------

I was small in the dream. A child. The car was crushed in front where it
had been broadsided by another car. It looked like it was made of shiny
paper that had been crushed by hand. The door was open. I crawled inside
on the familiar upholstery, so pale it was almost white. There was a
dark liquid stain on the seat. It wasn't all that large. I touched it,
tentatively.

My fingers came away smeared with crimson. It was the first blood I'd
ever seen. I stared up at the windshield. It was broken in a spiderweb
of cracks, bowed outward where my mother's face had smashed into it. She
had been thrown out the door to die in a field beside the road. That's
why there wasn't a lot of blood on the seat.

I stared at the fresh blood on my fingers. In real life the blood had
been dry, just a stain. When I dreamed about it, it was always fresh.

There was a smell this time. The smell of rotten flesh. That wasn't
right. I stared up in the dream and realized it was a dream. And the
smell wasn't part of it. It was real.

I woke instantly, staring into the dark. My heart thudding in my throat.
My hand went for the Browning in its second home, a sheath attached to
the headboard of my bed. It was firm and solid, and comforting. I stayed
on the bed, back pressed against the headboard, gun held in a teacup
grip.

Through a tiny crack in the drapes moonlight spilled. The meager light
outlined a man's shape. The shape didn't react to the gun or my
movement. It shuffled forward, dragging its feet through the carpet. It
had stumbled into my collection of toy penguins that spilled like a
fuzzy tide under my bedroom window. It had knocked some of them over,
and it didn't seem able to pick its feet up and walk over them. The
figure was wading through the fluffy penguins, dragging its feet as if
wading in water.

I kept the gun pointed one-handed at the thing and reached without
looking to turn on my bedside lamp. The light seemed harsh after the
darkness. I blinked rapidly willing my pupils to contract, to adjust.
When they did, and I could see, it was a zombie.

He had been a big man in life. Shoulders broad as a barn door filled
with muscle. His huge hands were very strong looking. One eye had
dehydrated and was shriveled like a prune. The remaining eye stared at
me. There was nothing in that stare, no anticipation, no excitement, no
cruelty, nothing but a blankness. A blankness that Dominga Salvador had
filled with purpose. Kill she had said. I would have bet on it.

It was her zombie. I couldn't turn it. I couldn't order it to do
anything until it fulfilled Dominga's orders. Once it killed me, it
would be docile as a dead puppy. Once it killed me.

I didn't think I'd wait for that.

The Browning was loaded with Glazer Safety Rounds, silver-coated. Glazer
Safety Rounds will kill a man if you hit him anywhere near the center of
the body. The hole will be too big for salvage. A hole in its chest
wouldn't bother the zombie. It would keep coming, heart or no heart. If
you hit a person in the arm or leg with Safety Rounds, it will take off
that arm or leg. Instant amputee. If you hit it right.

The zombie seemed in no hurry. He shuffled through the fallen stuffed
toys with that single-minded determination of the dead. Zombies are not
inhumanly strong. But they can use every ounce of strength; they don't
save anything. Almost any human being could do a superhuman feat, once.
Pop muscles, tear cartilage, snap your spine, but you can lift the car.
Only inhibitors in the brain prevent us all from destroying ourselves.
Zombies don't have inhibitors. The corpse could literally tear me apart
while it tore itself apart. But if Dominga had really wanted to kill me,
she would have sent a less-decayed zombie. This one was so far gone I
might have been able to dodge around it, and make the door. Maybe. But
then again . . .

I cupped the butt of the gun in my left, the right where it was supposed
to be, my finger on the trigger. I pulled the trigger and the explosion
was incredibly loud in the small room. The zombie jerked, stumbled. Its
right arm flew off in a welter of flesh and bone. No blood, it had been
dead too long for that.

The zombie kept coming.

I sighted on the other arm. Hold your breath, squee-eeze. I was aiming
for the elbow. I hit it. The two arms lay on the carpet and began to
worm their way towards the bed. I could chop the thing to pieces, and
all the pieces would keep trying to kill me.

The right leg at the knee. The leg didn't come loose completely, but the
zombie toppled to one side, listing. It fell on its side, then rolled
onto its stomach and began pushing with its remaining leg. Some dark
liquid was leaking out of the shattered leg. The smell was worse.

I swallowed, and it was thick. God. I got off the bed on the far side
away from the thing. I walked around the bed coming in behind the thing.
It knew instantly that I had moved. It tried to turn and come at me,
pushing with that last leg. The crawling arms turned faster, fingers
scrambling on the carpet. I stood over it and blasted the other leg from
less than two feet away. Bits and pieces of it splattered onto my
penguins. Damn.

The arms were almost at my bare feet. I fired two quick shots and the
hand shattered, exploding on the white carpet. The handless arms flopped
and struggled. They were still trying to reach me.

There was a brush of cloth, a sense of movement just behind me, in the
darkened living room. I was standing with my back to the open door. I
turned and knew it was too late.

Arms grabbed me, clutching me to a very solid chest. Fingers dug into my
right arm, pinning the gun against my body. I turned my head away, using
my hair to shield my face and neck. Teeth sank into my shoulder. I
screamed.

My face was pressed against the thing's shoulder. The fingers were
digging in. It was going to crush my arm. The gun barrel was pressed
against its shoulder. Teeth tore at the flesh of my shoulder, but it
wasn't fangs. It only had human teeth to work with. It hurt like hell,
but it would be alright, if I could get away.

I turned my face forward away from the shoulder and pulled the trigger.
The entire body jerked backwards. The left arm crumbled. I rolled out of
its grip. The arm dangled from my forearm, fingers hanging on.

I was standing in the doorway of my bedroom staring at the thing that
had almost got me. It had been a white male, about six-one, built like a
football player. It was fresh from the farm. Blood spattered where the
shoulder had torn away. The fingers on my arm tightened. It couldn't
crush my arm, but I couldn't make it let go either. I didn't have the
time.

The zombie charged, one arm wide to grab me. I seemed to have all the
time in the world to lift the gun, two-handed. The arm struggled and
fought me as if it were still connected to the zombie's brain. I got off
two quick shots. The zombie stumbled, its left leg collapsing, but it
was too late. It was too close. As it fell, it took me with it.

We landed on the floor with me on the bottom. I managed to keep the
Browning up, so that my arms were free and so was the gun. His weight
pinned my body, nothing I could do about it. Blood glistened on his
lips. I fired point-blank, closing my eyes as I pulled the trigger. Not
just because I didn't want to see, but to save my eyes from bone shards.

When I looked, the head was gone except for a thin line of naked jawbone
and a fragment of skull. The remaining hand scrambled for my throat. The
hand still attached to my arm was helping its body. I couldn't get the
gun around to shoot the arm. The angle was wrong.

A sound of something heavy sliding behind me. I risked a glance, craning
my neck backwards to see the first zombie coming towards me. Its mouth,
all that it had left to hurt me with, was open wide.

I screamed and turned back to the one on top of me. The attached hand
fluttered at my neck. I pulled it away and gave it its own arm to hold.
It grabbed it. With the brain gone, it wasn't as smart. I felt the
fingers on my arm loosen. A shudder ran through the dangling arm. Blood
burst out of it like a ripe melon. The fingers spasmed, releasing my
arm. The zombie crushed its own arm until it spattered and bones
snapped.

The scrambling sounds behind me were closer. "God!"

"Police! Come out with your hands up!" The voice was male and loud from
the hallway.

The hell with being cool and self-sufficient. "Help me!"

"Miss, what's happening in there?"

The scrambling sounds were right next to me. I craned my neck and found
myself almost nose to nose with the first zombie. I shoved the Browning
in its open mouth. Its teeth scrapped on the barrel, and I pulled the
trigger.

A policeman was suddenly in the doorway framed against the darkness.
From my angle he was huge. Curly brown hair, going gray, mustache, gun
in hand. "Jesus," he said.

The second zombie dropped its crushed arm and reached for me again. The
policeman took a firm grip of the zombie's belt and pulled him upward
with one hand. "Get her out of here," he said.

His partner moved in, but I didn't give him time. I scrambled out from
under the half-raised body, scuttling on all fours into the living room.
You didn't have to ask me twice. The partner lifted me to my feet by one
arm. It was my right and the Browning came up with it.

Normally, a cop will make you drop your gun before anything else. There,
is usually no way to tell who the bad guy is. If you have a gun, you are
a bad guy unless proven otherwise. Innocent until proven guilty does not
work in the field.

He scooped the gun from my hand. I let him. I knew the drill.

A gunshot exploded behind us. I jumped, and the cop did, too. He was
about my age, but right then I felt about a million years old. We turned
and found the first cop shooting into the zombie. The thing had
struggled free of his hand. It was on its feet, staggered by the bullets
but not stopped.

"Get over here, Brady," the first cop said. The younger cop drew his gun
and moved forward. He hesitated, glancing at me.

"Help him," I said.

He nodded and started firing into the zombie. The sound of gunfire was
like thunder. It filled the room until my ears were ringing and the reek
of gunpowder was almost overpowering. Bullet holes blossomed in the
walls. The zombie kept staggering forward. They were just annoying it.

The problem for police is that they can't load up with Glazer Safety
Rounds. Most cops don't run into the supernatural as much as I do. Most
of the time they're chasing human crooks. The powers that be frown on
taking off the leg of John Q. Public just 'cause he fired at you. You're
not really supposed to kill people just because they're trying to kill
you. Right?

So they had normal rounds, maybe a little silver coating to make the
medicine go down, but nothing that could stop a zombie. They were being
backed up. One reloaded while the other fired. The thing staggered
forward. Its remaining arm sweeping in front of it, searching. For me.
Shit.

"My gun's loaded with Glazer Safety Rounds," I said. "Use it."

The first cop said, "Brady, I told you to get her out of here."

"You needed help," Brady said.

"Get the civilian the fuck out of here."

Civilian, me?

Brady didn't question again. He just backed towards me, gun out but not
firing. "Come on, miss, we gotta get out of here."

"Give me my gun."

He glanced at me, shook his head.

"I'm with the Regional Preternatural Investigation Team." Which was
true. I was hoping he would assume I was a cop, which wasn't true.

He was young. He assumed. He handed me back the Browning. "Thanks."

I moved up with the older cop. "I'm with the Spook Squad."

He glanced at me, gun still trained on the advancing corpse. "Then do
something."

Someone had turned on the living-room light. Now that no one was
shooting it, the zombie was moving out. It walked like a man striding
down the street, except it had no head and only one arm. There was a
spring in its step. Maybe it sensed I was close.

The body was in better condition than the first zombie's had been. I
could cripple it but not incapacitate it. I'd settle for crippled. I
fired a third round into the left leg that I had wounded earlier. I had
more time to aim, and my aim was true.

The leg collapsed under it. It pulled itself forward with the one arm,
leg pushing against the rug. He was on his last leg. I started to smile,
then to laugh, but it choked in my throat. I walked around the far side
of the couch. I didn't want any accidents after what I'd seen it do to
its own body. I didn't want any crushed limbs.

I came in behind it, and it scrambled quicker than it should have to try
to face me. It took two shots for the other leg. I couldn't remember how
many bullets I'd used. Did I have one more left, or two, or none?

I felt like Dirty Harry, except that this punk didn't give a damn how
many bullets I had left. The dead don't scare easy.

It was still pulling itself and its damaged legs along. That one hand. I
fired nearly point-blank, and the hand exploded like a crimson flower on
the white carpet. It kept coming, using the wrist stump to push along.

I pulled the trigger, and it clicked empty. Shit. "I'm out," I said. I
stepped back away from it. It followed me.

The older cop moved in and grabbed it by both ankles. He pulled it
backwards. One leg slid slowly out of the pants and twisted free in his
hand. "Fuck!" He dropped the leg. It wiggled like a broken-backed snake.

I stared down at the still determined corpse. It was struggling towards
me. It wasn't making much progress. The policeman was holding it
one-legged sort of in the air. But the zombie kept trying. It would keep
trying until it was incinerated or Dominga Salvador changed her orders.

More uniformed cops came in the door. They fell on the butchered zombie
like vultures on a wildebeest. It bucked and struggled. Fought to get
away, to finish its mission. To kill me. There were enough cops to
subdue it. They would hold it until the lab boys arrived. The lab boys
would do what they could on-site. Then the zombie would be incinerated
by an exterminator team. They had tried taking zombies down to the
morgue and holding them for tests, but little pieces kept escaping and
hiding out in the strangest places.

The medical examiner had decreed that all zombies were to be truly dead
before shipping. The ambulance crew and lab techs agreed with her. I
sympathized but knew that most evidence disappears in a fire. Choices,
choices.

I stood to one side of my living room. They had forgotten me in the
melee. Fine, I didn't feel like wrestling any more zombies tonight. I
realized for the first time that I was wearing nothing but an oversize
T-shirt and panties. The T-shirt clung wetly to my body, thick with
blood. I started towards the bedroom. I think I meant to get a pair of
pants. The sight on the floor stopped me.

The first zombie was like a legless insect. It couldn't move, but it was
trying. The bloody stump of a body was still trying to carry out its
orders. To kill me.

Dominga Salvador had meant to kill me. Two zombies, one almost new. She
had meant to kill me. That one thought chased round my head like a piece
of song. We had threatened each other, but why this level of violence?
Why kill me? I couldn't stop her legally. She knew that. So why make
such a damned serious attempt to kill me?

Maybe because she had something to hide? Dominga had given her word that
she hadn't raised the killer zombie, but maybe her word didn't mean
anything. It was the only answer. She had something to do with the
killer zombie. Had she raised it? Or did she know who had? No. She'd
raised the beast or why kill me the night after I talked to her? It was
too big a coincidence. Dominga Salvador had raised a zombie, and it had
gotten away from her. That was it. Evil as she was, she wasn't
psychotic. She wouldn't just raise a killer zombie and let it loose. The
great voodoo queen had screwed up royally. That, more than anything
else, more than the deaths, or the possible murder charge, would piss
her off. She couldn't afford her reputation to be trashed like that.

I stared past the bloody, stinking remnants in the bedroom. My stuffed
penguins were covered in blood and worse. Could my long suffering dry
cleaner get them clean? He did pretty good with my suits.

Glazer Safety Rounds didn't go through walls. It was another reason I
liked them. My neighbors didn't get shot up. The police bullets had
pierced the bedroom walls. Neat round holes were everywhere.

No one had ever attacked me at home before, not like this. It should
have been against the rules. You should be safe in your own bed. I know,
I know. Bad guys don't have rules. It's one of the reasons they're bad
guys.

I knew who had raised the zombie. All I had to do was prove it. There
was blood everywhere. Blood and worse things. I was actually getting
used to the smell. God. But it stank. The whole apartment stank. Almost
everything in my apartment is white; walls, carpet, couch, chair. It
made the stains show up nicely, like fresh wounds. The bullet holes and
cracked plaster board set off the blood nicely.

The apartment was trashed. I would prove Dominga had done this, then, if
I was lucky, I'd get to return the favor.

"Sweets to the sweet," I whispered to no one in particular. Tears
started to burn at the back of my throat. I didn't want to cry, but a
scream was sort of tickling around in my throat, too. Crying or
screaming. Crying seemed better.

The paramedics came. One was a short black woman about my own age. "Come
on, honey, we got to take a look at you." Her voice was gentle, her
hands sort of leading me away from the carnage. I didn't even mind her
calling me honey.

I wanted very much to crawl up into someone's lap about now and be
comforted. I needed that badly. I wasn't going to get it.

"Honey, we need to see how bad you're bleeding before we take you down
to the ambulance."

I shook my head. My voice sounded far away, detached. "It's not my
blood."

"What?"

I looked at her, fighting to focus and not drift. Shock was setting in.
I'm usually better than this, but hey, we all have our nights.

"It's not my blood. I've got a bite on the shoulder, that's it."

She looked like she didn't believe me. I didn't blame her. Most people
see you covered in blood, they just assume part of it has to be yours.
They do not take into account that they are dealing with a
tough-as-nails vampire slayer and corpse raiser.

The tears were back, stinging just behind my eyes. There was blood all
over my penguins. I didn't give a damn about the walls and carpet. They
could be replaced, but I'd collected those damned stuffed toys over
years. I let the paramedic lead me away. Tears trickling down my cheeks.
I wasn't crying, my eyes were running. My eyes were running because
there were pieces of zombie all over my toys. Jesus.

Chapter 17
----------

I'd seen enough crime scenes to know what to expect. It was like a play
I'd seen too many times. I could tell you all the entrances, the exits,
most of the lines. But this was different. This was my place.

It was silly to be offended that Dominga Salvador had attacked me in my
own home. It was stupid, but there it was. She had broken a rule. One I
hadn't even known I had. Thou shalt not attack the good guy in his, or
her, own home. Shit.

I was going to nail her hide to a tree for it. Yeah, me and what army?
Maybe, me and the police.

The living-room curtains billowed in the hot breeze. The glass had been
shattered in the firefight. I was glad I had just signed a two-year
lease. At least they couldn't kick me out.

Dolph sat across from me in my little kitchen area. The breakfast table
with its two straight-backed chairs seemed tiny with him sitting at it.
He sort of filled my kitchen. Or maybe I was just feeling small tonight.
Or was it morning?

I glanced at my watch. There was a dark, slick smear obscuring the face.
Couldn't read it. Would have to chip the damn thing clean. I tucked my
arm back inside the blanket the paramedic had given me. My skin was
colder than it should have been. Even thoughts of vengeance couldn't
warm me. Later, later I would be warm. Later I would be pissed. Right
now I was glad to be alive.

"Okay, Anita, what happened?"

I glanced at the living room. It was nearly empty. The zombies had been
carried away. Incinerated on the street no less. Entertainment for the
entire neighborhood. Family fun.

"Could I change clothes before I give a statement, please?"

He looked at me for maybe a second, then nodded.

"Great." I got up gripping the blanket around me, edges folded
carefully. Didn't want to accidentally trip on the ends. I'd embarrassed
myself enough for one night.

"Save the T-shirt for evidence," Dolph called.

I said, "Sure thing," without turning around.

They had thrown sheets over the worst of the stains so they didn't track
blood all over the apartment building. Nice. The bedroom stank of rotted
corpse, stale blood, old death. God. I'd never be able to sleep in here
tonight. Even I had my limits.

What I wanted was a shower, but I didn't think Dolph would wait that
long. I settled for jeans, socks, and a clean T-shirt. I carried all of
it into the bathroom. With the door closed, the smell was very faint. It
looked like my bathroom. No disasters here.

I dropped the blanket on the floor with the T-shirt. There was a bulky
bandage over my shoulder where the zombie had bitten me. I was lucky it
hadn't taken a hunk of flesh. The paramedic warned me to get a tetanus
booster. Zombies don't make more zombies by biting, but the dead have
nasty mouths. Infection is more of a danger but a tetanus booster is a
precaution.

Blood had dried in flaking patches on my legs and arms. I didn't bother
washing my hands. I'd shower later. Get everything clean at once.

The T-shirt hung almost to my knees. A huge caricature of Arthur Conan
Doyle was on the front. He was peering through a huge magnifying glass,
one eye comically large. I gazed into the mirror over the sink, looking
at the shirt. It was soft and warm and comforting. Comforting was good
right now.

The old T-shirt was ruined. No saving it. But maybe I could save some of
the penguins. I ran cold water into the bathtub. If it was a shirt, I'd
soak it in cold water. Maybe it worked with toys.

I got a pair of jogging shoes out from under the bed. I didn't really
want to walk over the drying stains in only socks. Shoes were made for
such occasions. Alright, so the creator of Nike Airs never foresaw
walking over drying zombie blood. It's hard to prepare for everything.

Two of the penguins were turning brown as the blood dried. I carried
them gingerly into the bathroom and laid them in the water. I pushed
them under until they soaked up enough water to stay partially
submerged, then I turned the water off. My hands were cleaner. The water
wasn't. Blood trailed out of the two soft toys like water squeezed out
of a sponge. If these two came clean, I could save them all.

I dried my hands on the blanket. No sense getting blood on anything
else.

Sigmund, the penguin I occasionally slept with, was barely spattered.
Just a few specks across his fuzzy white belly. Small blessings. I
almost tucked him under my arm to hold while I gave a statement. Dolph
probably wouldn't tell. I put Sigmund a little farther from the worst
stains, as if that would help. Seeing the stupid toy tucked safely in a
corner did make me feel better. Great.

Zerbrowski was peering at the aquarium. He glanced my way. "These are
the biggest freaking angelfish I've ever seen. You could fry some of 'em
up in a pan."

"Leave the fish alone, Zerbrowski," I said.

He grinned. "Sure, just a thought."

Back in the kitchen Dolph sat with his hands folded on the tabletop. His
face unreadable. If he was upset that I'd almost cashed it in tonight,
he didn't show it. But then Dolph didn't show much of anything, ever.
The most emotion I'd ever seen him display was about this case. The
killer zombie. Butchered civilians.

"You want some coffee?" I asked.

"Sure."

"Me, too," Zerbrowski said.

"Only if you say please."

He leaned against the wall just outside the kitchen. "Please." I got a
bag of coffee out of the freezer.

"You keep the coffee in the freezer?" Zerbrowski said.

"Hasn't anyone ever fixed real coffee for you?" I asked.

"My idea of gourmet coffee is Taster's Choice."

I shook my head. "Barbarian."

"If you two are finished with clever repartee," Dolph said, "could we
start the statement now?" His voice was softer than his words.

I smiled at him and at Zerbrowski. Damned if it wasn't nice to see both
of them. I must have been hurt worse than I knew to be happy to see
Zerbrowski.

"I was asleep minding my own business when I woke up to find a zombie
standing over me." I measured beans and poured them into the little
black coffee grinder that I'd bought because it matched the coffee
maker.

"What woke you?" Dolph asked.

I pressed the button on the grinder and the rich smell of fresh ground
coffee filled the kitchen. Ah, heaven.

"I smelled corpses," I said.

"Explain."

"I was dreaming, and I smelled rotting corpses. It didn't match the
dream. It woke me."

"Then what?" He had his ever present notebook out. Pen poised.

I concentrated on each small step to making the coffee and told Dolph
everything, including my suspicions about Seora Salvador. The coffee
was beginning to perk and fill the apartment with that wonderful smell
that coffee always has by the time I finished.

"So you think Dominga Salvador is our zombie raiser?" Dolph said.

"Yes."

He stared at me across the small table. His eyes were very serious. "Can
you prove it?"

"No."

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. "Great, just
great."

"The coffee smells done," Zerbrowski said. He was sitting on the floor,
back propped against the kitchen doorway.

I got up and poured the coffee. "If you want sugar or cream, help
yourself." I put the cream, real cream, out on the kitchen counter along
with the sugar bowl. Zerbrowski took a lot of sugar and a dab of cream.
Dolph went for black. It was the way I took it most of the time. Tonight
I added cream and sweetened it. Real cream in real coffee. Yum, yum.

"If we could get you inside Dominga's house, could you find proof?"
Dolph asked.

"Proof of something, sure, but of raising the killer zombie . . . " I
shook my head. "If she did raise it and it got away, then she won't want
to be tied to it. She'll have destroyed all the proof, just to save
face."

"I want her for this," Dolph said.

"Me, too."

"She might also try and kill you again," Zerbrowski said from the
doorway. He was blowing on his coffee to cool it.

"No joke," I said.

"You think she'll try again?" Dolph asked.

"Probably. How the hell did two zombies get inside my apartment?"

"Someone picked the lock," Dolph said. "Could the zombie . . ."

"No, a zombie would rip a door off its hinges, but it wouldn't take the
time to pick a lock. Even if it had the fine motor skill to do it."

"So someone with skill opened the door and let them in," Dolph said.

"Appears so," I said.

"Any ideas on that?"

"I would bet one of her bodyguards. Her grandson Antonio or maybe Enzo.
A big guy in his forties who seems to be her personal protection. I
don't know if either of them have the skill, but they'd do it. Enzo, but
not Antonio."

"Why cross him off?"

"If Tony had let the zombies in, he'd have stayed and watched."

"You sure?"

I shrugged. "He's that kind of guy. Enzo would do business and leave.
He'd follow orders. The grandson wouldn't."

Dolph nodded. "There's a lot of heat from upstairs to solve this case. I
think I can get us a search warrant in forty-eight hours."

"Two days is a long time, Dolph."

"Two days without one piece of proof, Anita. Except for your word. I'm
going out on a limb for this one."

"She's in it, Dolph, somehow. I don't know why, and I don't know what
could have caused her to lose control of the zombie, but she's in it."

"I'll get the warrant," he said.

"One of the brothers in blue said you told him you were a cop,"
Zerbrowski said.

"I told him I was with your squad. I never said I was a cop."

Zerbrowski grinned. "Mmm-huh."

"Will you be safe here tonight?" Dolph asked.

"I think so. The Seora doesn't want to get on the bad side of the law.
They treat renegade witches sort of like renegade vampires. It's an
automatic death sentence."

"Because people are too scared of them," Dolph said.

"Because some witches can slip through the fucking bars."

"How about voodoo queens?" Zerbrowski said.

I shook my head. "I don't want to know."

"We better go, leave you to get some sleep," Dolph said. He left his
empty coffee cup on the table. Zerbrowski hadn't finished his, but he
put it on the counter and followed Dolph out.

I walked them to the door.

"I'll let you know when we get the warrant," Dolph said.

"Could you arrange for me to see Peter Burke's personal effects?"

"Why?"

"There are only two ways to lose control of a zombie this badly. One,
you are strong enough to raise it, but not to control it. Dominga can
control anything she can raise. Second, someone of near equal power
interferes, sort of a challenge." I stared up at Dolph. "John Burke
might just be strong enough to have done it. Maybe if I'm helpful enough
to take John down to go over his brother's effects--you know, does any
of this look out of place, that type of thing--maybe this Burke will let
something slip."

"You've already got Dominga Salvador pissed at you, Anita. Isn't that
enough for one week?"

"For one lifetime," I said. "But it's something we can do while we wait
for the warrant."

Dolph nodded. "Yeah. I'll arrange it. Call Mr. Burke tomorrow morning
and set up a time. Then call me."

"Will do."

Dolph hesitated in the doorway for a moment. "Watch your back."

"Always," I said.

Zerbrowski leaned into me and said, "Nice penguins." He followed Dolph
down the hallway. I knew the next time I saw the rest of the spook squad
they'd all know I collected toy penguins. My secret was out. Zerbrowski
would spread it far and wide. At least, he was consistent.

It was nice to know something was.

Chapter 18
----------

Stuffed animals are not meant to be submerged in water. The two in the
bathtub were ruined. Maybe spot remover? The smell was thick and seemed
permanent. I put an emergency message on my cleaning service's answering
machine. I didn't give a lot of details. Didn't want to frighten them
off.

I packed an overnight bag. Two changes of clothes and one penguin with
his tummy freshly scrubbed, Harold Gaynor's file, and I was set. I also
packed both guns: the Firestar in its inner pants holster; the Browning
under my arm. A windbreaker hid the Browning from view. I had extra ammo
in the jacket pockets. Between both guns I had twenty-two bullets.
Twenty-two bullets. Why didn't I feel safe?

Unlike most walking dead, zombies can bear the touch of sunlight. They
don't like it, but they can exist with it. Dominga could order a zombie
to kill me in daylight just as easily as moonlight. She wouldn't be able
to raise the dead during daylight, but if she planned it right, she
could raise the dead the night before and send it out to get me the next
day. A voodoo priestess with executive planning skills. It would be just
my luck.

I didn't really believe that Dominga had backup zombies waiting to jump
me. But somehow I was feeling paranoid this morning. Paranoia is just
another word for longevity.

I stepped out into the quiet hallway, glancing both ways as if it were a
street. Nothing. No walking corpses hiding in the shadows. No one but us
fraidy-cats. The only sound was the hush of the air-conditioning. The
hallway had that feel to it. I came home often enough at dawn to know
the quality of silence. I thought about that for a minute. I knew it was
almost dawn. Not by clock or window, but on some level deeper than that.
Some instinct that an ancestor had found while hiding in a dark cave,
praying for light.

Most people fear the dark in a vague way. They fear what might be out
there. I raise the dead. I've slain over a dozen vampires. I know what's
out there in the dark. And I am terrified of it. People are supposed to
fear the unknown, but ignorance is bliss when knowledge is so damn
frightening.

I knew what would have happened to me if I had failed last night. If I
had been slower or a worse shot. Two years ago there had been three
murders. Nothing connected them except the method of death. They had
been torn apart by zombies. They had not been eaten. Normal zombies
don't eat anything. They may bite a time or two, but that's the worst of
it. There had been the man whose throat was crushed, but that had been
accidental. The zombie just bit down on the nearest body part. It
happened to be a killing blow. Blind luck.

A zombie will normally just wrestle you to pieces. Like a small boy
tearing pieces off of a fly.

Raising a zombie for the purposes of being a murder weapon is an
automatic death sentence. The court system has gotten rather quick on
the draw the last few years. A death sentence meant what it said these
days. Especially if your crime was supernatural in some way. You didn't
burn witches anymore. You electrocuted them.

If we could get proof, the state would kill Dominga Salvador for me.
John Burke, too, if we could prove he had knowingly caused the zombie to
go ape-shit. The trouble with supernatural crimes is proving them in
court. Most juries aren't up on the latest spells and incantations.
Heck, neither am I. But I've tried explaining zombies and vampires in
court before. I've learned to keep it simple and to add any gory details
the defense will allow me. A jury appreciates a little vicarious
adventure. Most testimony is terribly boring or heartbreaking. I try to
be interesting. It's a change of pace.

The parking area was dark. Stars still glimmered overhead. But they were
fading like candles in a steady wind. I could taste dawn on the air.
Roll it around on my tongue. Maybe it's all the vampire hunting I do,
but I was more attuned to the passage of light and dark than I had been
four years ago. I hadn't been able to taste the dawn.

Of course my nightmares were a lot less interesting four years ago. You
gain something, you lose something else. It's the way life works.

It was after 5:00 A.M. when I got in my car and headed out for the
nearest hotel. I wouldn't be able to stand my apartment until the
cleaning crew got the smell out. If they could get the smell out. My
landlord was not going to be pleased if they couldn't.

He was going to be even less pleased with the bullet holes and shattered
window. Replace the window. Replaster the walls, maybe? I really didn't
know what you did to repair bullet holes? Here I was hoping my lease
couldn't be challenged in court.

The first hint of dawn was slipping over the eastern sky. A pure white
light that spread like ice over the darkness. Most people think dawn is
as colorful as sunset but the first color of dawn is white, a pure
not-color, that is almost an absence of night.

There was a motel, but all its rooms were on one or two stories, some of
them awfully isolated. I wanted a crowd. I settled on The Stouffer
Concourse which wasn't terribly cheap but it would force zombies to ride
up in elevators. People tended to notice the smell in an elevator. The
Stouffer Concourse also had room service at this ungodly hour of dawn. I
needed room service. Coffee, give me coffee.

The clerk gave me that wide-eyed-I'm-too-polite-to-say-it-out-loud look.
The elevators were mirrored, and I had nothing to do for several floors
but look at my reflection. Blood had dried in a stiff darkness in my
hair. A stain went down the right side of my face just below the
hairline and trailed down my neck. I hadn't noticed it in the mirror at
home. Shock will make you forget things.

It wasn't the bloodstains that had made the clerk look askance. Unless
you knew what to look for, you wouldn't know it was blood. No, the
problem was that my skin was deathly pale, like clean paper. My eyes
that are perfectly brown looked black. They were huge and dark and . . .
strange. Startled, I looked startled. Surprised to be alive. Maybe. I
was still fighting off the edge of shock. No matter how together I felt,
my face told a different story. When the shock wore off, I'd be able to
sleep. Until then, I'd read Gaynor's file.

The room had two double beds. More room than I needed, but what the
heck. I got out clean clothes, put the Firestar in the drawer of the
nightstand, and took the Browning into the bathroom with me. If I was
careful and didn't turn the shower on full blast, I could fasten the
shoulder holster to the towel rack in the back of the stall. It wouldn't
even get wet. Though truthfully with most modern guns, wet doesn't hurt
them. As long as you clean them afterwards. Most guns will shoot
underwater.

I called room service wearing nothing but a towel. I'd almost forgotten.
I ordered a pot of coffee, sugar, and cream. They asked if I wanted
decaf. I said no thank you. Pushy. Like waiters asking if I wanted a
diet Coke when I didn't ask for it. They never ask men, even portly men,
if they want diet Cokes.

I could drink a pot of caffeine and sleep like a baby. It doesn't keep
me awake or make me jumpy. It just tastes better.

Yes, they would leave the cart outside the door. No, they wouldn't
knock. They would add the coffee to my bill. That was fine, I said. They
had a credit card number. When they have plastic, people are always
eager to add on to your bill. As long as the limit holds.

I propped the straight-backed chair under the doorknob to the hallway.
If someone forced the door, I'd hear it. Maybe. I locked the bathroom
door and had a gun in the shower with me. I was as secure as I was going
to get.

There is something about being naked that makes me feel vulnerable. I
would much rather face bad guys with my clothes on than off. I guess
everyone's like that.

The bite on my shoulder with its thick bandage was a problem when I
wanted to wash my hair. I had to get the blood out, bandage or no
bandage.

I used their little bottles of shampoo and conditioner. They smelled
like flowers are supposed to smell but never do. Blood had dried in
patches on my body. I looked spotted. The water that washed down the
drain was pinkish.

It took the entire bottle of shampoo before my hair was squeaky clean.
The last rinse water soaked through the bandage on my right shoulder.
The pain was sharp and persistent. I'd have to remember to get that
tetanus booster.

I scrubbed my body with a washcloth and the munchkin bar of soap. When I
had washed and soaked every inch of myself, and was as clean as I was
going to get, I stood under the hot needling spray. I let the water pour
over my back, down my body. The bandage had soaked through long ago.

What if we couldn't tie Dominga to the zombies? What if we couldn't find
proof? She'd try again. Her pride was at stake now. She had set two
zombies on me, and I had wasted them both. With a little help from the
police. Dominga Salvador would see it as a personal challenge.

She had raised a zombie and it had escaped her control completely. She
would rather have innocent people slaughtered than to admit her mistake.
And she would rather kill me than have me prove it. Vindictive bitch.

Seora Salvador had to be stopped. If the warrant didn't help, then I'd
have to be more practical. She'd made it clear that it was her or me. I
preferred it to be her. And if necessary, I'd make sure of it.

I opened my eyes and turned off the water. I didn't want to think about
it anymore. I was talking about murder. I saw it as self-defense, but I
doubted a jury would. It'd be damn hard to prove. I wanted several
things. Dominga out of the picture, dead or in jail. To stay alive. Not
to be in jail on a murder charge. To catch the killer zombie before it
killed again. Fat chance that. To figure out how John Burke fit into
this mess.

Oh, and to keep Harold Gaynor from forcing me to perform human
sacrifice. Yeah, I almost forgot that one.

It had been a busy week.

The coffee was outside the door on a little tray. I set it inside on the
floor, locked the door, and put the chair against the doorknob again.
Only then did I set the coffee tray on a small table by the curtained
windows. The Browning was already sitting on the table, naked. The
shoulder holster was on the bed.

I opened the drapes. Normally, I would have kept the drapes closed, but
today I wanted to see the light. Morning had spread like a soft haze of
light. The heat hadn't had time to creep up and strangle that first
gentle touch of morning.

The coffee wasn't bad, but it wasn't great either. Of course, the worst
coffee I've ever had was still wonderful. Well, maybe not the coffee at
police headquarters. But even that was better than nothing. Coffee was
my comfort drink. Better than alcohol, I guess.

I spread Gaynor's file on the table and started to read. By eight that
morning, earlier than I usually get up, I had read every scribbled note,
gazed at every blurry picture. I knew more about Mr. Harold Gaynor than
I wanted to, none of it particularly helpful.

Gaynor was mob-connected, but it couldn't be proven. He was a self-made
multimillionaire. Bully for him. He could afford the million five that
Tommy had offered me. Nice to know a man can pay his bills.

His only family had been a mother who died ten years ago. His father was
supposed to have died before he was born. There was no record of the
father's death. In fact, the father didn't seem to exist.

An illegitimate birth, carefully disguised? Maybe. So Gaynor was a
bastard in the original definition of the word. So what? I'd already
known he was one in spirit.

I propped Wheelchair Wanda's picture against the coffeepot. She was
smiling, almost like she'd known the picture was being taken. Maybe she
was just photogenic. There were two pictures with her and Gaynor
together. In one they were smiling, holding hands as Tommy pushed
Gaynor's wheelchair and Bruno pushed Wanda. She was gazing at Gaynor
with a look I had seen in other women. Adoration, love. I'd even
experienced it myself for a brief time in college. You get over it.

The second picture was almost identical to the first. Bruno and Tommy
pushing them. But they weren't holding hands. Gaynor was smiling. Wanda
wasn't. She looked angry. Cicely of the blond hair and empty eyes was
walking on the other side of Gaynor. They were holding hands. Ah-ha.

So Gaynor had kept both of them around for a while. Why had Wanda left?
Jealousy? Had Cicely arranged it? Had Gaynor tired of her? The only way
to know was to ask.

I stared at the picture with Cicely in it. I put it beside the laughing
close-up of Wanda's face. An unhappy young woman, a scorned lover. If
she hated Gaynor more than she feared him, Wanda would talk to me. She
would be a fool to talk to the papers, but I didn't want to publish her
secrets.

I wanted Gaynor's secrets, so I could keep him from hurting me. Barring
that, I wanted something to take to the police.

Mr. Gaynor would have other things to worry about if I could get him in
jail. He might forget all about one reluctant animator. Unless, of
course, he found out I'd had something to do with him being arrested.
That would be bad. Gaynor struck me as vengeful. I had Dominga Salvador
mad at me. I didn't need anyone else.

I closed the drapes and left a wake-up call for noon. Irving would just
have to wait for his file. I had unintentionally given him the interview
with the new Master of the City. Surely that cut me a little slack. If
not, to hell with it. I was going to bed.

The last thing I did before going to bed was call Peter Burke's house. I
figured that John would be staying there. It rang five times before the
machine kicked on. "This is Anita Blake, I may have some information for
John Burke on a matter we discussed Thursday." The message was a little
vague, but I didn't want to leave a message saying, "Call me about your
brother's murder." It would have seemed melodramatic and cruel.

I left the hotel's number as well as my own. Just in case. They probably
had the ringers turned off. I would. The story had been front page
because Peter was, had been, an animator. Animators don't get murdered
much in the run-of-the-mill muggings. It's usually something more
unusual.

I would drop off Gaynor's file on the way home. I wanted to drop it off
at the receptionist desk. I didn't feel like talking to Irving about his
big interview. I didn't want to hear that Jean-Claude was charming or
had great plans for the city. He'd be very careful what he told a
reporter. It would look good in print. But I knew the truth. Vampires
are as much a monster as any zombie, maybe worse. Vamps usually
volunteer for the process, zombies don't.

Just like Irving volunteered to go off with Jean-Claude. Of course, if
Irving hadn't been with me the Master would have left him alone.
Probably. So it was my fault, even if it had been his choice. I was
achingly tired, but I knew I'd never be able to sleep until I heard
Irving's voice. I could pretend I'd called to tell him I was dropping
the file off late.

I wasn't sure if Irving would be on his way to work or not. I tried home
first. He answered on the first ring.

"Hello."

Something tight in my stomach relaxed. "Hi, Irving, it's me."

"Ms. Blake, to what do I owe this early morning pleasure?" His voice
sounded so ordinary.

"I had a bit of excitement at my apartment last night. I was hoping I
could drop the file off later in the day."

"What sort of excitement?" His voice had that "tell me" lilt to it.

"The kind that's police business and not yours," I said.

"I thought you'd say that," he said. "You just getting to bed?"

"Yeah."

"I guess I can let a hardworking animator sleep in a little. My sister
reporter may even understand."

"Thanks, Irving."

"You alright, Anita?"

No, I wanted to say, but I didn't. I ignored the question. "Did
Jean-Claude behave himself?"

"He was great!" Irving's enthusiasm was genuine, all bubbly excitement.
"He's a great interview." He was quiet for a moment. "Hey, you called to
check up on me. To make sure I was okay."

"Did not," I said.

"Thanks, Anita, that means a lot. But really, he was very civilized."

"Great. I'll let you go then. Have a good day."

"Oh, I will, my editor is doing cartwheels about the exclusive interview
with the Master of the City."

I had to laugh at the way he rolled the title off his tongue. "Good
night, Irving."

"Get some sleep, Blake. I'll be calling you in a day or two about those
zombie articles."

"Talk to you then," I said. We hung up.

Irving was fine. I should worry more about myself and less about
everyone else.

I turned off the lights and cuddled under the sheets. My penguin was
cradled in my arms. The Browning Hi-Power was under my pillow. It wasn't
as easy to get to as the bed holster at home, but it was better than
nothing.

I wasn't sure which was more comforting, the penguin or the gun. I guess
both were equally comforting, for very different reasons.

I said my prayers like a good little girl. I asked very sincerely that I
not dream.

Chapter 19
----------

The cleaning crew had a cancellation and moved my emergency into the
slot. By afternoon my apartment was clean and smelled like spring
cleaning. Apartment maintenance had replaced the shattered window. The
bullet holes had been smeared with white paint. The holes looked like
little dimples in the wall. All in all, the place looked great.

John Burke had not returned my call. Maybe I'd been too clever. I'd try
a more blunt message later. But right at this moment I had more pleasant
things to worry about.

I was dressed for jogging. Dark blue shorts with white piping, white
Nikes with pale blue swishes, cute little jogging socks, and tank top.
The shorts were the kind with one of those inside pockets that shut with
Velcro. Inside the pocket was a derringer. An American derringer to be
exact; 6.5 ounces, .38 Special, 4.82 total length. At 6.5 ounces, it
felt like a lumpy feather.

A Velcro pocket was not conducive to a fast draw. Two shots and spitting
would be more accurate at a distance, but then Gaynor's men didn't want
to kill me. Hurt me, but not kill me. They have to get in close to hurt
me. Close enough to use the derringer. Of course, that was just two
shots. After that, I was in trouble.

I had tried to figure out a way to carry one of my 9mms, but there was
no way. I could not jog and tote around that much firepower. Choices,
choices.

Veronica Sims was standing in my living room. Ronnie is five-nine, blond
hair, grey eyes. She is a private investigator on retainer to Animators,
Inc. We also work out together at least twice a week unless one of us is
out of town, injured, or up to our necks in vampires. Those last two
happen more often than I would like.

She was wearing French-cut purple shorts, and a T-shirt that said,
"Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's
too dark to read." There are reasons why Ronnie and I are friends.

"I missed you Thursday at the health club," she said. "Was the funeral
awful?"

"Yeah."

She didn't ask me to elaborate. She knows funerals are not my best
thing. Most people hate funerals because of the dead. I hate all the
emotional shit.

She was stretching long legs parallel to her body, low on the floor. In
a sort of stretching crouch. We always warm up in the apartment. Most
leg stretches were never meant to be done while wearing short shorts.

I mirrored her movement. The muscles in my upper thighs moved and
protested. The derringer was an uncomfortable but endurable lump.

"Just out of curiosity," Ronnie said, "why do you feel it necessary to
take a gun with you?"

"I always carry a gun," I said.

She just looked at me, disgust plain in her eyes. "If you don't want to
tell me, then don't, but don't bullshit me."

"Alright, alright," I said. "Strangely enough, no one's told me not to
tell anyone."

"What, no threats about not going to the police?" she asked.

"Nope."

"My, how terribly friendly."

"Not friendly," I said, sitting flat on the floor, legs out at angles.
Ronnie mirrored me. It looked like we were going to roll a ball across
the floor. "Not friendly at all." I leaned my upper body over my left
leg until my cheek touched my thigh.

"Tell me about it," she said.

I did. When I was done, we were limbered and ready to run.

"Shit, Anita. Zombies in your apartment and a mad millionaire after you
to perform human sacrifices." Her grey eyes searched my face. "You're
the only person I know who has weirder problems than I do."

"Thanks a lot," I said. I locked my door behind us and put my keys in
the pocket along with the derringer. I know it would scratch hell out of
it, but what was I supposed to do, run with the keys in my hand?

"Harold Gaynor. I could do some checking on him for you."

"Aren't you on a case?" We clattered down the stairs.

"I'm doing about three different insurance scams. Mostly surveillance
and photography. If I have to eat one more fast food dinner, I'm going
to start singing jingles."

I smiled. "Shower and change at my place. We'll go out for a real
dinner."

"Sounds great, but you don't want to keep Jean-Claude waiting."

"Cut it out, Ronnie," I said.

She shrugged. "You should stay as far away from that . . . creature as
you can, Anita."

"I know it." It was my turn to shrug. "Agreeing to meet him seemed the
lesser of evils."

"What were your choices?"

"Meeting him voluntarily or being kidnapped and taken to him."

"Great choices."

"Yeah."

I opened the double doors that led outside. The heat smacked me in the
face. It was staggeringly hot, like stepping into an oven. And we were
going to jog in this?

I looked up at Ronnie. She is five inches taller than I am, and most of
that is leg. We can run together, but I have to set the pace and I have
to push myself. It is a very good workout. "It has to be over a hundred
today," I said.

"No pain, no gain," Ronnie said. She was carrying a sport water bottle
in her left hand. We were as prepared as we were going to get.

"Four miles in hell," I said. "Let's do it." We set off at a slow pace,
but it was steady. We usually finished the run in a half hour or less.
The air was solid with heat. It felt like we were running through
semisolid walls of scalding air. The humidity in St. Louis is almost
always around a hundred percent. Combine the humidity with hundred-plus
temperatures and you get a small, damp slice of hell. St. Louis in the
summertime, yippee.

I do not enjoy exercise. Slim hips and muscular calves are not incentive
enough for this kind of abuse. Being able to outrun the bad guys is
incentive. Sometimes it all comes down to who is faster, stronger,
quicker. I am in the wrong business. Oh, I'm not complaining. But 106
pounds is not a lot of muscle to throw around.

Of course, when it comes to vampires, I could be two-hundred-plus of
pure human muscles and it wouldn't do me a damn bit of good. Even the
newly dead can bench press cars with one hand. So I'm outclassed. I've
gotten used to it.

The first mile was behind us. It always hurts the worst. My body takes
about two miles to be convinced it can't talk me out of this insanity.

We were moving through an older neighborhood. Lots of small fenced yards
and houses dating to the fifties, or even the 1800s. There was the
smooth brick wall of a warehouse that dated to pre-Civil War. It was our
halfway point. Two miles. I was feeling loose and muscled, like I could
run forever, if I didn't have to do it very fast. I was concentrating on
moving my body through the heat, keeping the rhythm. It was Ronnie who
spotted the man.

"I don't mean to be an alarmist," she said, "but why is that man just
standing there?"

I squinted ahead of us. Maybe fifteen feet ahead of us the brick wall
ended and there was a tall elm tree. A man was standing near the trunk
of the tree. He wasn't trying to conceal himself. But he was wearing a
jean jacket. It was much too hot for that, unless you had a gun under
it.

"How long's he been there?"

"Just stepped out from around the tree," she said.

Paranoia reigns supreme. "Let's turn back. It's two miles either way."

Ronnie nodded.

We pivoted and started jogging back the other way. The man behind us did
not cry out or say stop. Paranoia, it was a vicious disease.

A second man stepped out from the far corner of the brick wall. We
jogged towards him a few more steps. I glanced back. Mr. Jean Jacket was
casually walking towards us. The jacket was unbuttoned, and his hand was
reaching under his arm. So much for paranoia.

"Run," I said.

The second man pulled a gun from his jacket pocket.

We stopped running. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

"Un-uh," the man said, "I don't feel like chasing anyone in this heat.
All ya gotta be is alive, chickie, anything else is gravy." The gun was
a .22 caliber automatic. Not much stopping power, but it was perfect for
wounding. They'd thought this out. That was scary.

Ronnie was standing very stiff beside me. I fought the urge to grab her
hand and squeeze it, but that wouldn't be very tough-as-nails vampire
slayer, would it? "What do you want?"

"That's better," he said. A pale blue T-shirt gapped where his beer gut
spilled over his belt. But his arms had a beefy look to them. He may
have been overweight, but I bet it hurt when he hit you. I hoped I
didn't have to test the theory.

I backed up so the brick wall was to my back. Ronnie moved with me. Mr.
Jean Jacket was almost with us now. He had a Beretta 9mm loose in his
right hand. It was not meant for wounding.

I glanced at Ronnie, then at Fatty who was nearly right beside her. I
glanced at Mr. Jean Jacket, who was nearly beside me. I glanced back at
Ronnie. Her eyes widened just a bit. She licked her lips once, then
turned back to stare at Fatty. The guy with the Beretta was mine. Ronnie
got the .22. Delegation at its best.

"What do you want?" I said again. I hate repeating myself.

"You to come take a little ride with us, that's all." Fatty smiled as he
said it.

I smiled back, then turned to Jean Jacket, and his tame Beretta. "Don't
you talk?"

"I talk," he said. He took two steps closer to me, but his gun was very
steadily pointed at my chest. "I talk real good." He touched my hair,
lightly, with his fingertips. The Beretta was damn near pressed against
me. If he pulled the trigger now, it was all over. The dull black barrel
of the gun was getting bigger. Illusion, but the longer you stare at a
gun, the more important it gets to be. When you're on the wrong end of
it.

"None of that, Seymour," Fatty said. "No pussy and we can't kill her,
those are the rules."

"Shit, Pete."

Pete, alias Fatty, said, "You can have the blonde. No one said we
couldn't have fun with her."

I did not look at Ronnie. I stared at Seymour. I had to be ready if I
got that one second chance. Glancing at my friend to see how she was
taking the news of her impending rape was not going to help. Really.

"Phallic power, Ronnie. It always goes to the gonads," I said.

Seymour frowned. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means, Seymour, that I think you're stupid and what brains you have
are in your balls." I smiled pleasantly while I said it.

He hit me with the flat of his hand, hard. I staggered but didn't go
down. The gun was still steady, unwavering. Shit. He made a sound deep
in his throat and hit me, closed fist. I went down. For a moment I lay
on the gritty sidewalk, listening to the blood pound in my ears. The
slap had stung. The closed fist hurt.

Someone kicked me in the ribs. "Leave her alone!" Ronnie screamed.

I lay on my stomach and pretended to be hurt. It wasn't hard. I groped
for the Velcro pocket. Seymour was waving the Beretta in Ronnie's face.
She was screaming at him. Pete had grabbed Ronnie's arms and was trying
to hold her. Things were getting out of hand. Goody.

I stared up at Seymour's legs and struggled to my knees. I shoved the
derringer into his groin. He froze and stared down at me.

"Don't move, or I'll serve up your balls on a plate," I said.

Ronnie drove her elbow back into Fatty's solar plexus. He bent over a
little, hands going to his stomach. She twisted away and kneed him hard
in the face. Blood spurted from his nose. He staggered back. She smashed
him in the side of the face, getting all her shoulder and upper body
into it. He fell down. She had the .22 in her hand.

I fought an urge to yell "Yea Ronnie," but it didn't sound tough enough.
We'd do high-fives later. "Tell your friend not to move, Seymour, or
I'll pull this trigger."

He swallowed loud enough for me to hear it. "Don't move, Pete, okay?"

Pete just stared at us.

"Ronnie, please get Seymour's gun from him. Thank you."

I was still kneeling in the gravel with the derringer pressed into the
man's groin. He let Ronnie take his gun without a fight. Fancy that.

"I've got this one covered, Anita," Ronnie said. I didn't glance at her.
She would do her job. I would do mine.

"Seymour, this is a .38 Special, two shots. It can hold a variety of
ammunition, .22, .44, or .357 Magnum." This was a lie, the new
lightweight version couldn't hold anything higher than .38s, but I was
betting Seymour couldn't tell the difference. "Forty-four or .357 and
you can kiss the family jewels good-bye. Twenty-two, maybe you'll just
be very, very sore. To quote a role model of mine, 'Do you feel lucky
today?' "

"What do you want, man, what do you want?" His voice was high and
squeaky with fear.

"Who hired you to come after us?"

He shook his head. "No, man, he'll kill us."

"Three-fifty-seven Magnum makes a fucking big hole, Seymour."

"Don't tell her shit," Pete said.

"If he says anything else, Ronnie, shoot his kneecap off," I said.

"My pleasure," Ronnie said. I wondered if she would really do it. I
wondered if I'd tell her to do it. Better not to find out.

"Talk to me, Seymour, now, or I pull the trigger." I shoved the gun a
little deeper. That must have hurt all on its own. He sort of tried to
tippy-toe.

"God, please don't."

"Who hired you?"

"Bruno."

"You asshole, Seymour," Pete said. "He'll kill us."

"Ronnie, please shoot him," I said.

"You said the kneecap, right?"

"Yeah."

"How about an elbow instead?" she asked.

"Your choice," I said.

"You're crazy," Seymour said.

"Yeah," I said, "you remember that. What exactly did Bruno tell you?"

"He said to take you to a building off Grand, on Washington. He said to
bring you both, but we could hurt the blonde to get you to come along."

"Give me the address," I said.

Seymour did. I think he would have told me the secret ingredient in the
magic sauce if I had asked.

"If you go down there, Bruno will know we told ya," Pete said.

"Ronnie," I said.

"Shoot me now, chickie, it don't matter. You go down there or send the
police down there, we are dead."

I glanced at Pete. He seemed very sincere. They were bad guys but. . .
"Okay, we won't bust in on him."

"We aren't going to the police," Ronnie asked.

"No, if we did that, we might as well kill them now. But we don't have
to do that, do we, Seymour?"

"No, man, no."

"How much ol' Bruno pay you?"

"Four hundred apiece."

"It wasn't enough," I said.

"You're telling me."

"I'm going to get up now, Seymour, and leave your balls where they are.
Don't come near me or Ronnie again, or I'll tell Bruno you sold him
out."

"He'd kill us, man. He'd kill us slow."

"That's right, Seymour. We'll just all pretend this never happened,
right?" He was nodding vigorously.

"That okay with you, Pete?" I asked.

"I ain't stupid. Bruno'd rip out our hearts and feed them to us. We
won't talk." He sounded disgusted.

I got up and stepped carefully away from Seymour. Ronnie covered Pete
nice and steady with the Beretta. The .22 was tucked into the waistband
of her jogging shorts. "Get out of here," I said.

Seymour's skin was pasty, and a sick sweat beaded his face. "Can I have
my gun?" He wasn't very bright.

"Don't get cute," I said.

Pete stood. The blood under his nose had started to dry. "Come on,
Seymour. We gotta go now."

They moved on down the street side by side. Seymour looked hunched in
upon himself as if he were fighting an urge to clutch his equipment.

Ronnie let out a great whoosh of air and leaned back against the wall.
The gun was still clutched in her right hand. "My God," she said.

"Yeah," I said.

She touched my face where Seymour had hit me. It hurt. I winced. "Are
you all right?" Ronnie asked.

"Sure," I said. Actually, it felt like the side of my face was one great
big ache, but it wouldn't make it hurt any less to say it out loud.

"Are we going down to the building where they were to drop us?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I know who Bruno is and who gives him orders. I know why they tried to
kidnap me. What could I possibly learn that would be worth two lives?"

Ronnie thought about that for a moment. "You're right, I guess. But you
aren't going to report the attack to the police?"

"Why should I? I'm okay, you're okay. Seymour and Pete won't be back."

She shrugged. "You didn't really want me to shoot his kneecap off, did
you? I mean we were playing good cop, bad cop, right?" She looked at me
very steadily as she asked, her solid grey eyes earnest and true.

I looked away. "Let's walk back home. I don't feel much like jogging."

"Me either."

We set off walking down the street. Ronnie untucked her T-shirt and
stuck the Beretta in the waistband. The .22 she sort of cupped in her
hand. It wasn't very noticeable that way.

"We were pretending, right? Being tough, right?"

Truth. "I don't know."

"Anita!"

"I don't know, that's the truth."

"I couldn't have shot him to pieces just to keep him from talking."

"Good thing you didn't have to then," I said.

"Would you really have pulled the trigger on that man?"

There was a cardinal singing somewhere off in the distance. The song
filled the stale heat and made it seem cooler.

"Answer me, Anita. Would you really have pulled the trigger?"

"Yes."

"Yes?" There was a lilt of surprise in her voice.

"Yes."

"Shit." We walked on in silence for a minute or two, then she asked,
"What ammo is in the gun today?"

"Thirty-eights."

"It would have killed him."

"Probably," I said.

I saw her look at me sideways as we walked back. There was a look I'd
seen before. A mixture of horror and admiration. I'd just never seen it
on a friend's face before. That part hurt. But we went out to dinner
that night at The Miller's Daughter in Old St. Charles. The atmosphere
was pleasant. The food wonderful. As always.

We talked and laughed and had a very good time. Neither of us mentioned
what had happened this afternoon. Pretend hard enough and maybe it will
go away.

Chapter 20
----------

At 10:30 that night I was down in the vampire district. Dark blue polo
shirt, jeans, red windbreaker. The windbreaker hid the shoulder holster
and the Browning Hi-Power. Sweat was pooling in the bends of my arms but
it beat the hell out of not having it.

The afternoon fun and games had turned out all right, but that was
partly luck. And Seymour losing his temper. And me being able to take a
beating and keep on ticking. Ice had kept the swelling down, but the
left side of my face was puffy and red, as if some sort of fruit was
about to burst out of it. No bruise--yet.

The Laughing Corpse was one of the newest clubs in the District.
Vampires are sexy. I'll admit that. But funny? I don't think so.
Apparently, I was in the minority. A line stretched away from the club,
curling round the block.

It hadn't occurred to me that I'd need a ticket or reservations or
whatever just to get in. But, hey, I knew the boss. I walked along the
line of people towards the ticket booth. The people were mostly young.
The women in dresses, the men in dressy sports wear, with an occasional
suit. They were chatting together in excited voices, a lot of casual
hand and arm touching. Dates. I remember dates. It's just been a while.
Maybe if I wasn't always ass deep in alligators, I'd date more. Maybe.

I cut ahead of a double-date foursome. "Hey," one man said.

"Sorry," I said.

The woman in the ticket booth frowned at me. "You can't just cut in line
like that, ma'am."

Ma'am? "I don't want a ticket. I don't want to see the show. I am
supposed to meet Jean-Claude here. That's it."

"Well, I don't know. How do I know you're not some reporter?"

Reporter? I took a deep breath. "Just call Jean-Claude and tell him
Anita is here. Okay?"

She was still frowning at me.

"Look, just call Jean-Claude. If I'm a nosy reporter, he'll deal with
me. If I'm who I say I am, he'll be happy that you called him. You can't
lose."

"I don't know."

I fought an urge to scream at her. It probably wouldn't help. Probably.
"Just call Jean-Claude, pretty please," I said.

Maybe it was the pretty please. She swiveled on her stool and opened the
upper half of a door in the back of the booth. Small booth. I couldn't
hear what she said, but she swiveled back around. "Okay, manager says
you can go in."

"Great, thanks." I walked up the steps. The entire line of waiting
people glared at me. I could feel their hot stares on my back. But I've
been stared at by experts, so I was careful not to flinch. No one likes
a line jumper.

The club was dim inside, as most clubs are. A guy just inside the door
said, "Ticket, please?"

I stared up at him. He wore a white T-shirt that said, "The Laughing
Corpse, it's a scream." A caricature of an openmouthed vampire was drawn
very large across his chest. He was large and muscled and had bouncer
tattooed across his forehead. "Ticket, please," he repeated.

First the ticket lady, now the ticket man? "The manager said I could
come through to see Jean-Claude," I said.

"Willie," the ticket man said, "you send her through?"

I turned around, and there was Willie McCoy. I smiled when I saw him. I
was glad to see him. That surprised me. I'm not usually happy to see
dead men.

Willie is short, thin, with black hair slicked back from his forehead. I
couldn't tell the exact color of his suit in the dimness, but it looked
like a dull tomato-red. White button-up shirt, large shiny green tie. I
had to look twice before I was sure, but yes, there was a
glow-in-the-dark hula girl on his tie. It was the most tasteful outfit
I'd ever seen Willie wear.

He grinned, flashing a lot of fang. "Anita, good to see ya."

I nodded. "You, too, Willie."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

He grinned even wider. His canines glistened in the dim light. He hadn't
been dead a year yet.

"How long have you been manager here?" I asked.

"'Bout two weeks."

"Congratulations."

He stepped closer to me. I stepped back. Instinctive. Nothing personal,
but a vampire is a vampire. Don't get too close. Willie was new dead,
but he was still capable of hypnotizing with his eyes. Okay, maybe no
vampire as new as Willie could actually catch me with his eyes, but old
habits die hard.

Willie's face fell. A flicker of something in his eyes--hurt? He dropped
his voice but didn't try to step next to me. He was a faster study dead
than he ever had been alive. "Thanks to me helping you last time, I'm in
real good with the boss."

He sounded like an old gangster movie, but that was Willie. "I'm glad
Jean-Claude's doing right by you."

"Oh, yeah," Willie said, "this is the best job I ever had. And the boss
isn't . . ." He waggled his hands back and forth. "Ya know, mean."

I nodded. I did know. I could bitch and complain about Jean-Claude all I
wanted, but compared to most Masters of the City, he was a pussycat. A
big, dangerous, carnivorous pussycat, but still, it was an improvement.

"The boss's busy right this minute," Willie said. "He said if you was to
come early, to give ya a table near the stage."

Great. Aloud I said, "How long will Jean-Claude be?"

Willie shrugged. "Don't know for sure."

I nodded. "Okay, I'll wait, for a little while."

Willie grinned, fangs flashing. "Ya want me to tell Jean-Claude to hurry
it up?"

"Would you?"

He grimaced like he'd swallowed a bug. "Hell no."

"Don't sweat it. If I get tired of waiting, I'll tell him myself."

Willie looked at me sorta sideways. "You'd do it, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah."

He just shook his head and started leading me between the small round
tables. Every table was thick with people. Laughing, gasping, drinking,
holding hands. The sensation of being surrounded by thick, sweaty life
was nearly overwhelming.

I glanced at Willie. Did he feel it? Did the warm press of humanity make
his stomach knot with hunger? Did he go home at night and dream of
ripping into the loud, roaring crowd? I almost asked him, but I liked
Willie as much as I could like a vampire. I did not want to know if the
answer was yes.

A table just one row back from the stage was empty. There was a big
white cardboard foldy thing that said "Reserved." Willie tried to hold
my chair for me, I waved him back. It wasn't women's liberation. I
simply never understood what I was supposed to do while the guy shoved
my chair in under me. Did I sit there and watch him strain to scoot the
chair with me in it? Embarrassing. I usually hovered just above the
chair and got it shoved into the backs of my knees. Hell with it.

"Would you like a drink while ya wait?" Willie asked.

"Could I have a Coke?"

"Nuthin' stronger?"

I shook my head.

Willie walked away through the tables and the people. On the stage was a
slender man with short, dark hair. He was thin all over, his face almost
cadaverous, but he was definitely human. His appearance was more comical
than anything, like a long-limbed clown. Beside him, staring blank-faced
out at the crowd, was a zombie.

Its pale eyes were still clear, human-looking, but he didn't blink. That
familiar frozen stare gazed out at the audience. They were only half
listening to the jokes. Most eyes were on the standing deadman. He was
just decayed enough around the edges to look scary, but even one row
away there was no hint of odor. Nice trick if you could manage it.

"Ernie here is the best roommate I ever had," the comedian said. "He
doesn't eat much, doesn't talk my ear off, doesn't bring cute chicks
home and lock me out while they have a good time." Nervous laughter from
the audience. Eyes glued on ol' Ernie.

"Though there was that pork chop in the fridge that went bad. Ernie
seemed to like that a lot."

The zombie turned slowly, almost painfully, to stare at the comedian.
The man's eyes flickered to the zombie, then back to the audience, smile
in place. The zombie kept staring at him. The man didn't seem to like it
much. I didn't blame him. Even the dead don't like to be the butt of
jokes.

The jokes weren't that funny anyway. It was a novelty act. The zombie
was the act. Pretty inventive, and pretty sick.

Willie came back with my Coke. The manager waiting on my table,
la-de-da. Of course, the reserved table was pretty good, too. Willie set
the drink down on one of those useless paper lace dollies. "Enjoy," he
said. He turned to leave, but I touched his arm. I wish I hadn't.

The arm was solid enough, real enough. But it was like touching wood. It
was dead. I don't know what else to call it. There was no feeling of
movement. Nothing.

I dropped his arm, slowly, and looked up at him. Meeting his eyes,
thanks to Jean-Claude's marks. Those brown eyes held something like
sorrow.

I could suddenly hear my heartbeat in my ears, and I had to swallow to
calm my own pulse. Shit. I wanted Willie to go away now. I turned away
from him and looked very hard at my drink. He left. Maybe it was just
the sound of all the laughing, but I couldn't hear Willie walk away.

Willie McCoy was the only vampire I had ever known before he died. I
remembered him alive. He had been a small-time hood. An errand boy for
bigger fish. Maybe Willie thought being a vampire would make him a big
fish. He'd been wrong there. He was just a little undead fish now.
Jean-Claude or someone like him would run Willie's "life" for eternity.
Poor Willie.

I rubbed the hand that had touched him on my leg. I wanted to forget the
feel of his body under the new tomato-red suit, but I couldn't.
Jean-Claude's body didn't feel that way. Of course, Jean-Claude could
damn near pass for human. Some of the old ones could do that. Willie
would learn. God help him.

"Zombies are better than dogs. They'll fetch your slippers and don't
need to be walked Ernie'll even sit at my feet and beg if I tell him
to."

The audience laughed. I wasn't sure why. It wasn't that genuine ha-ha
laughter. It was that outrageous shocked sound.

The I-can't-believe-he-said-that laughter.

The zombie was moving toward the comedian in a sort of slow-motion jerk.
Crumbling hands reached outward and my stomach squeezed tight. It was a
flashback to last night. Zombies almost always attack by just reaching
out. Just like in the movies.

The comedian didn't realize that Ernie had decided he'd had enough. If a
zombie is simply raised without any particular orders, he usually
reverts to what is normal for him. A good person is a good person until
his brain decays, stripping him of personality. Most zombies won't kill
without orders, but every once in a while you get lucky and raise one
that has homicidal tendencies. The comedian was about to get lucky.

The zombie walked towards him like a bad Frankenstein monster. The
comedian finally realized something was wrong. He stopped in mid-joke,
turning eyes wide. "Ernie," he said. It was as far as he got. The
decaying hands wrapped around his throat and started to squeeze.

For one pleasant second I almost let the zombie do him in. Exploiting
the dead is one thing I feel strongly about, but . . . stupidity isn't
punishable by death. If it was, there would be a hell of a population
drop.

I stood up, glancing around the club to see if they had planned for this
eventuality. Willie came running to the stage. He wrapped his arms
around the zombie's waist and pulled, lifted the much taller body off
its feet, but the hands kept squeezing.

The comedian slipped to his knees, making little argh sounds. His face
was going from red to purple. The audience was laughing. They thought it
was part of the show. It was a heck of a lot funnier than the act.

I stepped up to the stage and said softly to Willie, "Need some help?"

He stared at me, still clinging to the zombie's waist. With his
extraordinary strength Willie could have ripped a finger at a time off
the man's neck and probably saved him. But super-vampire strength
doesn't help you if you don't think how to use it. Willie never thought.
Of course, the zombie might crush the man's windpipe before even a
vampire could peel its fingers away. Maybe. Best not to find out.

I thought the comedian was a putz. But I couldn't stand there and watch
him die. Really, I couldn't.

"Stop," I said. Low and for the zombie's ears. He stopped squeezing, but
his hands were still tight. The comedian was going limp. "Release him."

The zombie let go. The man fell in a near faint on the stage. Willie
straightened up from his frantic tugging at the deadman. He smoothed his
tomato-red suit back into place. His hair was still perfectly slick. Too
much hair goop for a mere zombie wrestling to displace his hairdo.

"Thanks," he whispered. Then he stood to his full five feet four and
said, "The Amazing Albert and his pet zombie, ladies and gentlemen." The
audience had been a bit uncertain, but the applause began. When the
Amazing Albert staggered to his feet, the applause exploded. He croaked
into the microphone. "Ernie thinks it's time to go home now. You've been
a great audience." The applause was loud and genuine.

The comedian left the stage. The zombie stayed and stared at me.
Waiting, waiting for another order. I don't know why everyone can't
speak and have zombies obey them. It doesn't even feel like magic to me.
There is no tingle of the skin, no breath of power. I speak and the
zombies listen. Me and E. F. Hutton.

"Follow Albert and obey his orders until I tell you otherwise." The
zombie looked down at me for a second, then turned slowly and shuffled
after the man. The zombie wouldn't kill him now. I wouldn't tell the
comedian that, though. Let him think his life was in danger. Let him
think he had to let me lay the zombie to rest. It was what I wanted. It
was probably what the zombie wanted.

Ernie certainly didn't seem to like being the straight man in a comedy
routine. Hecklers are one thing. Choking the comic to death is a little
extreme.

Willie escorted me back to my table. I sat down and sipped my Coke. He
sat down across from me. He looked shaken. His small hands trembled as
he sat across from me. He was a vampire, but he was still Willie McCoy.
I wondered how many years it would take for the last remnants of his
personality to disappear. Ten years, twenty, a century? How long before
the monster ate the man?

If it took that long. It wouldn't be my problem. I wouldn't be there to
see it. To tell the truth, I didn't want to see it.

"I never liked zombies," Willie said.

I stared at him. "Are you afraid of zombies?"

His eyes flickered to me, then down to the table. "No."

I grinned at him. "You're afraid of zombies. You're phobic."

He leaned across the table. "Don't tell. Please don't tell." There was
real fear in his eyes.

"Who would I tell?"

"You know."

I shook my head. "I don't know what you're talking about, Willie."

"The MASTER." You could hear "master" was in all caps.

"Why would I tell Jean-Claude?"

He was whispering now. A new comedian had come up on stage, there was
laughter and noise, and still he whispered. "You're his human servant,
whether you like it or not. When we speak to you, he tells us we're
speaking to him."

We were leaning almost face-to-face now. The gentle brush of his breath
smelled like breath mints. Almost all vampires smell like breath mints.
I don't know what they did before mints were invented. Had stinky
breath, I guess.

"You know I'm not his human servant."

"But he wants you to be."

"Just because Jean-Claude wants something doesn't mean he gets it," I
said.

"You don't know what he's like."

"I think I do. . ."

He touched my arm. I didn't jerk back this time. I was too intent on
what he was saying. "He's been different since the old master died. He's
a lot more powerful than even you know."

This much I had suspected. "So why shouldn't I tell him you're afraid of
zombies?"

"He'll use it to punish me."

I stared at him, our eyes inches apart. "You mean he's torturing people
to control them."

He nodded.

"Shit."

"You won't tell?"

"I won't tell. Promise," I said.

He looked so relieved, I patted his hand. The hand felt like a hand. His
body didn't feel wood hard anymore. Why? I didn't know, and if I asked
Willie, he probably wouldn't know either. One of the mysteries of . . .
death.

"Thanks."

"I thought you said that Jean-Claude was the kindest master you've ever
had."

"He is," Willie said.

Now that was a frightening truth. If being tormented by your darkest
fear was the kindest, how much worse had Nikolaos been. Hell, I knew the
answer to that one. She'd been psychotic. Jean-Claude wasn't cruel just
for the sake of watching people squirm. There was reason to his cruelty.
It was a step up.

"I gotta go. Thanks for helping with the zombie." He stood.

"You were brave, you know," I said.

He flashed a grin my way, fangs glinting in the dim light. The smile
vanished from his face like someone had turned a switch. "I can't afford
to be anything else."

Vampires are a lot like wolf packs. The weak are either dominated or
destroyed. Banishment is not an option. Willie was moving up in the
ranks. A sign of weakness could stop that rise or worse. I'd often
wondered what vampires feared. One of them feared zombies. It would have
been funny if I hadn't seen the fear in his eyes.

The comic on stage was a vampire. He was the new dead. Skin chalk-white,
eyes like burned holes in paper. His gums were bloodless and receding
from canines that would have been the envy of any German shepherd. I had
never seen a vampire look so monstrous. They all usually made an effort
to appear human. This one wasn't.

I had missed the audience's reaction to his first appearance, but now
they were laughing. If I had thought the zombie jokes were bad, these
were worse. A woman at the next table laughed so hard, tears spilled
down her cheeks.

"I went to New York, tough city. A gang jumped me, but I put the bite on
them." People were holding their ribs as if in pain.

I didn't get it. It was genuinely not funny. I gazed around the crowd
and found every eye fixed on the stage. They peered up at him with the
helpless devotion of the bespelled.

He was using mind tricks. I'd seen vampires seduce, threaten, terrify,
all by concentrating. But I had never seen them cause laughter. He was
forcing them to laugh.

It wasn't the worst abuse of vampiric powers I'd ever seen. He wasn't
trying to hurt them. And this mass hypnosis was harmless, temporary. But
it was wrong. Mass mind control was one of the top scary things that
most people don't know vampires can do.

I knew, and I didn't like it. He was the fresh dead and even before
Jean-Claude's marks, the comic couldn't have touched me. Being an
animator gave you partial immunity to vampires. It was one of the
reasons that animators are so often vampire slayers. We've got a leg up,
so to speak.

I had called Charles earlier, but I still didn't see him. He is not easy
to miss in a crowd, sort of like Godzilla going through Tokyo. Where was
he? And when would Jean-Claude be ready to see me? It was now after
eleven. Trust him to browbeat me into a meeting and then make me wait.
He was such an arrogant son of a bitch.

Charles came through the swinging doors that led to the kitchen area. He
strode through the tables, heading for the door. He was shaking his head
and murmuring to a small Asian man who was having to quick-run to keep
up.

I waved, and Charles changed direction towards me. I could hear the
smaller man arguing, "I run a very good, clean kitchen."

Charles murmured something that I couldn't hear. The bespelled audience
was oblivious. We could have shot off a twenty-one-gun salute, and they
wouldn't have flinched. Until the vampire comic was finished, they would
hear nothing else.

"What are you, the damn health department?" the smaller man asked. He
was dressed in a traditional chef's outfit. He had the big floppy hat
wadded up in his hands. His dark uptilted eyes were sparkling with
anger.

Charles is only six-one, but he seems bigger. His body is one wide piece
from broad shoulders to feet. He seems to have no waist. He is like a
moving mountain. Huge. His perfectly brown eyes are the same color as
his skin. Wonderfully dark. His hand is big enough to cover my face.

The Asian chef looked like an angry puppy beside Charles. He grabbed
Charles's arm. I don't know what he thought he was going to do, but
Charles stopped moving. He stared down at the offending hand and said
very carefully, voice almost painfully deep, "Do not touch me."

The chef dropped his arm like he'd been burned. He took a step back.
Charles was only giving him part of the "look." The full treatment had
been known to send would-be muggers screaming for help. Part of the look
was enough for one irate chef.

His voice was calm, reasonable when he spoke again, "I run a clean
kitchen."

Charles shook his head. "You can't have zombies near the food
preparation. It's illegal. The health codes forbid corpses near food."

"My assistant is a vampire. He's dead."

Charles rolled his eyes at me. I sympathized. I'd had the same
discussion with a chef or two. "Vampires are not considered legally dead
anymore, Mr. Kim. Zombies are."

"I don't understand why."

"Zombies rot and carry disease just like any dead body. Just because
they move around doesn't mean they aren't a depository for disease."

"I don't . . . "

"Either keep the zombies away from the kitchen or we will close you
down. Do you understand that?"

"And you'd have to explain to the owner why his business was not making
money," I said, smiling up at both of them.

The chef looked a bit pale. Fancy that. "I . . . I understand. It will
be taken care of."

"Good," Charles said.

The chef darted one frightened look at me, then began to thread his way
back to the kitchen. It was funny how Jean-Claude was beginning to scare
so many people. He'd been one of the more civilized vampires before he
became head bloodsucker. Power corrupts.

Charles sat down across from me. He seemed too big for the table. "I got
your message. What's going on?"

"I need an escort to the Tenderloin."

It's hard to tell when Charles blushes, but he squirmed in his chair.
"Why in the world do you want to go down there?"

"I need to find someone who works down there."

"Who?"

"A prostitute," I said.

He squirmed again. It was like watching an uncomfortable mountain.
"Caroline is not going to like this."

"Don't tell her," I said.

"You know Caroline and I don't lie to each other, about anything."

I fought to keep my face neutral. If Charles had to explain his every
move to his wife, that was his choice. He didn't have to let Caroline
control him. He chose to do it. But it grated on me like having your
teeth cleaned.

"Just tell her that you had extra animator business. She won't ask
details." Caroline thought that our job was gross. Beheading chickens,
raising zombies, how uncouth.

"Why do you need to find this prostitute?"

I ignored the question and answered another one. The less Charles knew
about Harold Gaynor, the safer he'd be. "I just need someone to look
menacing. I don't want to have to shoot some poor slob because he made a
pass at me. Okay?"

Charles nodded. "I'll come. I'm flattered you asked."

I smiled encouragingly at him. Truth was that Manny was more dangerous
and much better backup. But Manny was like me. He didn't look dangerous.
Charles did. I needed a good bluff tonight, not firepower.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost midnight. Jean-Claude had kept me
waiting an hour. I looked behind me and caught Willie's gaze. He came
towards me immediately. I would try to use this power only for good.

He bent close, but not too close. He glanced at Charles, acknowledging
him with a nod. Charles nodded back. Mr. Stoic.

"What ya want?" Willie said.

"Is Jean-Claude ready to see me or not?"

"Yeah, I was just coming to get ya. I didn't know you was expecting
company tonight." He looked at Charles.

"He's a coworker."

"A zombie raiser?" Willie asked.

Charles said, "Yes." His dark face was impassive. His look was quietly
menacing.

Willie seemed impressed. He nodded. "Sure, ya got zombie work after you
see Jean-Claude?"

"Yeah," I said. I stood and spoke softly to Charles, though chances were
that Willie would hear it. Even the newly dead hear better than most
dogs.

"I'll be as quick as I can."

"Alright," he said, "but I need to get home soon."

I understood. He was on a short leash. His own fault, but it seemed to
bother me more than it bothered Charles. Maybe it was one of the reasons
I'm not married. I'm not big on compromise.

Chapter 21
----------

Willie led me through a door and a short hallway. As soon as the door
closed behind us, the noise was muted, distant as a dream. The lights
were bright after the dimness of the club. I blinked against it. Willie
looked rosy-cheeked in the bright light, not quite alive, but healthy
for a deadman. He'd fed tonight on something, or someone. Maybe a
willing human, maybe animal. Maybe.

The first door on the left said "Manager's Office." Willie's office?
Naw.

Willie opened the door and ushered me in. He didn't come in the office.
His eyes flicked towards the desk, then he backed out, shutting the door
behind him.

The carpeting was pale beige; the walls eggshell-white. A large
black-lacquered desk sat against the far wall. A shiny black lamp seemed
to grow out of the desk. There was a blotter perfectly placed in the
center of the desk. There were no papers, no paper clips, just
Jean-Claude sitting behind the desk.

His long pale hands were folded on the blotter. Soft curling black hair,
midnight-blue eyes, white shirt with its strange button-down cuffs. He
was perfect sitting there, perfectly still like a painting. Beautiful as
a wet dream, but not real. He only looked perfect. I knew better.

There were two brown metal filing cabinets against the left wall. A
black leather couch took up the rest of the wall. There was a large oil
painting above the couch. It was a scene of St. Louis in the 1700s.
Settlers coming downriver in flatboats. The sunlight was autumn thick.
Children ran and played. It didn't match anything in the room.

"The picture yours?" I asked.

He gave a slight nod.

"Did you know the painter?"

He smiled then, no hint of fangs, just the beautiful spread of lips. If
there had been a vampire GQ, Jean-Claude would have been their cover
boy.

"The desk and couch don't match the rest of the decor," I said.

"I am in the midst of remodeling," he said.

He just sat there looking at me. "You asked for this meeting,
Jean-Claude. Let's get on with it."

"Are you in a hurry?" His voice had dropped lower, the brush of fur on
naked skin.

"Yes, I am. So cut to the chase. What do you want?"

The smile widened, slightly. He actually lowered his eyes for a moment.
It was almost coy. "You are my human servant, Anita."

He used my name. Bad sign that. "No," I said, "I'm not."

"You bear two marks, only two more remain." His face still looked
pleasant, lovely. The expression didn't match what he was saying.

"So what?"

He sighed. "Anita. . ." He stopped in midsentence and stood. He came
around the desk. "Do you know what it means to be Master of the City?"
He leaned on the desk, half sitting. His shirt gaped open showing an
expanse of pale chest. One nipple showed small and pale and hard. The
cross-shaped scar was an insult to such pale perfection.

I had been staring at his bare chest. How embarrassing. I met his gaze
and managed not to blush. Bully for me.

"There are other benefits to being my human servant, ma petite." His
eyes were all pupil, black and drowning deep.

I shook my head. "No."

"No lies, ma petite, I can feel your desire." His tongue flicked across
his lips. "I can taste it."

Great, just great. How do you argue with someone who can feel what
you're feeling? Answer: don't argue, agree. "Alright, I lust after you.
Does that make you happy?"

He smiled. "Yes." One word, but it flowed through my mind, whispering
things that he had not said. Whispers in the dark.

"I lust after a lot of men, but that doesn't mean I have to sleep with
them."

His face was almost slack, eyes like drowning pools. "Casual lust is
easily defeated," he said. He stood in one smooth motion. "What we have
is not casual, ma petite. Not lust, but desire." He moved towards me,
one pale hand outstretched.

My heart was thudding in my throat. It wasn't fear. I didn't think it
was a mind trick. It felt real. Desire, he called it, maybe it was.
"Don't," my voice was hoarse, a whisper.

He, of course, did not stop. His fingers traced the edge of my cheek,
barely touching. The brush of skin on skin. I stepped away from him,
forced to draw a deep shaking breath. I could be as uncool as I wanted,
he could feel my discomfort. No sense pretending.

I could feel where he had touched me, a lingering sensation. I looked at
the ground while I spoke. "I appreciate the possible fringe benefits,
Jean-Claude, really. But I can't. I won't." I met his eyes. His face was
a terrible blankness. Nothing. It was the same face of a moment ago, but
some spark of humanity, of life, was gone.

My pulse started thudding again. It had nothing to do with sex. Fear. It
had a lot to do with fear.

"As you like, my little animator. Whether we are lovers or not, it does
not change what you are to me. You are my human servant."

"No," I said.

"You are mine, Anita. Willing or not, you are mine."

"See, Jean-Claude, here's where you lose me. First you try seducing me,
which has its pleasant side. When that doesn't work, you resort to
threats."

"It is not a threat, ma petite. It is the truth."

"No, it isn't. And stop calling me ma fucking petite."

He smiled at that.

I didn't want him amused by me. Anger replaced fear in a quick warm
rush. I liked anger. It made me brave, and stupid. "Fuck you."

"I have already offered that." His voice made something low jerk in my
stomach.

I felt the rush of heat as I blushed. "Damn you, Jean-Claude, damn you."

"We need to talk, ma petite. Lovers or not, servant or not, we need to
talk."

"Then talk. I haven't got all night."

He sighed. "You don't make this easy."

"If it was easy you wanted, you should have picked on someone else."

He nodded. "Very true. Please, be seated." He went back to lean on the
desk, arms crossed over his chest.

"I don't have that kind of time," I said.

He frowned slightly. "I thought we agreed to talk this out, ma petite."

"We agreed to meet at eleven. You're the one who wasted an hour, not
me."

His smile was almost bitter. "Very well. I will give you a . . .
condensed version."

I nodded. "Fine with me."

"I am the new Master of the City. But to survive with Nikolaos alive, I
had to hide my powers. I did it too well. There are those who think I am
not powerful enough to be the Master of all. They are challenging me.
One of the things they are using against me is you."

"How?"

"Your disobedience. I cannot even control my own human servant. How can
I possibly control all the vampires in the city and surrounding areas?"

"What do you want from me?"

He smiled then, wide and genuine, flashing fangs. "I want you to be my
human servant."

"Not in this lifetime, Jean-Claude."

"I can force the third mark on you, Anita." There was no threat as he
said it. It was just a fact.

"I would rather die than be your human servant." Master vampires can
smell the truth. He would know I meant it.

"Why?"

I opened my mouth to try to explain, but didn't. He would not
understand. We stood two feet apart but it might have been miles. Miles
across some dark chasm. We could not bridge that gap. He was a walking
corpse. Whatever he had been as a living man, it was gone. He was the
Master of the City, and that was nothing even close to human.

"If you force this issue, I will kill you," I said.

"You mean that." There was surprise in his voice. It isn't often a girl
gets to surprise a centuries-old vampire.

"Yes."

"I do not understand you, ma petite."

"I know," I said.

"Could you pretend to be my servant?"

It was an odd question. "What does pretending mean?"

"You come to a few meetings. You stand at my side with your guns and
your reputation."

"You want the Executioner at your back." I stared at him for a space of
heartbeats. The true horror of what he'd just said floated slowly
through my mind. "I thought the two marks were accident. That you
panicked. You meant all along to mark me, didn't you?"

He just smiled.

"Answer me, you son of a bitch."

"If the chance arose, I was not averse to it."

"Not averse to it!" I was almost yelling. "You cold-bloodedly chose me
to be your human servant! Why?"

"You are the Executioner."

"Damn you, what does that mean?"

"It is impressive to be the vampire who finally caught you."

"You haven't caught me."

"If you would behave yourself, the others would think so. Only you and I
need know that it is pretense."

I shook my head. "I won't play your game, Jean-Claude."

"You will not help me?"

"You got it."

"I offer you immortality. Without the compromise of vampirism. I offer
you myself. There have been women over the years who would have done
anything I asked just for that."

"Sex is sex, Jean-Claude. No one's that good."

He smiled slightly. "Vampires are different, ma petite. If you were not
so stubborn, you might find out how different."

I had to look away from his eyes. The look was too intimate. Too full of
possibilities.

"There's only one thing I want from you," I said.

"And what is that, ma petite?"

"All right, two things. First, stop calling me ma petite; second, let me
go. Wipe these damn marks away."

"You may have the first request, Anita."

"And the second?"

"I cannot, even if I wanted to."

"Which you don't," I said.

"Which I don't."

"Stay away from me, Jean-Claude. Stay the fuck away from me, or I'll
kill you."

"Many people have tried through the years."

"How many of them had eighteen kills?"

His eyes widened just a bit. "None. There was this man in Hungary who
swore he killed five."

"What happened to him?"

"I tore his throat out."

"You understand this, Jean-Claude. I would rather have my throat torn
out. I would rather die trying to kill you than submit to you." I stared
at him, trying to see if he understood any of what I said. "Say
something."

"I have heard your words. I know you mean them." He was suddenly
standing in front of me. I hadn't seen him move, hadn't felt him in my
head. He was just suddenly inches in front of me. I think I gasped.

"Could you truly kill me?" His voice was like silk on a wound, gentle
with an edge of pain. Like sex. It was like velvet rubbing inside my
skull. It felt good, even with fear tearing through my body. Shit. He
could still have me. Still take me down. No way.

I looked up into his so-blue eyes and said, "Yes."

I meant it. He blinked once, gracefully, and stepped back. "You are the
most stubborn woman I have ever met," he said. There was no play in his
voice this time. It was a flat statement.

"That's the nicest compliment you've ever paid me."

He stood in front of me, hands at his sides. He stood very still. Snakes
or birds can stand utterly still but even a snake has a sense of
aliveness, of action waiting to resume. Jean-Claude stood there with no
sense of anything, as if despite what my eyes told me, he had vanished.
He was not there at all. The dead make no noise.

"What happened to your face?"

I touched the swollen cheek before I could stop myself. "Nothing," I
lied.

"Who hit you?"

"Why, so you can go beat him up?"

"One of the fringe benefits of being my servant is my protection."

"I don't need your protection, Jean-Claude."

"He hurt you."

"And I shoved a gun into his groin and made him tell me everything he
knew," I said.

Jean-Claude smiled. "You did what?"

"I shoved a gun into his balls, alright?"

His eyes started to sparkle. Laughter spread across his face and burst
out between his lips. He laughed full-throated.

The laugh was like candy: sweet, and infectious. If you could bottle
Jean-Claude's laugh, I know it would be fattening. Or orgasmic.

"Ma petite, ma petite, you are absolutely marvelous."

I stared at him, letting that wonderful, touchable laugh roll around me.
It was time to go. It is very hard to be dignified when someone is
laughing uproariously at you. But I managed.

My parting shot made him laugh harder. "Stop calling me ma petite."

Chapter 22
----------

I stepped back out into the noise of the club. Charles was standing
beside the table, not sitting. He looked uncomfortable from a distance.
What had gone wrong now?

His big hands were twisted together. Dark face scrunched up into near
pain. A kind God had made Charles look big and bad, because inside he
was all marshmallow. If I'd had Charles's natural size and strength, I'd
have been a guaranteed bad ass. It was sort of sad and unfair.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I called Caroline," he said.

"And?"

"The baby-sitter's sick. And Caroline's been called in to the hospital.
Someone has to stay with Sam while she goes to work."

"Mm-huh," I said.

He didn't look the least bit tough when he said, "Can going down to the
Tenderloin wait until tomorrow?"

I shook my head.

"You're not going to go down there alone," Charles said. "Are you?"

I stared up at the great mountain of a man, and sighed. "I can't wait,
Charles."

"But the Tenderloin." He lowered his voice as if just saying the word
too loud would bring a cloud of pimps and prostitutes to descend upon
us. "You can't go down there alone at night."

"I've gone worse places, Charles. I'll be all right."

"No, I won't let you go alone. Caroline can just get a new sitter or
tell the hospital no." He smiled when he said it. Always happy to help a
friend. Caroline would give him hell for it. Worst of all, now I didn't
want to take Charles with me. You had to do more than look tough.

What if Gaynor got wind of me questioning Wanda? What if he found
Charles and thought he was involved? No. It had been selfish to risk
Charles. He had a four-year-old son. And a wife.

Harold Gaynor would eat Charles raw for dinner. I couldn't involve him.
He was a big, friendly, eager-to-please bear. A lovable, cuddly bear. I
didn't need a teddy bear for backup. I needed someone who would be able
to take any heat that Gaynor might send our way.

I had an idea.

"Go home, Charles. I won't go alone. I promise."

He looked uncertain. Like maybe he didn't trust me. Fancy that. "Anita,
are you sure? I won't leave you hanging like this."

"Go on, Charles. I'll take backup."

"Who can you get at this hour?"

"No questions. Go home to your son."

He looked uncertain, but relieved. He hadn't really wanted to go to the
Tenderloin. Maybe Caroline's short leash was what Charles wanted,
needed. An excuse for all the things he really didn't want to do. What a
basis for a marriage.

But, hey, if it works, don't fix it.

Charles left with many apologies. But I knew he was glad to go. I would
remember that he had been glad to go.

I knocked on the office door. There was a silence, then, "Come in,
Anita."

How had he known it was me? I wouldn't ask. I didn't want to know.

Jean-Claude seemed to be checking figures in a large ledger. It looked
antique with yellowed pages and fading ink. The ledger looked like
something Bob Crachit should have been scribbling in on a cold Christmas
Eve.

"What have I done to merit two visits in one night?" he said.

Looking at him now, I felt silly. I spent all this time avoiding him.
Now I was going to invite him to accompany me on a bit of sleuthing? But
it would kill two bats with one stone. It would please Jean-Claude, and
I really didn't want him angry with me, if I could avoid it. And if
Gaynor did try to go up against Jean-Claude, I was betting on
Jean-Claude.

It was what Jean-Claude had done to me a few weeks ago. He had chosen me
as the vampire's champion. Put me up against a monster that had slain
three master vampires. And he had bet that I would come out on top
against Nikolaos. I had, but just barely.

What was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander. I smiled sweetly
at him. Pleased to be able to return the favor so quickly.

"Would you care to accompany me to the Tenderloin?"

He blinked, surprise covering his face just like a real person. "To what
purpose?"

"I need to question a prostitute about a case I'm working on. I need
backup."

"Backup?" he asked.

"I need backup that looks more threatening than I do. You fit the bill."

He smiled beatifically. "I would be your bodyguard."

"You've given me enough grief, do something nice for a change."

The smile vanished. "Why this sudden change of heart, ma petite?"

"My backup had to go home and baby-sit his kid."

"And if I do not go?"

"I'll go alone," I said.

"Into the Tenderloin?"

"Yep."

He was suddenly standing by the desk, walking towards me. I hadn't seen
him rise.

"I wish you'd stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Clouding my mind so I can't see you move."

"I do it as often as I can, ma petite, just to prove I still can."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I gave up much of my power over you when I gave you the marks. I
practice what little games are left me." He was standing almost in front
of me. "Lest you forget who and what I am."

I stared up into his blue, blue eyes. "I never forget that you are the
walking dead, Jean-Claude."

An expression I could not read passed over his face. It might have been
pain. "No, I see the knowledge in your eyes of what I am." His voice
dropped low, almost a whisper, but it wasn't seductive. It was human.
"Your eyes are the clearest mirror I have ever seen, ma petite. Whenever
I begin to pretend to myself. Whenever I have delusions of life. I have
only to look into your face and see the truth."

What did he expect me to say? Sorry, I'll try to ignore the fact that
you're a vampire. "So why keep me around?" I asked.

"Perhaps if Nikolaos had had such a mirror, she would not have been such
a monster."

I stared at him. He might be right. It made his choice of me as human
servant almost noble. Almost. Oh, hell. I would not start feeling sorry
for the freaking Master of the City. Not now. Not ever.

We would go down to the Tenderloin. Pimps beware. I was bringing the
Master as backup. It was like carrying a thermonuclear device to kill
ants. Overkill has always been a specialty of mine.

Chapter 23
----------

The Tenderloin was originally the red light district on the Riverfront
in the 1800s. But the Tenderloin, like so much of St. Louis, moved
uptown. Go down Washington past the Fox Theater, where you can see
Broadway traveling companies sing bright musical. Keep driving down
Washington to the west edge of downtown St. Louis and you will come to
the resurrected carcass of the Tenderloin.

The night streets are neon-coated, sparkling, flashing, pulsing-colors.
It looks like some sort of pornographic carnival. All it needs is a
Ferris wheel in one of the empty lots. They could sell cotton candy
shaped like naked people. The kiddies could play while Daddy went to get
his jollies. Mom would never have to know.

Jean-Claude sat beside me in the car. He had been utterly silent on the
drive over. I had had to glance at him a time or two just to make sure
he was still there. People make noise. I don't mean talking or belching
or anything overt. But people, as a rule, can't just sit without making
noise. They fidget, the sound of cloth rubbing against the seats; they
breathe, the soft intake of air; they wet their lips, wet, quiet, but
noise. Jean-Claude didn't do any of these things as we drove. I couldn't
even swear he blinked. The living dead, yippee.

I can take silence as good as the next guy, better than most women and a
lot of men. Now, I needed to fill the silence. Talk just for the noise.
A waste of energy, but I needed it.

"Are you in there, Jean-Claude?"

His neck turned, bringing his head with it. His eyes glittered,
reflecting the neon signs like dark glass. Shit.

"You can play human, Jean-Claude, better than almost any vampire I've
ever met. What's all this supernatural crap?"

"Crap?" he said, voice soft.

"Yeah, why are you going all spooky on me?"

"Spooky?" he asked, and the sound filled the car. As if the word meant
something else entirely.

"Stop that," I said.

"Stop what?"

"Answering every question with a question."

He blinked once. "So sorry, ma petite, but I can feel the street."

"Feel the street? What does that mean?"

He settled back against the upholstery, leaning his head and neck into
the seat. His hand clasped over his stomach. "There is a great deal of
life here."

"Life?" He had me doing it now.

"Yes," he said, "I can feel them running back and forth. Little
creatures, desperately seeking love, pain, acceptance, greed. A lot of
greed here, too, but mostly pain and love."

"You don't come to a prostitute for love. You come for sex."

He rolled his head so his dark eyes stared at me. "Many people confuse
the two."

I stared at the road. The hairs at the back of my neck were standing at
attention. "You haven't fed yet tonight, have you?"

"You are the vampire expert. Can you not tell?" His voice had dropped to
almost a whisper. Hoarse and thick.

"You know I can never tell with you."

"A compliment to my powers, I'm sure."

"I did not bring you down here to hunt," I said. My voice sounded firm,
a tad loud. My heart was loud inside my head.

"Would you forbid me to hunt tonight?" he asked.

I thought about that one for a minute or two. We were going to have to
turn around and make another pass to find a parking space. Would I
forbid him to hunt tonight? Yes. He knew the answer. This was a trick
question. Trouble was I couldn't see the trick.

"I would ask that you not hunt here tonight," I said.

"Give me a reason, Anita."

He had called me Anita without me prompting him. He was definitely after
something. "Because I brought you down here. You wouldn't have hunted
here, if it hadn't been for me."

"You feel guilt for whomever I might feed on tonight?"

"It is illegal to take unwilling human victims," I said.

"So it is."

"The penalty for doing so is death," I said.

"By your hand."

"If you do it in this state, yes."

"They are just whores, pimps, cheating men. What do they matter to you,
Anita?"

I don't think he had ever called me Anita twice in a row. It was a bad
sign. A car pulled away not a block from The Grey Cat Club. What luck. I
slid my Nova into the slot. Parallel parking is not my best thing, but
luckily the car that pulled away was twice the size of my car. There was
plenty of room to maneuver, back and forth from the curb.

When the car was lurched nearly onto the curb but safely out of traffic,
I cut the engine. Jean-Claude lay back in his seat, staring at me. "I
asked you a question, ma petite, what do these people mean to you?"

I undid my seat belt and turned to look at him. Some trick of light and
shadow had put most of his body in darkness. A band of nearly gold light
lay across his face. His high cheekbones were very prominent against his
pale skin. The tips of his fangs showed between his lips. His eyes
gleamed like blue neon. I looked away and stared at the steering wheel
while I talked.

"I have no personal stake in these people, Jean-Claude, but they are
people. Good, bad, or indifferent, they are alive, and no one has the
right to just arbitrarily snuff them out."

"So it is the sanctity of life you cling to?"

I nodded. "That and the fact that every human being is special. Every
death is a loss of something precious and irreplaceable." I looked at
him as I finished the last.

"You have killed before, Anita. You have destroyed that which is
irreplaceable."

"I'm irreplaceable, too," I said. "No one has the right to kill me,
either."

He sat up in one liquid motion, and reality seemed to collect around
him. I could almost feel the movement of time in the car, like a sonic
boom for the inside of my head, instead of my ear.

Jean-Claude sat there looking entirely human. His pale skin had a
certain flush to it. His curling black hair, carefully combed and
styled, was rich and touchable. His eyes were just midnight-blue,
nothing exceptional but the color. He was human again, in the blink of
an eye.

"Jesus," I whispered.

"What is wrong, ma petite?"

I shook my head. If I asked how he did it, he'd just smile.

"Why all the questions, Jean-Claude? Why the worry about my view of
life?"

"You are my human servant." He raised a hand to stop the automatic
objection. "I have begun the process of making you my human servant, and
I would like to understand you better."

"Can't you just . . . scent my emotions like you can the people on the
street?"

"No, ma petite. I can feel your desire but little else. I gave that up
when I made you my marked servant."

"You can't read me?"

"No."

That was really nice to know. Jean-Claude didn't have to tell me. So why
did he? He never gave anything away for free. There were strings
attached that I couldn't even see. I shook my head. "You are just to
back me up tonight. Don't do anything to anybody unless I say so, okay?"

"Do anything?"

"Don't hurt anyone unless they try to hurt us."

He nodded, face very solemn. Why did I suspect that he was laughing at
me in some dark corner of his mind? Giving orders to the Master of the
City. I guess it was funny.

The noise level on the sidewalk was intense. Music blared out of every
other building. Never the same song, but always loud. The flashing signs
proclaimed, "Girls, Girls, Girls. Topless." A pink-edged sign read,
"Talk to the Naked Woman of Your Dreams." Eeek.

A tall, thin black woman came up to us. She was wearing purple shorts so
short that they looked like a thong bikini. Black fishnet panty hose
covered her legs and buttocks. Provocative.

She stopped somewhere between the two of us. Her eyes flicked from one
to the other. "Which one of ya does it, and which one of ya watches?"

Jean-Claude and I exchanged glances. He was smiling ever so slightly.
"Sorry, we were looking for Wanda," I said.

"A lot of names down here," she said. "I can do anything this Wanda can
do, and do it better." She stepped very close to Jean-Claude, almost
touching. He took her hand in his and lifted it gently to his lips. His
eyes watched me as he did it.

"You're the doer," she said. Her voice had gone throaty, sexy. Or maybe
that was just the effect Jean-Claude had on women. Maybe.

The woman cuddled in, against him. Her skin looked very dark against the
white lace of his shirt. Her fingernails were painted a bright pink,
like Easter basket grass.

"Sorry to interrupt," I said, "but we don't have all night."

"This is not the one you seek then," he said.

"No," I said.

He gripped her arms just above the elbows and pushed her away. She
struggled just a bit to reach him again. Her hands grabbed at his arms,
trying to pull herself closer to him. He held her straight-armed,
effortlessly. He could have held a semitruck effortlessly.

"I'll do you for free," she said.

"What did you do to her?" I asked.

"Nothing."

I didn't believe him. "Nothing, and she offers to do you for free?"
Sarcasm is one of my natural talents. I made sure that Jean-Claude heard
it.

"Be still," he said.

"Don't tell me to shut up."

The woman was standing perfectly still. Her hands dropped to her sides,
limp. He hadn't been talking to me at all.

Jean-Claude took his hands away from her. She never moved. He stepped
around her like she was a crack in the pavement. He took my arm, and I
let him. I watched the prostitute, waiting for her to move.

Her straight, nearly naked back shuddered. Her shoulders slumped. She
threw back her head and drew a deep trembling breath.

Jean-Claude pulled me gently down the street, his hand on my elbow. The
prostitute turned around, saw us. Her eyes never even hesitated. She
didn't know us.

I swallowed hard enough for it to hurt. I pulled free of Jean-Claude's
hand. He didn't fight me. Good for him.

I backed up against a storefront window. Jean-Claude stood in front of
me, looking down. "What did you do to her?"

"I told you, ma petite, nothing."

"Don't call me that. I saw her, Jean-Claude. Don't lie to me."

A pair of men stopped beside us to look in the window. They were holding
hands. I glanced in the window and felt color creep up my cheeks. There
were whips, leather masks, padded handcuffs, and things I didn't even
have a name for. One of the men leaned into the other and whispered. The
other man laughed. One of them caught me looking. Our eyes met, and I
looked away, fast. Eye contact down here was a dangerous thing.

I was blushing and hating it. The two men walked away, hand in hand.

Jean-Claude was staring in the window like he was out for a Saturday
afternoon of window-shopping. Casual.

"What did you do to that woman?"

He stared in the storefront. I couldn't tell exactly what had caught his
attention. "It was careless of me, ma . . . Anita. My fault entirely."

"What was your fault?"

"My . . . powers are greater when my human servant is with me." He
stared at me then. His gaze solid on my face. "With you beside me, my
powers are enhanced."

"Wait, you mean like a witch's familiar?"

He cocked his head to one side, a slight smile on his face. "Yes, very
close to that. I did not know you knew anything about witchcraft."

"A deprived childhood," I said. I was not going to be diverted from the
important topic. "So your ability to bespell people with your eyes is
stronger when I'm with you. Strong enough that without trying, you
bespelled that prostitute."

He nodded.

I shook my head. "No, I don't believe you."

He shrugged, a graceful gesture on him. "Believe what you like, ma
petite. It is the truth."

I didn't want to believe it. Because if it were true, then I was in fact
his human servant. Not in my actions but by my very presence. With sweat
trickling down my spine from the heat, I was cold. "Shit," I said.

"You could say that," he said.

"No, I can't deal with this right now. I can't." I stared up at him.
"You keep whatever powers we have between us in check, okay?"

"I will try," he said.

"Don't try, dammit, do it."

He smiled wide enough to flash the tips of his fangs. "Of course, ma
petite."

Panic was starting in the pit of my stomach. I gripped my hands into
fists at my sides. "If you call me that one more time, I'm going to hit
you."

His eyes widened just a bit, his lips flexed. I realized he was trying
not to laugh. I hate it when people find my threats amusing.

He was an invasive son of a bitch; and I wanted to hurt him. To hurt him
because he scared me. I understand the urge, I've had it before with
other people. It's an urge that can lead to violence. I stared up at his
softly amused face. He was a condescending bastard, but if it ever came
to real violence between us, one of us would die. Chances were good it
would be me.

The humor leaked out of his face, leaving it smooth and lovely, and
arrogant. "What is it, Anita?" His voice was soft and intimate. Even in
the heat and movement of this place, his voice could roll me up and
under. It was a gift.

"Don't push me into a corner, Jean-Claude. You don't want to take away
all my options."

"I don't know what you mean," he said.

"If it comes down to you or me, I'm going to pick me. You remember
that."

He looked at me for a space of heartbeats. Then he blinked and nodded.
"I believe you would. But remember, ma . . . Anita, if you hurt me, it
hurts you. I could survive the strain of your death. The question,
amante de moi, is could you survive mine?"

Amante de moi? What the hell did that mean? I decided not to ask. "Damn
you, Jean-Claude, damn you."

"That, dear Anita, was done long before you met me."

"What does that mean?"

His eyes were as innocent as they ever were. "Why, Anita, your own
Catholic Church has declared all vampires as suicides. We are
automatically damned."

I shook my head. "I'm Episcopalian, now, but that isn't what you meant."

He laughed then. The sound was like silk brushed across the nape of the
neck. It felt smooth and good, but it made you shudder.

I walked away from him. I just left him there in front of the obscene
window display. I walked into the crowd of whores, hustlers, customers.
There was nobody on this street as dangerous as Jean-Claude. I had
brought him down here to protect me. That was laughable. Ridiculous.
Obscene.

A young man who couldn't have been more than fifteen stopped me. He was
wearing a vest with no shirt and a pair of torn jeans. "You interested?"

He was taller than me by a little. His eyes were blue. Two other boys
just behind him were staring at us.

"We don't get many women down here," he said.

"I believe you." He looked incredibly young. "Where can I find
Wheelchair Wanda?"

One of the boys behind him said, "A crip lover, Jesus."

I agreed with him. "Where?" I held up a twenty. It was too much to pay
for the information, but maybe if I gave it to him, he could go home
sooner. Maybe if he had twenty dollars, he could turn down one of the
cars cruising the street. Twenty dollars, it would change his life. Like
sticking your finger in a nuclear meltdown.

"She's just outside of The Grey Cat. At the end of the block."

"Thanks." I gave him the twenty. His fingernails had grime embedded in
them.

"You sure you don't want some action?" His voice was small and
uncertain, like his eyes. Out of the comer of my eye I saw Jean-Claude
moving through the crowd. He was coming for me. To protect me. I turned
back to the boy. "I've got more action than I know what to do with," I
said.

He frowned, looking puzzled. That was all right. I was puzzled, too.
What do you do with a master vampire that won't leave you alone? Good
question. Unfortunately, what I needed was a good answer.

Chapter 24
----------

Wheelchair Wanda was a small woman sitting in one of those sport
wheelchairs that are used for racing. She wore workout gloves, and the
muscles in her arms moved under her tanned skin as she pushed herself
along. Long brown hair fell in gentle waves around a very pretty face.
The makeup was tasteful. She wore a shiny metallic blue shirt and no
bra. An ankle-length skirt with at least two layers of multicolored
crinoline and a pair of stylish black boots hid her legs.

She was moving towards us at a goodly pace. Most of the prostitutes,
male and female, looked ordinary. They weren't dressed outrageously,
shorts, middrifts. In this heat who could blame them? I guess if you
wear fishnet jumpsuits, the police just naturally get suspicious.

Jean-Claude stood beside me. He glanced up at the sign that proclaimed
"The Grey Cat" in a near blinding shade of fuchsia neon. Tasteful.

How does one approach a prostitute, even just to talk? I didn't know.
Learn something new every day. I stood in her path and waited for her to
come to me. She glanced up and caught me watching her. When I didn't
look away, she got eye contact and smiled.

Jean-Claude moved up beside me. Wanda's smile broadened or deepened. It
was a definite "come along smile" as my Grandmother Blake used to say.

Jean-Claude whispered, "Is that a prostitute?"

"Yes," I said.

"In a wheelchair?" he asked.

"Yep."

"My," was all he said. I think Jean-Claude was shocked. Nice to know he
could be.

She stopped her chair with an expert movement of hands.

She smiled, craning to look up at us. The angle looked painful.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," I said.

She continued to smile. I continued to stare. Why did I suddenly feel
awkward? "A friend told me about you," I said.

Wanda nodded.

"You are the one they refer to as Wheelchair Wanda?"

She grinned suddenly, and her face looked real. Behind all those lovely
but fake smiles was a real person. "Yeah, that's me."

"Could we talk?"

"Sure," she said. "You got a room?"

Did I have a room? Wasn't she supposed to do that? "No."

She waited.

Oh, hell. "We just want to talk to you for an hour, or two. We'll pay
whatever the going rate is."

She told me the going rate.

"Jesus, that's a little steep," I said.

She smiled beatifically at me. "Supply and demand," she said. "You can't
get a taste of what I have anywhere else." She smoothed her hands down
her legs as she said it. My eyes followed her hands like they were
supposed to. This was too weird.

I nodded. "Okay, you got a deal." It was a business expense. Computer
paper, ink pens medium point, one prostitute, manila file folders. See,
it fit right in.

Bert was going to love this one.

Chapter 25
----------

We took Wanda back to my apartment. There are no elevators in my
building. Two flights of stairs are not exactly wheelchair accessible.
Jean-Claude carried her. His stride was even and fluid as he walked
ahead of me. Wanda didn't even slow him down. I followed with the
wheelchair. It did slow me down.

The only consolation I had was I got to watch Jean-Claude climb the
stairs. So sue me. He had a very nice backside for a vampire.

He was waiting for me in the upper hallway, standing with Wanda cuddled
in his arms. They both looked at me with a pleasant sort of blankness.

I wheeled the collapsed wheelchair over the carpeting. Jean-Claude
followed me. The crinoline in Wanda's skirts crinkled and whispered as
he moved.

I leaned the wheelchair against my leg and unlocked the door. I pushed
the door all the way back to the wall to give Jean-Claude room. The
wheelchair folded inwards like a cloth baby stroller. I struggled to
make the metal bars catch, so the chair would be solid again. As I
suspected, it was easier to break it than to fix it.

I glanced up from my struggles and found Jean-Claude still standing
outside my door. Wanda was staring at him, frowning.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I have never been to your apartment."

"So?"

"The great vampire expert . . . come, Anita."

Oh. "You have my permission to enter my home."

He gave a sort of bow from the neck. "I am honored," he said.

The wheelchair snapped into shape again. Jean-Claude set Wanda in her
chair. I closed the door. Wanda smoothed her long skirts over her legs.

Jean-Claude stood in the middle of my living room and gazed about. He
gazed at the penguin calendar on the wall by the kitchenette. He rifled
the pages to see future months, gazing at pictures of chunky flightless
birds until he'd seen every picture.

I wanted to tell him to stop, but it was harmless. I didn't write
appointments on the calendar. Why did it bother me that he was so damned
interested in it?

I turned back to the prostitute in my living room. The night was
entirely too weird. "Would you like something to drink?" I asked. When
in doubt, be polite.

"Red wine if you have it," Wanda said.

"Sorry, nothing alcoholic in the house. Coffee, soft drinks with real
sugar in them, and water, that's about it."

"Soft drink," she said.

I got her a can of Coke out of the fridge. "You want a glass?"

She shook her head.

Jean-Claude was leaning against the wall, staring at me as I moved about
the kitchen. "I don't need a glass either," he said softly.

"Don't get cute," I said.

"Too late," he said.

I had to smile.

The smile seemed to please him. Which made me frown. Life was hard
around Jean-Claude. He sort of wandered off towards the fish tank. He
was giving himself a tour of my apartment. Of course, he would. But at
least it would give Wanda and I some privacy.

"Shit, he's a vampire," Wanda said. She sounded surprised. Which
surprised me. I could always tell. Dead was dead to me, no matter how
pretty the corpse.

"You didn't know?" I asked.

"No, I'm not coffin-bait," she said. There was a tightness to her face.
The flick of her eyes as she followed Jean-Claude's casual movements
around the room was new. She was scared.

"What's coffin-bait?" I handed her the soft drink.

"A whore that does vampires."

Coffin-bait, how quaint. "He won't touch you."

She turned brown eyes to me then. Her gaze was very thorough, as if she
were trying to read the inside of my head. Was I telling the truth?

How terrifying to go away with strangers to rooms and not know if they
will hurt you or not. Desperation, or a death wish.

"So you and I are going to do it?" she asked. Her gaze never left my
face.

I blinked at her. It took me a moment to realize what she meant. "No." I
shook my head. "No, I said I just wanted to talk. I meant it." I think I
was blushing.

Maybe the blush did it. She popped the top on the soda can and took a
drink. "You want me to talk about doing it with other people, while you
do it with him?" She motioned her head towards the wandering vampire.

Jean-Claude was standing in front of the only picture I had in the room.
It was modern and matched the decor. Grey, white, black, and palest
pink. It was one of those designs that the longer you stared at it, the
more shapes you could pick out.

"Look, Wanda, we are just going to talk. That's it. Nobody is going to
do anything to anybody. Okay?"

She shrugged. "It's your money. We can do what you want."

That one statement made my stomach hurt. She meant it. I'd paid the
money. She would do anything I wanted. Anything? It was too awful. That
any human being would say "anything" and mean it. Of course, she drew
the line at vampires. Even whores have standards.

Wanda was smiling up at me. The change was extraordinary. Her face
glowed. She was instantly lovely. Even her eyes glowed. It reminded me
of Cicely's soundless laughing face.

Back to business. "I heard you were Harold Gaynor's mistress a while
back." No preliminaries, no sweet talk. Off with the clothes.

Wanda's smile faded. The glow of humor died in her eyes, replaced by
wariness. "I don't know the name."

"Yeah, you do," I said. I was still standing, forcing her to look up at
me in that near painful angle.

She sipped her drink and shook her head without looking up at me.

"Come on, Wanda, I know you were Gaynor's sweetie. Admit you know him,
and we'll work from there."

She glanced up at me, then down. "No. I'll do you. I'll let the vamp
watch. I'll talk dirty to you both. But I don't know anybody named
Gaynor."

I leaned down, putting my hands on the arms of her chair. Our faces were
very close. "I'm not a reporter. Gaynor will never know you talked to me
unless you tell him."

Her eyes had gotten bigger. I glanced where she was staring. The
Windbreaker had fallen forward. My gun was showing, which seemed to
upset her. Good.

"Talk to me, Wanda." My voice was soft. Mild. The mildest of voices is
often the worst threat.

"Who the hell are you? You're not cops. You're not a reporter. Social
workers don't carry guns. Who are you?" That last question had the lilt
of fear in it.

Jean-Claude strolled into the room. He'd been in my bedroom. Great, just
great. "Trouble, ma petite?"

I didn't correct him on the nickname. Wanda didn't need to know there
was dissent in the ranks. "She's being stubborn," I said.

I stepped back from her chair. I took off the Windbreaker and laid it
over the kitchen counter. Wanda stared at the gun like I knew she would.

I may not be intimidating, but the Browning is.

Jean-Claude walked up behind her. His slender hands touched her
shoulders. She jumped like it had hurt. I knew it hadn't hurt. Might be
better if it did.

"He'll kill me," Wanda said.

A lot of people seemed to say that about Mr. Gaynor. "He'll never know,"
I said.

Jean-Claude rubbed his cheek against her hair. His fingers kneading her
shoulders, gently. "And, my sweet coquette, he is not here with you
tonight." He spoke with his lips against her ear. "We are." He said
something else so soft I could not hear. Only his lips moved,
soundlessly for me.

Wanda heard him. Her eyes widened, and she started to tremble. Her
entire body seemed in the grip of some kind of fit. Tears glittered in
her eyes and fell down her cheeks in one graceful curve.

Jesus.

"Please, don't. Please don't let him." Her voice was squeezed small and
thin with fear.

I hated Jean-Claude in that moment. And I hated me. I was one of the
good guys. It was one of my last illusions. I wasn't willing to give it
up, not even if it worked. Wanda would talk or she wouldn't. No torture.
"Back off, Jean-Claude," I said.

He gazed up at me. "I can taste her terror like strong wine." His eyes
were solid, drowning blue. He looked blind. His face was still lovely as
he opened his mouth wide and fangs glistened.

Wanda was still crying and staring at me. If she could have seen the
look on Jean-Claude's face, she would have been screaming.

"I thought your control was better than this, Jean-Claude?"

"My control is excellent, but it is not endless." He stood away from her
and began to pace the room on the other side of the couch. Like a
leopard pacing its cage. Contained violence, waiting for release. I
could not see his face. Had the spook act been for Wanda's benefit? Or
real?

I shook my head. No way to ask in front of Wanda. Maybe later. Maybe.

I knelt in front of Wanda. She was gripping the soda can so hard, she
was denting it. I didn't touch her, just knelt close by. "I won't let
him hurt you. Honest. Harold Gaynor is threatening me. That's why I need
information."

Wanda was looking at me, but her attention was on the vampire in back of
her. There was a watchful tension in her shoulders. She would never
relax while Jean-Claude was in the room. The lady had taste.

"Jean-Claude, Jean-Claude."

His face looked as ordinary as it ever did when he turned to face me. A
smile crooked his full lips. It was an act. Pretense. Damn him. Was
there something in becoming a vampire that made you sadistic?

"Go into the bedroom for a while. Wanda and I need to talk in private."

"Your bedroom." His smile widened. "My pleasure, ma petite."

I scowled at him. He was undaunted. As always. But he left the room as
I'd asked.

Wanda's shoulders slumped. She drew a shaky breath. "You really aren't
going to let him hurt me, are you?"

"No, I'm not."

She started to cry then, soft, shaky tears. I didn't know what to do.
I've never known what to do when someone cries. Did I hug her? Pat her
hand comfortingly. What?

I finally sat back on the ground in front of her, leaning back on my
heels, and did nothing. It took a few moments, but finally the crying
stopped. She blinked up at me. The makeup around her eyes had faded,
just vanished. It made her look vulnerable, more rather than less
attractive. I had the urge to take her in my arms and rock her like a
child. Whisper lies, about how everything would be alright.

When she left here tonight, she was still going to be a whore. A
crippled whore. How could that be alright? I shook my head more at me
than at her.

"You want some Kleenex?"

She nodded.

I got her the box from the kitchen counter. She wiped at her face and
blew her nose softly, very ladylike.

"Can we talk now?"

She blinked at me and nodded. She took a shaky sip of pop.

"You know Harold Gaynor, right?"

She just stared at me, dully. Had we broken her? "If he finds out, he
will kill me. Maybe I don't want to be coffin-bait, but I sure as hell
don't want to die either."

"No one does. Talk to me, Wanda, please."

She let out a shaky sigh. "Okay, I know Harold."

Harold? "Tell me about him."

Wanda stared at me. Her eyes narrowed. There were fine lines around her
eyes. It made her older than I had thought. "Has he sent Bruno or Tommy
after you yet?"

"Tommy came for a personal meeting."

"What happened?"

"I drew a gun on him."

"That gun?" she asked in a small voice.

"Yes."

"What did you do to make Harold mad?"

Truth or lie? Neither. "I refused to do something for him."

"What?"

I shook my head. "It doesn't matter."

"It can't have been sex. You aren't crippled." She said the last word
like it was hard. "He doesn't touch anyone who's whole." The bitterness
in her voice was thick enough to taste.

"How did you meet him?" I asked.

"I was in college at Wash U. Gaynor was donating money for something."

"And he asked you out?"

"Yeah." Her voice was so soft, I had to lean forward to hear it.

"What happened?"

"We were both in wheelchairs. He was rich. It was great." She rolled her
lips under, like she was smoothing lipstick, then out, and swallowed.

"When did it stop being great?" I asked.

"I moved in with him. Dropped out of college. It was . . . easier than
college. Easier than anything. He couldn't get enough of me." She stared
down at her lap again. "He started wanting variety in the bedroom. See,
his legs are crippled, but he can feel. I can't feel." Wanda's voice had
dropped almost to a whisper. I had to lean against her knees to hear.
"He liked to do things to my legs, but I couldn't feel it. So at first I
thought that was okay, but . . . but he got really sick." She looked at
me suddenly, her face only inches from mine. Her eyes were huge,
swimming with unshed tears. "He cut me up. I couldn't feel it, but
that's not the point, is it?"

"No," I said.

The first tear trailed down her face. I touched her hand. Her fingers
wrapped around mine and held on.

"It's alright," I said, "it's alright."

She cried. I held her hand and lied. "It's alright now, Wanda. He can't
hurt you anymore."

"Everyone hurts you," she said. "You were going to hurt me." There was
accusation in her eyes.

It was a little late to explain good cop, bad cop to her. She wouldn't
have believed it anyway.

"Tell me about Gaynor."

"He replaced me with a deaf girl."

"Cicely," I said.

She looked up, surprised. "You've met her?"

"Briefly."

Wanda shook her head. "Cicely is one sick chickie. She likes torturing
people. It gets her off." Wanda looked at me as if trying to gauge my
reaction. Was I shocked? No.

"Harold slept with both of us at the same time, sometimes. At the end it
was always a threesome. It got real rough." Her voice dropped lower and
lower, a hoarse whisper. "Cicely likes knives. She's real good at
skinning things." She rolled her lips under again in that
lipstick-smoothing gesture. "Gaynor would kill me just for telling you
his bedroom secrets."

"Do you know any business secrets?"

She shook her head. "No, I swear. He was always very careful to keep me
out of that. I thought at first it was so if the police came, I wouldn't
be arrested." She looked down at her lap. "Later, I realized it was
because he knew I would be replaced. He didn't want me to know anything
that could hurt him when he threw me away."

There was no bitterness now, no anger, only a hollow sadness. I wanted
her to rant and rave. This quiet despair was aching. A hurt that would
never heal. Gaynor had done worse than kill her. He'd left her alive.
Alive and as crippled inside as out.

"I can't tell you anything but bedroom talk. It won't help you hurt
him."

"Is there any bedroom talk that isn't about sex?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Personal secrets, but not sex. You. were his sweetie for nearly two
years. He must have talked about something other than sex."

She frowned, thinking. "I . . . I guess he talked about his family."

"What about his family?"

"He was illegitimate. He was obsessed with his real father's family."

"He knew who they were?"

Wanda nodded. "They were rich, old money. His mother was a hooker turned
mistress: When she got pregnant, they threw her out."

Like Gaynor did to his women, I thought. Freud is so often at work in
our lives. Out loud I said, "What family?"

"He never said. I think he thought I'd blackmail them or go to them with
his dirty little secrets. He desperately wants them to regret not
welcoming him into the family. I think he only made his money so he
could be as rich as they were."

"If he never gave you a name, how do you know he wasn't lying?"

"You wouldn't ask if you could hear him. His voice was so intense. He
hates them. And he wants his birthright. Their money is his birthright."

"How does he plan to get their money?" I asked.

"Just before I left him, Harold had found where some of his ancestors
were buried. He talked about treasure. Buried treasure, can you believe
it?"

"In the graves?"

"No, his father's people got their first fortune from being river
pirates. They sailed the Mississippi and robbed people. Gaynor was proud
of that and angry about it. He said that the whole bunch of them were
descended from thieves and whores. Where did they get off being so high
and mighty to him?" She was watching my face as she spoke the last.
Maybe she saw the beginnings of an idea.

"How would knowing the graves of his ancestors help him get their
treasure?"

"He said he'd find some voodoo priest to raise them. He'd force them to
give him their treasure that had been lost for centuries."

"Ah," I said.

"What? Did that help?"

I nodded. My role in Gaynor's little scheme had become clear. Painfully
clear. The only question left was why me? Why didn't he go to someone
thoroughly disreputable like Dominga Salvador? Someone who would take
his money and kill his hornless goat and not lose any sleep over it. Why
me, with my reputation for morality?

"Did he ever mention any names of voodoo priests?"

Wanda shook her head. "No, no names. He was always careful about names.
There's a look on your face. How could what I have told you just now
help you?"

"I think the less you know about that, the better, don't you?"

She stared at me for a long time but finally nodded. "I guess so."

"Is there any place . . ." I let it trail off. I was going to offer her
a plane ticket or a bus ticket to anywhere. Anywhere where she wouldn't
have to sell herself. Anywhere where she could heal.

Maybe she read it in my face or my silence. She laughed, and it was a
rich sound. Shouldn't whores have cynical cackles?

"You are a social worker type after all. You want to save me, don't
you?"

"Is it terribly naive to offer you a ticket home or somewhere?"

She nodded. "Terribly. And why should you want to help me? You're not a
man. You don't like women. Why should you offer to send me home?"

"Stupidity," I said and stood.

"It's not stupid." She took my hand and squeezed it. "But it wouldn't do
any good. I'm a whore. Here at least I know the town, the people. I have
regulars." She released my hand and shrugged. "I get by."

"With a little help from your friends," I said.

She smiled, and it wasn't happy. "Whores don't have friends."

"You don't have to be a whore. Gaynor made you a whore, but you don't
have to stay one."

There were tears trembling in her eyes for the third time that night.
Hell, she wasn't tough enough for the streets. No one was.

"Just call a taxi, okay. I don't want to talk anymore."

What could I do? I called a taxi. I told the driver the fare was in a
wheelchair like Wanda told me to. She let Jean-Claude carry her back
downstairs because I couldn't do it. But she was very tight and still in
his arms. We left her in her chair on the curb.

I watched until the taxi came and took her away. Jean-Claude stood
beside me in the golden circle of light just in front of my apartment
building. The warm light seemed to leech color from his skin.

"I must leave you now, ma petite. It has been very educational, but time
grows short."

"You're going to go feed, aren't you?"

"Does it show?"

"A little."

"I should call you ma vrit, Anita. You always tell me the truth about
myself."

"Is that what vrit means? Truth?" I asked.

He nodded.

I felt bad. Itchy, grumpy, restless. I was mad at Harold Gaynor for
victimizing Wanda. Mad of Wanda for allowing it. Angry with myself for
not being able to do anything about it. I was pissed at the whole world
tonight. I'd learned what Gaynor wanted me to do. And it didn't help a
damn bit.

"There will always be victims, Anita. Predators and prey, it is the way
of the world."

I glared up at him. "I thought you couldn't read me anymore."

"I cannot read your mind or your thoughts, only your face and what I
know of you."

I didn't want to know that Jean-Claude knew me that well. That
intimately. "Go away, Jean-Claude, just go away."

"As you like, ma petite." And just like that he was gone. A rush of
wind, then nothing.

"Show-off," I murmured. I was left standing in the dark, tasting the
first edge of tears. Why did I want to cry over a whore whom I'd just
met? Over the unfairness of the world in general?

Jean-Claude was right. There would always be prey and predator. And I
had worked very hard to be one of the predators. I was the Executioner.
So why were my sympathies always with the victims? And why did the
despair in Wanda's eyes make me hate Gaynor more than anything he'd ever
done to me?

Why indeed?

Chapter 26
----------

The phone rang. I moved nothing but my eyes to glance at the bedside
clock: 6:45 A.M. Shit. I lay there waiting, half drifted to sleep again
when the answering machine picked up.

"It's Dolph. We found another one. Call my pager. . ."

I scrambled for the phone, dropping the receiver in the process. "H'lo,
Dolph. I'm here."

"Late night?"

"Yeah, what's up?"

"Our friend has decided that single family homes are easy pickings." His
voice sounded rough with lack of sleep.

"God, not another family."

"'Fraid so. Can you come out?"

It was a stupid question, but I didn't point that out. My stomach had
dropped into my knees. I didn't want a repeat of the Reynolds house. I
didn't think my imagination could stand it.

"Give me the address. I'll be there."

He gave me the address.

"St. Peters," I said. "It's close to St. Charles, but still . . ."

"Still what?"

"It's a long way to walk for a single family home. There are lots of
houses that fit the bill in St. Charles. Why did it travel so far to
feed?"

"You're asking me?" he said. There was something almost like laughter in
his voice. "Come on out, Ms. Voodoo Expert. See what there is to see."

"Dolph, is it as bad as the Reynolds house?"

"Bad, worse, worst of all," he said. The laughter was still there, but
it held an edge of something hard and self deprecating.

"This isn't your fault," I said.

"Tell that to the top brass. They're screaming for someone's ass."

"Did you get the warrant?"

"It'll come in this afternoon late."

"No one gets warrants on a weekend," I said.

"Special panic-mode dispensation," Dolph said. "Get your ass out here,
Anita. Everyone needs to go home." He hung up.

I didn't bother saying bye.

Another murder. Shit, shit, shit. Double shit. It was not the way I
wanted to spend Saturday morning. But we were getting our warrant.
Yippee. The trouble was I didn't know what to look for. I wasn't really
a voodoo expert. I was a preternatural crimes expert. It wasn't the same
thing. Maybe I should ask Manny to come along. No, no, I didn't want him
near Dominga Salvador in case she decided to cut a deal and give him to
the police. There is no statute of limitations on human sacrifice. Manny
could still go down for it. It'd be Dominga's style to trade my friend
for her life. Making it, in a roundabout way, my fault. Yeah, she'd love
that.

The message light on my answering machine was blinking. Why hadn't I
noticed it last night? I shrugged. One of life's mysteries. I pressed
the playback button.

"Anita Blake, this is John Burke. I got your message. Call me anytime
here. I'm eager to hear what you have." He gave the phone number, and
that was it.

Great, a murder scene, a trip to the morgue, and a visit to voodoo land,
all in one day. It was going to be a busy and unpleasant day. It matched
last night perfectly, and the night before. Shit, I was on a roll.

Chapter 27
----------

There was a patrol cop throwing up his guts into one of those giant,
elephant-sized trash cans in front of the house. Bad sign. There was a
television news van parked across the street. Worse sign. I didn't know
how Dolph had kept zombie massacres out of the news so long. Current
events must have been really hopping for the newshounds to ignore such
easy headlines. ZOMBIES MASSACRE FAMILY. ZOMBIE SERIAL MURDERER ON
LOOSE. Jesus, it was going to be a mess.

The camera crew, complete with microphone-bearing suit, watched me as I
walked towards the yellow police tape. When I clipped the official
plastic card on my collar, the news crew moved like one animal. The
uniform at the police tape held it for me, his eyes on the descending
press. I didn't look back. Never look back when the press are gaining on
you. They catch you if you do.

The blond in the suit yelled out, "Ms. Blake, Ms. Blake, can you give us
a statement?"

Always nice to be recognized, I guess. But I pretended not to hear. I
kept walking, head determinedly down.

A crime scene is a crime scene is a crime scene. Except for the unique
nightmarish qualities of each one. I was standing in a bedroom of a very
nice one-story ranch. There was a white ceiling fan that turned slowly.
It made a faint whirring creak, as if it wasn't screwed in tight on one
side.

Better to concentrate on the small things. The way the east light fell
through the slanting blinds, painting the room in zebra-stripe shadows.
Better not to look at what was left on the bed. Didn't want to look.
Didn't want to see.

Had to see. Had to look. Might find a clue. Sure, and pigs could fucking
fly. But still, maybe, maybe there would be a clue. Maybe. Hope is a
lying bitch.

There are roughly two gallons of blood in the human body. As much blood
as they put on television and the movies, it's never enough. Try dumping
out two full gallons of milk on your bedroom floor. See what a mess it
makes, now multiply that by . . . something. There was too much blood
for just one person. The carpet squeeched underfoot, and blood came up
in little splatters like mud after a rain. My white Nikes were spotted
with scarlet before I was halfway to the bed.

Lesson learned: wear black Nikes to murder scenes.

The smell was thick in the room. I was glad for the ceiling fan. The
room smelled like a mixture of slaughterhouse and outhouse. Shit and
blood. The smell of fresh death, more often than not.

Sheets covered not just the bed, but a lot of the floor around the bed.
It looked like giant paper towels thrown over the world's biggest
Kool-Aid spill. There had to be pieces all over, under the sheets. The
lumps were so small, too small to be a body. There wasn't a single
scarlet-soaked bump that was big enough for a human body.

"Please don't make me look," I whispered to the empty room.

"Did you say something?"

I jumped and found Dolph standing just behind me. "Jesus, Dolph, you
scared me."

"Wait until you see what's under the sheets. Then you can be scared."

I didn't want to see what was under the army of blood-soaked sheets.
Surely, I'd seen enough for one week. My quota of gore had to have been
exceeded, night before last. Yeah, I was over my quota.

Dolph stood in the doorway waiting. There were tiny pinched lines by his
eyes that I had never noticed. He was pale and needed a shave.

We all needed something. But first I had to look under the sheets. If
Dolph could do it, I could do it. Ri-ight.

Dolph stuck his head out in the hallway. "We need some help in here
lifting the sheets. After Blake sees the remains we can go home." I
think he added that last because no one had moved to help. He wasn't
going to get any volunteers. "Zerbrowski, Perry, Merlioni, get your
butts in here."

The bags under Zerbrowski's eyes looked like bruises. "Hiya, Blake."

"Hi, Zerbrowski, you look like shit."

He laughed. "And you still look fresh and lovely as a spring morning."
He grinned at me.

"Yeah, right," I said.

Detective Perry said, "Ms. Blake, good to see you again."

I had to smile. Perry was the only cop I knew who would be gracious even
over the bloody remains. "Nice to see you, too, Detective Perry."

"Can we get on with this," Merlioni said, "or are the two of you
planning to elope?" Merlioni was tall, though not as tall as Dolph. But
then who was? He had grey curling hair cut short and buzzed on the sides
and over his ears. He wore a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled
up to his elbows and a tie at half-mast. His gun stuck out on his left
hip like a lumpy wallet.

"You take the first sheet then, Merlioni, if you're in such a damn
hurry," Dolph said.

Merlioni sighed. "Yeah, yeah." He stepped to the sheet on the floor. He
knelt. "You ready for this, girlie?"

"Better girlie than dago," I said.

He smiled.

"Do it."

"Showtime," Merlioni said. He raised the sheet and it stuck in a wet
swatch that pulled up one wet inch at a time.

"Zerbrowski, help him raise the damn thing," Dolph said.

Zerbrowski didn't argue. He must have been tired. The two men lifted the
sheet in one wet motion. The morning sunlight streamed through the red
sheet and painted the rug even redder than it was, or maybe it didn't
make any difference. Blood dripped from the edges of the sheet where the
men held it. Wet, heavy drops, like a sink that needed fixing. I'd never
seen a sheet saturated with blood before. A morning of firsts.

I stared at the rug and couldn't make sense of it. It was just a pile of
lumps, small lumps. I knelt beside them. Blood soaked through the knee
of my jeans, it was cold. Better than warm, I guess.

The biggest lump was wet and smooth, about five inches long. It was pink
and healthy-looking. It was a scrap of upper intestine. A smaller lump
lay just beside it. I stared at the lump but the longer I stared the
less it looked like anything. It could have been a hunk of meat from any
animal. Hell, the intestine didn't have to be human. But it was, or I
wouldn't be here.

I poked the smaller glob with one gloved finger. I had remembered my
surgical gloves this time. Goody for me. The glob was wet and heavy and
solid. I swallowed hard, but I was no closer to knowing what it was. The
two scraps were like morsels dropped from a cat's mouth. Crumbs from the
table. Jesus.

I stood. "Next." My voice sounded steady, ordinary. Amazing.

It took all four men lifting from different corners to peel the sheet
back from the bed. Merlioni cursed and dropped his corner, "Dammit!"

Blood had run down his arm onto the white shirt. "Did um's get his shirt
messy?" Zerbrowski asked.

"Fuck yes. This place is a mess."

"I guess the lady of the house didn't have time to clean up before you
came, Merlioni," I said. My eyes flicked down to the bed and the remains
of the lady of the house. But I looked back up at Merlioni instead. "Or
can't the dago cop take it?"

"I can take anything you can dish out, little lady," he said.

I frowned and shook my head. "Betcha can't."

"I'll take some of that action," Zerbrowski said.

Dolph didn't stop us, tell us this was a crime scene, not a betting
parlor. He knew we needed it to stay sane. I could not stare down at the
remains and not make jokes. I couldn't. I'd go crazy. Cops have the
weirdest sense of humor, because they have to.

"How much you bet?" Merlioni said.

"A dinner for two at Tony's," I said.

Zerbrowski whistled. "Steep, very steep."

"I can afford to foot the bill. Is it a deal?"

Merlioni nodded. "My wife and I haven't been out in ages." He offered
his blood-soaked hand. I took it. The cool blood clung to the outside of
my surgical gloves. It felt wet, like it had soaked through to the skin,
but it hadn't. It was a sensory illusion. I knew that when I took off
the gloves my hands would be powder dry. It was still unnerving.

"How we prove who's toughest?" Merlioni asked.

"This scene, here and now," I said.

"Deal."

I turned my attention back to the carnage with renewed determination. I
would win the bet. I wouldn't let Merlioni have the satisfaction. It
gave me something to concentrate on rather than the mess on the bed.

The left half of a rib cage lay on the bed. A naked breast was still
attached to it. The lady of the house? Everything was brilliant scarlet
red, like someone had poured buckets of red paint on the bed. It was
hard to pick out the pieces. There a left arm, small, female.

I picked up the fingers and they were limp, no rigor mortis. There was a
wedding band set on the third finger. I moved the fingers back and
forth. "No rigor mortis. What do you think, Merlioni?"

He squinted down at the arm. He couldn't let me outdo him so he fiddled
with the hand, turning it at the wrist. "Could be rigor came and went.
You know the first rigor doesn't last."

"You really think nearly two days have passed?" I shook my head. "The
blood's too fresh for that. Rigor hasn't set in. The crime isn't eight
hours old yet."

He nodded. "Not bad, Blake. But what do you make of this?" He poked the
rib cage enough to make the breast jiggle.

I swallowed hard. I would win this bet. "I don't know. Let's see. Help
me roll it over." I stared into his face while I asked. Did he pale just
a bit? Maybe.

"Sure."

The three others were standing at the side of the room, watching the
show. Let them. It was a lot more diverting than thinking of this as
work.

Merlioni and I moved the rib cage over on its side. I made sure to give
him the fleshy parts, so he ended up groping the dead body. Was breast
tissue breast tissue? Did it matter that it was bloody and cold?
Merlioni looked just a little green. I guess it mattered.

The insides of the rib cage were snatched clean like Mr. Reynolds's rib
cage. Clean and bloody smooth. We let the rib cage fall back on the bed.
It splattered blood in a faint spray onto us. His white shirt showed it
worse than my blue polo shirt did. Point for me.

He grimaced and brushed at the blood specks. He smeared blood from his
gloves down the shirt. Merlioni closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Are you alright, Merlioni?" I asked. "I wouldn't want you to continue
if it's upsetting you."

He glared at me, then smiled. A most unpleasant smile. "You ain't seen
it all, girlie. I have."

"But have you touched it all?"

A trickle of sweat slid down his face. "You won't want to touch it all."

I shrugged. "We'll see." There was a leg on the bed, from the hair and
the one remaining tennis shoe it looked male. The round, wet mound of
the ball socket gleamed out at us. The zombie had just torn the leg off,
tearing flesh without tearing bone.

"That must have hurt like a son of a bitch," I said.

"You think he was alive when the leg was pulled off?"

I nodded. "Yeah." I wasn't a hundred percent sure. There was too much
blood to tell who had died when, but Merlioni looked a little paler.

The rest of the pieces were just bloody entrails, globs of flesh, bits
of bone. Merlioni picked up a handful of entrails. "Catch."

"Jesus, Merlioni, that isn't funny." My stomach was one tight knot.

"No, but the look on your face is," he said.

I glared at him and said, "Throw it or don't, Merlioni, no teasing."

He blinked at me for a minute, then nodded. He tossed the string of
entrails. They were awkward to throw but I managed to catch them. They
were wet, heavy, flaccid, squeeshy, and altogether disgusting, like
touching raw calf's liver but more so.

Dolph made an exasperated sound. "While you two are playing gross out,
can you tell me something useful?"

I dropped the flesh back on the bed. "Sure. The zombie came in through
the sliding glass door like last time. It chased the man or woman back
in here and got them both." I stopped talking. I just froze.

Merlioni was holding up a baby blanket. Some trick had left a corner of
it clean. It was edged in satiny pink with tiny balloons and clowns all
over it. Blood dripped heavily from the other end of it.

I stared at the tiny balloons and clowns while they danced in useless
circles. "You bastard," I whispered.

"Are you referring to me?" Merlioni asked.

I shook my head. I didn't want to touch the blanket. But I reached out
for it. Merlioni made sure that the bloody edge slapped my bare arm.
"Dago bastard," I said.

"You referring to me, bitch?"

I nodded and tried to smile but didn't really manage it. We had to keep
pretending that this was alright. That this was doable. It was obscene.
If the bet hadn't held me I'd have run screaming from the room.

I stared at the blanket. "How old?"

"Family portrait out front, I'd guess three, four months."

I was finally on the other side of the bed. There was another
sheet-draped spot. It was just as bloody, just as small. There was
nothing whole under the sheet. I wanted to call the bet off. If they
wouldn't make me look I'd take them all to Tony's. Just don't make me
lift that last sheet. Please, please.

But I had to look, bet or no bet, I had to see what there was to see.
Might as well see it and win, as run and lose.

I handed the blanket back to Merlioni. He took it and laid it back on
the bed, up high so the clean corner would stay clean.

I knelt on one side of the sheet. He knelt on the other. Our eyes met.
It was a challenge then, to the gruesome end. We peeled back the sheet.

There were only two things under the sheet. Only two. My stomach
contracted so hard I had to swallow vomit. I coughed and almost lost it
there, but I held on. I held on.

I'd thought the blood-soaked form was the baby, but it wasn't. It was a
doll. So blood-soaked I couldn't tell what color its hair had been, but
it was just a doll. A doll too old for a four-month-old baby.

A tiny hand lay on the carpet, covered in gore like everything else, but
it was a hand. A tiny hand. The hand of a child, not a baby. I spread my
hand just above it to size it. Three, maybe four. About the same age as
Benjamin Reynolds. Was that coincidence? Had to be. Zombies weren't that
choosy.

"I'm breast-feeding the baby, maybe, when I hear a loud noise. Husband
goes to check. Noise wakes the little girl, she comes out of her room to
see what's the matter. Husband sees the monster, grabs the child, runs
for the bedroom. The zombie takes them here. Kills them all, here." My
voice sounded distant, clinical. Bully for me.

I tried to wipe some of the blood off the tiny hand. She was wearing a
ring like Mommy. One of those plastic rings you get out of bubble gum
machines.

"Did you see the ring, Merlioni?" I asked. I lifted the hand from the
carpet and said, "Catch."

"Jesus!" He was on his feet and moving before I could do anything else.
Merlioni walked very fast out the door. I wouldn't really have thrown
the hand. I wouldn't.

I cradled the tiny hand in my hands. It felt heavy, as if the fingers
should curl round my hand. Should ask me to take it for a walk. I
dropped the hand on the carpet. It landed with a wet splat.

The room was very hot and spinning ever so slightly. I blinked and
stared at Zerbrowski. "Did I win the bet?"

He nodded. "Anita Blake, tough chick. One night of delectable feasting
at Tony's on Merlioni's tab. I hear they make great spaghetti."

The mention of food was too much. "Bathroom, where?"

"Down the hall, third door on the left," Dolph said.

I ran for the bathroom. Merlioni was just coming out. I didn't have time
to savor my victory. I was too busy tossing my cookies.

Chapter 28
----------

I knelt with my forehead against the cool linoleum of the bathtub. I was
feeling better. Lucky I hadn't taken time to eat breakfast.

There was a tap on the door.

"What?" I said.

"It's Dolph. Can I come in?"

I thought about that for a minute. "Sure."

Dolph came in with a washcloth in his hand. Linen closet, I guessed. He
stared at me for a minute or two and shook his head. He rinsed the
washrag in the sink and handed it to me. "You know what to do with it."

I did. The rag was cold and felt wonderful on my face and neck. "Did you
give Merlioni one, too?" I asked.

"Yeah, he's in the kitchen. You're both assholes, but it was
entertaining."

I managed a weak smile.

"Now that you're through grandstanding, any useful observations?" He sat
on the closed lid of the stool.

I stayed on the floor. "Did anybody hear anything, this time?"

"Neighbor heard something around dawn, but he went on to work. Said, he
didn't want to get involved in a domestic dispute."

I stared up at Dolph. "Had he heard fighting from this house before?"

Dolph shook his head.

"God, if he had just called the police," I said.

"You think it would have made a difference?" Dolph asked.

I thought about that for a minute. "Maybe not to this family, but we
might have trapped the zombie."

"Spilled milk," Dolph said.

"Maybe not. The scene is still very fresh. The zombie killed them, then
took the time to eat four people. That isn't quick. At dawn the thing
was still killing them."

"Your point."

"Seal the area."

"Explain."

"The zombie has to be nearby, within walking distance. It's hiding,
waiting for nightfall."

"I thought zombies could go out in daylight," Dolph said.

"They can, but they don't like it. A zombie won't go out in the day
unless ordered to."

"So the nearest cemetery," he said.

"Not necessarily. Zombies aren't like vamps or ghouls. It doesn't need
to be coffins or even graves. The zombie will just want to get out of
the light."

"So where do we look?"

"Sheds, garages, any place that will shield it."

"So he could be in some kid's tree house," Dolph said.

I smiled. Nice to know I still could. "I doubt the zombie would climb if
given a choice. Notice that all the houses are one-stories."

"Basements," he said.

"But no one runs down to the basement," I said.

"Would it have helped?"

I shrugged. "Zombies aren't great at climbing, as a rule. This one is
faster and more alert but . . . At best the basement might have delayed
it. If there were windows, they might have gotten the children out." I
rubbed the cloth on the back of my neck. "The zombie picks one-story
houses with sliding glass doors. It might rest near one."

"The medical examiner says the corpse is tall, six feet, six-two. Male,
white. Immensely strong."

"We knew the last, and the rest doesn't really help."

"You got a better idea?"

"As a matter of fact," I said, "have all the officers about the right
height walk the neighborhood for an hour. Then block off that much of
the area."

"And search all the sheds and garages," Dolph said.

"And basements, crawl spaces, old refrigerators," I said.

"If we find it?"

"Fry it. Get an exterminator team out here."

"Will the zombie attack during the day?" Dolph asked.

"If disturbed enough, yes. This one's awfully aggressive."

"No joke," he said. "We'd need a dozen exterminator teams or more. The
city'll never go for that. Besides, we could walk a pretty damn wide
circle. We might search and miss it completely."

"It'll move at dark. If you're ready, you'll find it then."

"Okay. You sound like you're not going to help search."

"I'll be back to help, but John Burke returned my call."

"You taking him to the morgue?"

"Yeah, in time to try to use him against Dominga Salvador. What timing,"
I said.

"Good. You need anything from me?"

"Just access to the morgue for both of us," I said.

"Sure thing. You think you'll really learn anything from Burke?"

"Don't know till I try," I said.

He smiled. "Give it the old college try, eh?"

"Win one for the Gipper," I said.

"You go visit the morgue and deal with voodoo John. We'll turn this
fucking neighborhood upside down."

"Nice to know we've both got our days planned," I said.

"Don't forget this afternoon we check out Salvador's house."

I nodded. "Yeah, and tonight we hunt zombies."

"We're going to end this shit tonight," he said.

"I hope so."

He looked at me, eyes narrowed. "You got a problem with our plans?"

"Just that no plan is perfect."

He was quiet a moment, then stood. "Wish this one was."

"Me, too."

Chapter 29
----------

The St. Louis County morgue was a large building. It needs to be. Every
death not attended by a physician comes to the morgue. Not to mention
every murder. In St. Louis that made for some very heavy traffic.

I use to come to the morgue fairly regularly. To stake suspected vampire
victims so they wouldn't rise and feast on the morgue attendants. With
the new vamp laws, that's murder. You have to wait for the puppies to
rise, unless they've left a will strictly forbidding coming back as a
vampire. My will says to put me out of my misery if they think I'm
coming back with fangs. Hell, my will asks for cremation. I don't want
to come back as a zombie either, thank you very much.

John Burke was as I remembered him. Tall, dark, handsome, vaguely
villainous. It was the little goatee that did it. No one wears goatees
outside of horror movies. You know, the ones with strange cults that
worship horned images.

He looked a little faded around the eyes and mouth. Grief will do that
to you even if your skin tone is dark. His lips were set in a thin line
as we walked into the morgue. He held his shoulders as if something
hurt.

"How's it going at your sister-in-law's?" I asked.

"Bleak, very bleak."

I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. So I let it go. If he
didn't want to talk about it, that was his privilege.

We were walking down a wide empty corridor. Wide enough for three
gurneys to wheel abreast. The guard station looked like a WWII bunker,
complete with machine guns, In case the dead should rise all at once and
make for freedom. It had never happened here in St. Louis, but it had
happened as close as Kansas City.

A machine gun will take the starch out of any walking dead. You're only
in trouble if there are a lot of them. If there is a crowd, you're
pretty much cooked.

I flashed my ID at the guard. "Hi, Fred, long time no see."

"I wish they let you come down here like before. We've had three get up
this week and go home. Can you believe that?"

"Vampires?"

"What else? There's going to be more of them than of us someday."

I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. He was probably right.
"We're here to see the personal effects of Peter Burke. Sergeant Rudolph
Storr was supposed to clear it."

Fred checked his little book. "Yeah, you're authorized. Take the right
corridor, third door on the left. Dr. Saville is waiting for you."

I raised an eyebrow at that. It wasn't often that the chief medical
examiner did errands for the police or anybody else. I just nodded as if
I had expected royal treatment.

"Thanks, Fred, see you on the way out."

"More and more people do," he said. He didn't sound happy about it.

My Nikes made no sound in the perpetual quiet. John Burke wasn't making
any noise either. I hadn't pegged him as a tennis shoe man. I glanced
down, and I was right. Soft-soled brown tie-ups, not tennis shoes. But
he still moved beside me like a quiet shadow.

The rest of his outfit sort of matched the shoes. A dressy brown sport
jacket so dark brown it was almost black, over a pale yellow shirt,
brown dress slacks. He only needed a tie, and he could have gone to
corporate America. Did he always dress up, or was this just what he had
brought for his brother's funeral? No, the suit at the funeral had been
perfectly black.

The morgue was always quiet, but on a Saturday morning it was deathly
still. Did the ambulances circle like planes until a decent hour on the
weekend? I knew the murder count went up on the weekend, yet Saturday
and Sunday morning were always quiet. Go figure.

I counted doors on the left-hand side. Knocked on the third door. A
faint "Come in," and I opened the door.

Dr. Marian Saville is a small woman with short dark hair bobbed just
below her ears, an olive complexion, deeply brown eyes, and fine high
cheekbones. She is French and Greek and looks it. Exotic without being
intimidating. It always surprised me that Dr. Saville wasn't married. It
wasn't for lack of being pretty.

Her only fault was that she smoked, and the smell clung to her like
nasty perfume.

She came forward with a smile and an offered hand. "Anita, good to see
you again."

I shook her hand, and smiled. "You, too, Dr. Saville."

"Marian, please."

I shrugged. "Marian, are those the personal effects?"

We were in a small examining room. On a lovely stainless steel table
were several plastic bags.

"Yes."

I stared at her, wondering what she wanted. The chief medical examiner
didn't do errands. Something else was up, but what? I didn't know her
well enough to be blunt, and I didn't want to be barred from the morgue,
so I couldn't be rude. Problems, problems.

"This is John Burke, the deceased's brother," I said.

Dr. Saville's eyebrows raised at that. "My condolences, Mr. Burke."

"Thank you." John shook the hand she offered him, but his eyes were all
for the plastic bags. There was no room today for attractive doctors or
pleasantries. He was going to see his brother's last effects. He was
looking for clues to help the police catch his brother's killer. He had
taken the notion very seriously.

If he wasn't involved with Dominga Salvador, I would owe him a big
apology. But how was I to get him to talk with Dr. Marian hovering
around? How was I supposed to ask for privacy? It was her morgue, sort
of.

"I have to be here to make sure no evidence is tampered with," she said.
"We've had a few very determined reporters lately."

"But I'm not a reporter."

She shrugged. "You're not an official person, Anita. New rules from on
high that no nonofficial person is to be allowed to look at murder
evidence without someone to watch over them."

"I appreciate it being you, Marian."

She smiled. "I was here anyway. I figured you'd resent my looking over
your shoulder less than anyone else."

She was right. What did they think I was going to do, steal a body? If I
wanted to, I could empty the damn place and get every corpse to play
follow the leader.

Perhaps that was why I needed watching. Perhaps.

"I don't mean to be rude," John said, "but could we get on with this?"

I glanced up at his handsome face. The skin was tight around the mouth
and eyes as if it had thinned. Guilt speared me in the side. "Sure,
John, we're being thoughtless."

"Your forgiveness, Mr. Burke," Marian said. She handed us both little
plastic gloves. She and I slipped into them like pros, but John wasn't
used to putting on examining gloves. There is a trick to it--practice.
By the time I finished helping him on with his gloves, he was grinning.
His whole face changed when he smiled. Brilliant and handsome and not
the least villainous.

Dr. Saville popped the seal on the first bag. It was clothing.

"No," John said, "I don't know his clothing. It may be his, and I
wouldn't know. Peter and I had . . . hadn't seen each other in two
years." The guilt in those last words made me wince.

"Fine, we'll go on to the smaller items," Marian said, and smiled as she
said it. Nice and cheery, practicing her bedside manner. She so seldom
got to practice.

She opened a much smaller bag and spilled the contents gently on the
shiny silver surface. A comb, a dime, two pennies, a movie ticket stub,
and a voodoo charm. A gris-gris.

It was woven of black and red thread with human teeth worked into the
beading. More bones dangled all the way around it. "Are those human
finger bones?" I asked.

"Yes," John said, his voice very still. He looked strange as he stood
there, as if some new horror were dawning behind his eyes.

It was an evil piece of work, but I didn't understand the strength of
his reaction to it.

I leaned over it, poking it with one finger. There was some dried skin
woven in the center of it all. And it wasn't just black thread, it was
black hair.

"Human hair, teeth, bones, skin," I said softly.

"Yes," John repeated.

"You're more into voodoo than I am," I said. "What does it mean?"

"Someone died to make this charm."

"Are you sure?"

He glared down at me with withering contempt. "Don't you think if it
could be anything else I wouldn't say it? Do you think I enjoy learning
my brother took part in human sacrifice?"

"Did Peter have to be there? He couldn't have just bought it
afterwards?"

"NO!" It was almost a yell. He turned away from us, pacing to the wall.
His breathing was loud and ragged.

I gave him a few moments to collect himself, then asked what had to be
asked. "What does the gris-gris do?"

He turned a calm enough face to us, but the strain showed around his
eyes. "It enables a less powerful necromancer to raise older dead, to
borrow the power of some much greater necromancer."

"How borrow?"

He shrugged. "That charm holds some of the power of the most powerful
among us. Peter paid dearly for it; so he could raise more and older
dead. Peter, God, how could you?"

"How powerful would you need to be to share your power like this?"

"Very powerful," he said.

"Is there any way to trace it back to the person who made it?"

"You don't understand, Anita. That thing is a piece of someone's power.
It is one substance to what soul they have left. It must have been a
great need or great greed to do it. Peter could never have afforded it.
Never."

"Can it be traced back?"

"Yes, just get it in the room with the person who truly owns it. The
thing will crawl back to him. It's a piece of his soul gone missing."

"Would that be proof in court?"

"If you could make the jury understand it, yes, I guess so." He stepped
towards me. "You know who did this?"

"Maybe. "

"Who, tell me who?"

"I'll do better than that. I'll arrange for you to come on a search of
their house."

A grim smile touched his lips. "I'm beginning to like you a great deal,
Anita Blake."

"Compliments later."

"What's this mean?" Marian asked. She had turned the charm completely
over. There, shining among the hair and bone, was a small charm, like
from a charm bracelet. It was in the shape of a musical symbol--a treble
clef.

What had Evans said when he touched the grave fragments; they slit her
throat, she had a charm bracelet with a musical note on it and little
hearts. I stared at the charm and felt the world shift. Everything fell
together in one motion. Dominga Salvador hadn't raised the killer
zombie. She had helped Peter Burke raise it. But I had to be sure. We
only had a few hours until we'd be back at Dominga's door trying to
prove a case.

"Are there any women that came in around the same time as Peter Burke?"

"I'm sure there are," Marian said with a smile.

"Women with their throats slit," I said.

She stared at me for a heartbeat. "I'll check the computer."

"Can we take the charm with us?"

"Why?"

"Because if I'm right, she had a charm bracelet with a bow and arrow and
little hearts on it, and this came from the bracelet." I held the gold
charm up to the light. It sparkled merrily as if it didn't know its
owner was dead.

Chapter 30
----------

Death turns you grey before any other color. Oh, a body that loses a lot
of blood will look white or bluish. But once a body starts to decay, not
rot, not yet, it looks greyish.

The woman looked grey. Her neck wound had been cleaned and searched. The
wound looked puckered like a second giant mouth below her chin.

Dr. Saville pulled her head back casually. "The cut was very deep. It
severed the muscles in the neck and the carotid artery. Death was fairly
quick."

"Professionally done," I said.

"Well, yes, whoever cut her throat knew what they were doing. There are
a dozen different ways to injure the neck that won't kill or won't kill
quickly."

John Burke said, "Are you saying that my brother had practice?"

"I don't know," I said. "Do you have her personal effects?"

"Right here." Marian unfastened a much smaller bag and spilled it out on
an empty table. The golden charm bracelet sparkled under the fluorescent
lights.

I picked the bracelet up in my still gloved hand. A tiny strung bow
complete with arrow, a different musical note, two entwined hearts.
Everything Evans had said.

"How did you know about the charm and the dead woman?" John Burke asked.

"I took some evidence to a clairvoyant. He saw the woman's death and the
bracelet."

"What's that got to do with Peter?"

"I believe a voodoo priestess had Peter raise a zombie. It got away from
him. It's been killing people. To hide what she's done, she killed
Peter."

"Who did it?"

"I have no proof unless the gris-gris will be proof enough."

"A vision and a gris-gris." John shook his head. "Hard sell to a jury."

"I know. That's why we need more proof."

Dr. Saville just watched us talk, like an eager spectator.

"A name, Anita, give me a name."

"Only if you swear not to go after her until the law has its chance.
Only if the law fails, promise me."

"I give you my word."

I studied his face for a minute. The dark eyes stared back, clear and
certain. Bet he could lie with a clear conscience. "I don't trust just
anybody's word." I stared at him a moment longer. He never flinched. I
guess my hard-as-nails look has faded a little. Or maybe he meant to
keep his word. It happens sometimes.

"Alright, I'll take your word. Don't make me regret it."

"I won't," he said. "Now give me the name."

I turned to Dr. Saville. "Excuse us, Marian. The less you know about all
this, the greater your chances of never waking to a zombie crawling
through your window." An exaggeration, sort of, but it made my point.

She looked like she wanted to protest but finally nodded. "Very well,
but I would dearly love to hear the complete story someday, if it's
safe."

"If I can tell it, it's yours," I said.

She nodded again, shut the drawer the Jane Doe lay on, and left. "Yell
when you're finished. I've got work to do," she said and the door closed
behind her.

She left us with the evidence still clutched in our hands. Guess she
trusted me. Or us?

"Dominga Salvador," I said.

He drew a sharp breath. "I know that name. She is a frightening force if
all the stories are true."

"They're true," I said.

"You've met her?"

"I've had the misfortune."

There was a look on his face that I didn't much like. "You swore no
revenge."

"The police will not get her. She is too crafty for that," he said.

"We can get her legally. I believe that."

"You aren't sure," he said

What could I say? He was right. "I'm almost sure."

"Almost is not good enough for killing my brother."

"That zombie has killed a lot more people than just your brother. I want
her, too. But we're going to get her legally, through the court system."

"There are other ways to get her," he said.

"If the law fails us, feel free to use voodoo. Just don't tell me about
it."

He looked amused, puzzled. "No outrage about me using black magic?"

"The woman tried to kill me once. I don't think she'll give up."

"You survived an attack by the Seora?" he asked. He looked amazed.

I didn't like him looking amazed. "I can take care of myself, Mr.
Burke."

"I don't doubt that, Ms. Blake." He smiled. "I've bruised your ego. You
don't like me being so surprised, do you?"

"Keep your observations to yourself, okay?"

"If you have survived a head-on confrontation with what Dominga Salvador
would send to you, then I should have believed some of the stories I
heard of you. The Executioner, the animator who can raise anything no
matter how old."

"I don't know about that last, but I'm just trying to stay alive, that's
all."

"If Dominga Salvador wants you dead that won't be easy."

"Damn near impossible," I said.

"So let us get her first," he said.

"Legally," I said.

"Anita, you are being naive."

"The offer to come on a raid of her house still stands."

"You're sure you can arrange that?"

"I think so."

His eyes had a sort of dark light to them, a sparkling blackness. He
smiled, tight-lipped, and very unpleasant, as if he were contemplating
tortures for one Dominga Salvador. The private vision seemed to fill him
with pleasure.

The skin between my shoulders crept with that look. I hoped John never
turned those dark eyes on me. Something told me he would make a bad
enemy. Almost as bad as Dominga Salvador. Almost as bad, but not quite.

Chapter 31
----------

Dominga Salvador sat in her living room smiling. The little girl who had
been riding her tricycle on my last trip here was sitting in her
grandma's lap. The child was as relaxed and languorous as a kitten. Two
older boys sat at Dominga's feet. She was the picture of maternal bliss.
I wanted to throw up.

Of course, just because she was the most dangerous voodoo priestess I'd
ever met didn't mean she wasn't a grandma, too. People are seldom just
one thing. Hitler liked dogs.

"You are more than welcome to search, Sergeant. My house is your house,"
she said in a candy-coated voice that had already offered us lemonade,
or perhaps iced tea.

John Burke and I were standing to one side, letting the police do their
job. Dominga was making them feel silly for their suspicions. Just a
nice old lady. Right.

Antonio and Enzo were also standing to one side. They didn't quite fit
this picture of grandmotherly bliss, but evidently she wanted witnesses.
Or maybe a shootout wasn't out of the question.

"Mrs. Salvador, do you understand the possible implications of this
search?" Dolph said.

"There are no implications because I have nothing to hide." She smiled
sweetly. Damn her.

"Anita, Mr. Burke," Dolph said.

We came forward like props in a magic show. Which wasn't far off. A tall
police officer had the video camera ready to go.

"I believe you know Ms. Blake," Dolph said.

"I have had the pleasure," Dominga said.

Butter wouldn't have melted in her lying mouth.

"This is John Burke."

Her eyes widened just a little. The first slip in her perfect
camouflage. Had she heard of John Burke? Did the name worry her? I hoped
so.

"So glad to meet you at last, Mr. John Burke," she said finally.

"Always good to meet another practitioner of the art," he said.

She bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment. At least she wasn't
trying to pretend complete innocence. She admitted to being a voodoo
priestess. Progress..

It was obscene for the godmother of voodoo to be playing the innocent.

"Do it, Anita," Dolph said. No preliminaries, no sense of theater, just
do it. That was Dolph for you.

I took a plastic bag out of my pocket. Dominga looked puzzled. I pulled
out the gris-gris. Her face became very still, like a mask. A funny
little smile curled her lips. "What is that?"

"Come now, Seora," John said, "do not play the fool. You know very well
what it is."

"I know that it is a charm of some kind, of course. But do the police
now threaten old women with voodoo?"

"Whatever works," I said.

"Anita," Dolph said.

"Sorry." I glanced at John, and he nodded. I sat the gris-gris on the
carpet about six feet from Dominga Salvador. I had had to take John's
word on a lot of this. I had checked some of it over the phone with
Manny. If this worked and if we could get it admitted into court, and if
we could explain it to the jury, then we might have a case. How many ifs
was that?

The gris-gris just sat there for a moment, then the finger bones rippled
as if an invisible finger had ruffled them.

Dominga lifted her granddaughter from her lap and shooed the boys over
to Enzo. She sat alone on the couch and waited. The strange little smile
was still on her face, but it looked sickly now.

The charm began to ooze towards her like a slug, pushing and struggling
with muscles it did not have. The hairs on my arms stood to attention.

"You recording this, Bobby?" Dolph asked.

The cop with the video camera said, "I'm getting it. I don't fucking
believe it, but I'm getting it."

"Please, do not use such words in front of the children," Dominga said.

The cop said, "Sorry, ma'am."

"You are forgiven." She was still trying to play the perfect hostess
while that thing crawled towards her feet. She had nerve. I'd give her
that.

Antonio didn't. He broke. He strode forward as if he meant to pluck the
thing from the rug.

"Don't touch it," Dolph said.

"You are frightening my grandmother with your tricks," he said.

"Don't touch it," Dolph said again. This time he stood. His bulk seemed
to fill the room. Antonio looked suddenly small and frail beside him.

"Please, you are frightening her." But it was his face that was pale and
covered with a sheen of sweat. What was ol' Tony in such a fret about?
It wasn't his ass going to jail.

"Stand over there," Dolph said, "now, or do we have to cuff you?"

Antonio shook his head. "No, I . . . I will go back." He did, but he
glanced at Dominga as he moved. A quick, fearful glance. When she met
his eyes, there was nothing but rage in them. Her black eyes glittered
with rage. Her face was suddenly contorted with it. What had happened to
strip the act away? What was going on?

The gris-gris made its painful way to her. It fawned at her feet like a
dog, rolling on the toes of her shoes in abandon like a cat who wants
its belly rubbed.

She tried to ignore it, to pretend.

"Would you refuse your returned power?" John asked.

"I don't know what you mean." Her face was under control again. She
looked puzzled. Gosh, she was good. "You are a powerful voodoo priest.
You are doing this to trap me."

"If you don't want the charm, I will take it," he said. "I will add your
magic to mine. I will be the most powerful practitioner in the States."
For the first time, John's power flowed across my skin. It was a breath
of magic that was frightening. I had begun to think of John as ordinary,
or as ordinary as any of us get. My mistake.

She just shook her head.

John strode forward and knelt, reaching for the writhing gris-gris. His
power moved with him like an invisible hand.

"No!" She grabbed it, cradling it in her hands.

John smiled up at her. "Do you acknowledge that you made this charm? If
not, I can take it and use it as I see fit. It was found in my brother's
effects. It's legally mine, correct, Sergeant Storr?"

"Correct," Dolph said.

"No, you cannot."

"I can and I will, unless you look into that camera and admit making
it."

She snarled at him. "You will regret this."

"You will regret having killed my brother."

She stared at the video camera. "Very well, I made this charm, but I
admit nothing else. I made the charm for your brother, but that is all."

"You performed human sacrifice to make this charm," John said.

She shook her head. "The charm is mine. I made it for your brother, that
is all. You have the charm but nothing else."

"Seora, forgive me," Antonio said. He looked pale and shaken and very,
very scared.

"Calenta," she said, "shut up!"

"Zerbrowski, take our friend here into the kitchen and take his
statement," Dolph said.

Dominga stood at that. "You fool, you miserable fool. Tell them anything
more, and I will rot the tongue out of your mouth."

"Get him out of here, Zerbrowski."

Zerbrowski led a nearly weeping Antonio from the room. I had a feeling
that of Tony had been responsible for getting the charm back. He failed,
and he was going to pay the consequences. The police were the least of
his problems. If I were him, I'd make damn sure grandma was locked up
tonight. I wouldn't want her near her voodoo paraphernalia. Ever.

"We're going to search now, Mrs. Salvador."

"Help yourself, Sergeant. You will find nothing else to help you."

She was very calm when she said it. "Even the stuff behind the doors?" I
asked.

"They are gone, Anita. You will find nothing that is not legal and . . .
wholesome." She made that last sound like a bad word.

Dolph glanced my way. I shrugged. She seemed awfully sure.

"Okay, boys, take the place apart." Uniforms and detectives moved like
they had a purpose. I started to follow Dolph out. He stopped me.

"No, Anita, you and Burke stay up here."

"Why?"

"You're civilians."

A civilian, me? "Was I a civilian when I walked the cemetery for you?"

"If one of my people could have done it, I wouldn't have let you do that
either."

"Let me?"

He frowned. "You know what I mean."

"No, I don't think I do."

"You may be a bad ass, you may even be as good as you think you are, but
you aren't police. This is a job for cops. You stay in the living room
with the civies just this once. When it's all clear, you can come down
and identify the bogeymen for us."

"Don't do me any favors, Dolph."

"I didn't peg you for a pouter, Blake."

"I am not pouting," I said.

"Whining?" he said.

"Cut it out. You've made your point. I'll stay behind, but I don't have
to like it."

"Most of the time you're ass deep in alligators. Enjoy being out of the
line of fire for once, Anita." With that he led the way towards the
basement.

I hadn't really wanted to go down into the darkness again. I certainly
didn't want to see the creature that had chased Manny and I up the
stairs. And yet . . . I felt left out. Dolph was right. I was pouting.
Great.

John Burke and I sat on the couch. Dominga sat in the recliner where she
had been since we hit the door. The children had been shooed out to
play, with Enzo to watch them.

He looked relieved. I almost volunteered to go with them. Anything was
better than just sitting here straining to hear the first screams.

If the monster, and that was the only word that matched the noises, was
down there, there would be screaming. The police were great with bad
guys, but monsters were new to them. It had been simpler, in a way, when
all this shit was taken care of by a few experts. A few lone people
fighting the good fight. Staking vampires. Turning zombies. Burning
witches. Though there is some debate whether I might have ended up on
the receiving end of some fire a few years back. Say, the 1950s.

What I did was undeniably magic. Before we got all the bogeymen out in
the open, supernatural was supernatural. Destroy it before it destroys
you. Simpler times. But now the police were expected to deal with
zombies, vampires, the occasional demon. Police were really bad with
demons. But then who isn't?

Dominga sat in her chair and stared at me. The two uniforms left in the
living room stood like all police stand, blank faced, bored, but let
anyone move and the cops saw it. The boredom was just a mask. Cops
always saw everything. Occupational hazard.

Dominga wasn't looking at the police. She wasn't even paying attention
to John Burke, who was much closer to her equal. She was staring at
little old me.

I met her black gaze and said, "You got a problem?"

The cop's eyes flicked to us. John shifted on the couch. "What's wrong?"
he asked.

"She's staring at me."

"I will do a great deal more than stare at you, chica." Her voice
crawled low. The hairs at the nape of my neck tried to crawl down my
shirt.

"A threat." I smiled. "I don't think you're going to be hurting anybody
anymore."

"You mean this." She held out the charm. It writhed in her hand as if
thrilled that she had noticed it. She crushed it in her hand. It made
futile movements as if pushing against her. Her hand covered it
completely. She stared straight at me, as she brought her hand slowly to
her chest.

The air was suddenly heavy, hard to breathe. Every hair on my body was
creeping down my skin.

"Stop her!" John said. He stood.

The policeman nearest her hesitated for only an instant, but it was
enough. When he pried her fingers open, they were empty.

"Sleight of hand, Dominga. I thought better of you than that."

John was pale. "It isn't a trick." His voice was shaky. He sat down
heavily on the couch beside me. His dark face looked pale. His power
seemed to have shriveled up. He looked tired.

"What is it? What did she do?" I asked.

"You have to bring back the charm, ma'am," the uniform said.

"I cannot," she said.

"John, what the hell did she do?"

"Something she shouldn't have been able to do."

I was beginning to know how Dolph must feel having to depend on me for
information. It was like pulling fucking teeth. "What did she do?"

"She absorbed her power back into herself," he said.

"What does that mean?"

"She absorbed the gris-gris into her body. Didn't you feel it?"

I had felt something. The air was clearer now, but it was still heavy.
My skin was tingling with the nearness of something. "I felt something,
but I still don't understand."

"Without ceremony, without help from the loa, she absorbed it back into
her soul. We won't find a trace of it. No evidence."

"So all we have is the tape?"

He nodded.

"If you knew she could do this, why didn't you speak up earlier? We
wouldn't have let her hold the thing."

"I didn't know. It's impossible without ceremonial magic."

"But she did it."

"I know, Anita, I know." He sounded scared for the first time. Fear
didn't sit well on his darkly handsome face. After the power I'd felt
from him, the fear seemed even more out of place. But it was real
nonetheless.

I shivered, like someone had walked on my grave. Dominga was staring at
me. "What are you staring at?"

"A dead woman," she said softly

I shook my head. "Talk is cheap, Seora. Threats don't mean squat."

John touched my arm. "Do not taunt her, Anita. If she can do that
instantly, there's no telling what else she can do."

The cop had had enough. "She's not doing anything. If you so much as
twitch wrong, lady, I'm going to shoot you."

"But I am just an old woman. Would you threaten me?"

"Don't talk either."

The other uniform said, "I knew a witch once who could bespell you with
her voice."

Both uniforms had their hands near their guns. Funny how magic changes
how people perceive you. They were fine when they thought she needed
human sacrifice and ceremony. Let her do one instant trick, and she was
suddenly very dangerous. I'd always known she was dangerous.

Dominga sat silently under the watchful eyes of the cops. I had been
distracted by her little performance. There were still no screams from
downstairs. Nothing. Silence.

Had it gotten them all? That quickly, without a shot fired. Naw. But
still, my stomach was tight, sweat trickled down my spine. Are you
alright, Dolph? I thought.

"Did you say something?" John asked.

I shook my head. "Just thinking really hard."

He nodded as if that made sense to him.

Dolph came into the living room. I couldn't tell anything by his face.
Mr. Stoic.

"Well, what was it?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said.

"What do you mean, nothing?"

"She's cleaned the place out completely. We found the rooms you told me
about. One door had been busted from inside, but the room's been
scrubbed down and painted." He held up one big hand. It was stained
white. "Hell, the paint's still wet."

"It can't all be gone. What about the cement-covered doors?"

"Looks like someone took a jackhammer to them. They're just freshly
painted rooms, Anita. The place stinks of pine scented bleach and wet
paint. No corpses, no zombies. Nothing."

I just stared at him. "You've got to be kidding."

He shook his head. "I'm not laughing."

I stood in front of Dominga. "Who warned you?"

She just stared up at me, smiling. I had a great urge to slap that smile
off her face. Just to hit her once would feel good. I knew it would.

"Anita," Dolph said, "back off."

Maybe the anger showed on my face, or maybe it was the fact that my
hands were balled into fists and I seemed to be shaking. Shaking with
anger and the beginnings of something else. If she didn't go to jail,
that meant she was free to try to kill me again tonight. And every night
after that.

She smiled as if she could read my mind. "You have nothing, chica. You
have gambled all on a hand with nothing in it."

She was right. "Stay away from me, Dominga."

"I will not come near you, chica, I will not need to."

"Your last little surprise didn't work out so well. I'm still here."

"I have done nothing. But I am sure there are worse things that could
come to your door, chica."

I turned to Dolph. "Dammit, isn't there anything we can do?"

"We got the charm, but that's it."

Something must have showed on my face because he touched my arm. "What
is it?"

"She did something to the charm. It's gone."

He took a deep breath and stalked away, then back. "Dammit to hell,
how?"

I shrugged. "Let John explain. I still don't understand it." I hate
admitting that I don't know something. It's always bothered me to admit
ignorance. But hey, a girl can't be an expert on everything. I had
worked hard to stay away from voodoo. Work hard and where does it get
you? Staring into the black eyes of a voodoo priestess who's plotting
your death. A most unpleasant death by the looks of it.

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. I went back to her. I stood and
stared into her dark face and smiled. Her own smile faltered, which made
my smile bigger.

"Someone tipped you off and you've been cleaning up this cesspit for two
days." I leaned over her, putting my hands on the arms of the chair. It
brought our faces close together.

"You had to break down your walls. You had to let out or destroy all
your creations. Your inner sanctum, your hougun, is cleaned and
whitewashed. All the verve gone. All the animal sacrifices gone. All
that slow building of power, line by line, drop by bloody drop, you're
going to have to start over, you bitch. You're going to have to rebuild
it all."

The look in those black eyes made me shiver, and I didn't care. "You're
getting old to rebuild that much. Did you have to destroy many of your
toys? Dig up any graves?"

"Have your joke now, chica, but I will send what I have saved to you
some dark night."

"Why wait? Do it now, in daylight. Face me or are you afraid?"

She laughed then, and it was a warm, friendly sound. It startled me so
much I stood up straight, almost jumped back.

"Do you think I am foolish enough to attack you with the police all
around? You must think me a fool."

"It was worth a try," I said.

"You should have joined with me in my zombie enterprises. We could have
been rich together."

"The only thing we're likely to do together is kill each other," I said.

"So be it. Let it be war between us."

"It always was," I said.

She nodded and smiled some more.

Zerbrowski came out of the kitchen. He was grinning from ear to ear.
Something good was up.

"The grandson just spilled the beans."

Everyone in the room stared at him. Dolph said, "Spilled what?"

"Human sacrifice. How he was supposed to get the gris-gris back from
Peter Burke after he killed him, on his grandmother's orders, but some
joggers came by and he panicked. He's so afraid of her"--he motioned to
Dominga--"he wants her behind bars. He's terrified of what she'll do to
him for forgetting the charm."

The charm that we didn't have anymore. But we had the video and now we
had Antonio's confession. The day was looking up.

I turned back to Dominga Salvador. She looked tall and proud and
terrifying. Her black eyes blazed with some inner light. Standing this
close to her, the power crawled over my skin, but a good bonfire would
take care of that. They'd fry her in the electric chair, then burn the
body and scatter the ashes at a crossroad.

I said softly, "Gotcha."

She spit at me. It landed on my hand and burned like acid. "Shit!"

"Do that again and we'll shoot you, and save the taxpayers some money,"
Dolph said. He had his gun out.

I went in search of the bathroom to wash her spit off my hand. A blister
had formed where it had hit. Second fucking degree burns from her spit.
Dear God.

I was glad Antonio had broken. I was glad she was going to be locked
away. I was glad she was going to die. Better her than me.

Chapter 32
----------

Riverridge was a modern housing development. Which meant that there were
three models to choose from. You could end up with four identical houses
in a row, like cookies on a baking sheet. There was also no river within
sight. No ridge either.

The house that was the center of the police search area was identical to
its neighbor, except for color. The murder house, which is what the news
was calling it, was grey with white shutters. The house that had been
passed safely by was blue with white shutters. Neither's shutters
worked. They were just for show. Modern architecture is full of perks
that are just for show; balcony railings without a balcony, peaked roofs
that make it look like you have an extra room that you don't have,
porches so narrow that only Santa's elves could sit on them. It makes me
nostalgic for Victorian architecture. It might have been overdone, but
everything worked.

The entire housing project had been evacuated. Dolph had been forced to
give a statement to the press. More's the pity. But you can't evacuate a
housing development the size of a small town and keep it quiet. The cat
was out of the bag. They were calling them the zombie massacres. Geez.

The sun was going down in a sea of scarlet and orange. It looked like
someone had melted two giant crayons and smeared them across the sky.
There wasn't a shed, garage, basement, tree house, playhouse, or
anything else we could think of that had been left unsearched. Still, we
had found nothing.

The newshounds were prowling restlessly at the edge of the search area.
If we had evacuated hundreds of people and searched their premises
without a warrant and found no zombie . . . we were going to be in deep
fucking shit.

But it was here. I knew it was here. Alright, I was almost sure it was
here.

John Burke was standing next to one of those giant trash cans. Dolph had
surprised me by allowing John to come on the zombie hunt. As Dolph said,
we needed all the help we could get.

"Where is it, Anita?" Dolph asked.

I wanted to say something brilliant. My God, Holmes, how did you know
the zombie was hiding in the flower pot? But I couldn't lie. "I don't
know, Dolph. I just don't know."

"If we don't find this thing . . ." He let the thought trail off, but I
knew what he meant.

My job was secure if this fell apart. Dolph's was not. Shit. How could I
help him? What were we missing? What?

I stared at the quiet street. It was eerily quiet. The windows were all
dark. Only the streetlights pushed back the coming dark. Soft halos of
light.

Every house had a mailbox on a post near the sidewalk that edged the
curb. Some of the mailboxes were unbelievably cute. One had been shaped
like a sitting cat. Its paw went up if there was mail in its tummy. The
family name was Catt. It was too precious.

Every house had at least one large super duper trash can in front of it.
Some of them were bigger than I was. Surely, Sunday couldn't be trash
day. Or had today been trash day, and the police line had stopped it?

"Trash cans," I said aloud.

"What?" Dolph asked.

"Trash cans." I grabbed his arm, feeling almost lightheaded. "We've
stared at those fucking trash cans all day. That's it."

John Burke stood quietly beside me, frowning.

"Are you feeling okay, Blake?" Zerbrowski came up behind us, smoking.
The end of his cigarette looked like a bloated firefly.

"The cans are big enough for a large person to hide in."

"Wouldn't your arms and legs fall asleep?" Zerbrowski asked.

"Zombies don't have circulation, not like we do."

Dolph yelled, "Everybody check the trash cans. The zombie is in one of
them. Move it!"

Everyone scattered like an anthill stirred with a stick, but we had a
purpose now. I ended up with two uniformed officers. Their nameplates
said "Ki" and "Roberts." Ki was Asian and male. Roberts was blond and
female. A nicely mixed team.

We fell into a rhythm without discussing it. Officer Ki would move up
and dump the trash can. Roberts and I would cover him with guns. We were
all set to yell like hell if a zombie came tumbling out. It would
probably be the right zombie. Life is seldom that cruel.

We'd yell and an exterminator team would come running. At least, they'd
better come running. This zombie was entirely too fast, too destructive.
It might be more resistant to gunfire. Better not to find out. Just
french-fry the sucker and be done with it.

We were the only team working on the street. There was no sound but our
footsteps, the rubber crunch of trash cans overturning, the rattle of
cans and bottles as the trash spilled. Didn't anybody tie their bags up
anymore?

Darkness had fallen in a solid blackness. I knew there were stars and a
moon up there somewhere, but you couldn't prove it from where we stood.
Clouds as thick and dark as velvet had come in from the west. Only the
streetlights made it bearable.

I didn't know how Roberts was doing, but the muscles in my shoulders and
neck were screaming. Every time Ki put his hands to the can and pushed,
I was ready. Ready to fire, ready to save him before the zombie leapt up
and ripped his throat out. A trickle of sweat dripped down his
high-cheekboned face. Even in the dim light it glimmered.

Glad to know I wasn't the only one feeling the effort. Of course, I
wasn't the one putting my face over the possible hiding place of a
berserk zombie. Trouble was, I didn't know how good a shot Ki was, or
Roberts either for that matter. I knew I was a good shot. I knew I could
slow the thing down until help arrived. I had to stay on shooting
detail. It was the best division of labor. Honest.

Screams. To the left. The three of us froze. I whirled towards the
screaming. There was nothing to see, nothing but dark houses and pools
of streetlight. Nothing moved. But the screams continued high and
horrified.

I started running towards the screams. Ki and Roberts were at my back. I
ran with the Browning in a two-handed grip pointed up. Easier to run
that way. Didn't dare holster the gun. Visions of blood-coated teddy
bears, and the screams. The screams sort of faded. Someone was dying up
ahead.

There was a sense of movement everywhere in the darkness. Cops running.
All of us running but it was too late. We were all too late. The
screaming had stopped. No gunshots. Why not? Why hadn't someone gotten
off a shot?

We ran down the side yards of four houses when we hit a metal fence. Had
to holster the guns. Couldn't climb it with one hand. Dammit. I did my
best to vault the fence using my hands for leverage.

I stumbled to my knees in the soft dirt of a flower bed. I was trampling
some tall summer flowers. On my knees I was considerably shorter than
the flowers. Ki landed beside me. Only Roberts landed on her feet.

Ki stood up without drawing his gun. I drew the Browning while I
crouched in the flowers. I could stand up after I was armed.

I had a sense of rushing movement but not clear sight. The flowers
obscured my vision. Roberts was suddenly tumbling backwards, screaming.

Ki was drawing his gun, but something hit him, knocked him on top of me.
I rolled but was still half under him. He lay still on top of me.

"Ki, move it, dammit!"

He sat up and crawled towards his partner, his gun silhouetted against
the streetlight. He was staring down at Roberts. She wasn't moving.

I searched the darkness trying to see something, anything. It had moved
more than human fast. Fast as a ghoul. No zombie moved like that. Had I
been wrong all along? Was it something else? Something worse? How many
lives would my mistake cost tonight? Was Roberts dead?

"Ki, is she alive?" I searched the darkness, fighting the urge to look
only at the lighted areas. There was shouting, but it was confusion,
"Where is it? Where did it go?" The sounds were getting farther away.

I screamed, "Here, here!" The voices hesitated, then started our way.
They were making so much noise, like a heard of arthritic elephants.

"How bad is she hurt?"

"Bad." He'd put his gun down. He was pressing his hands over her neck.
Something black and liquid was spreading over his hands. God.

I knelt on the other side of Roberts, gun ready, searching the darkness.
Everything was taking forever, yet it was only seconds.

I checked her pulse, one-handed. It was thready, but there. My hand came
away covered in blood. I wiped it on my pants. The thing had damn near
slit her throat.

Where was it?

Ki's eyes were huge, all pupil. His skin looked leprous in the
streetlight. His partner's blood was dripping out between his fingers.

Something moved, too low to the ground to be a man, but about that size.
It was just a shape creeping along the back of the house in front of us.
Whatever it was had found the deepest shadow and was trying to creep
away.

That showed more intelligence than a zombie had. I was wrong. I was
wrong. I was fucking wrong. And Roberts was dying because of it.

"Stay with her. Keep her alive."

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"After it." I climbed the fence one-handed. The adrenaline must have
been pumping because I made it.

I gained the yard and it was gone. A streaking shape fast as a mouse
caught in the kitchen light. A blur of speed, but big, big as a man.

It rounded the corner of the house and I lost sight of it. Dammit. I ran
as far from the wall as I could, my stomach tight with anticipation of
fingers ripping my throat out. I came round the house gun pointed,
two-handed, ready. Nothing. I scanned the darkness, the pools of light.
Nothing.

Shouts behind me. The cops had arrived. God, let Roberts live.

There, movement, creeping across the streetlight around the edge of
another house. Someone shouted, "Anita!"

I was already running towards the movement. I shouted as I ran, "Bring
an exterminator team!" But I didn't stop. I didn't dare stop. I was the
only one in sight of it. If I lost it, it was gone.

I ran into the darkness, alone, after something that might not be a
zombie at all. Not the brightest thing I've ever done, but it wasn't
going to get away. It wasn't.

It was never going to hurt another family. Not if I could stop it. Now.
Tonight.

I ran through a pool of light and it made the darkness heavier, blinding
me temporarily. I froze in the dark, willing my eyes to adjust faster.

"Perssisstent woman," a voice hissed. It was to my right, so close the
hair on my arms stood up.

I froze, straining my peripheral vision. There, a darker shape rising
out of the evergreen shrubs that hugged the edge of the house. It rose
to its full height, but didn't attack. If it wanted me, it could have me
before I could turn and fire. I'd seen it move. I knew I was dead.

"You arrre not like the resst." The voice was sibilant, as if parts of
the mouth were missing, so it put great effort into forming each word. A
gentleman's voice decayed by the grave.

I turned towards it, slowly, slowly.

"Put me back."

I had turned my head enough to be able to see some of it. My night
vision is better than most. And the streetlights made it lighter than it
should have been.

The skin was pale, yellowish-white. The skin clung to the bones of his
face like wax that had half-melted. But the eyes, they weren't decayed.
They burned out at me with a glitter that was more than just eyes.

"Put you back where?" I asked.

"My grave," he said. His lips didn't work quite right, there wasn't
enough flesh left on them.

Light blazed into my eyes. The zombie screamed, covering his face. I
couldn't see shit. It crashed into me. I pulled the trigger blind. I
thought I heard a grunt as the bullet hit home. I fired the gun again
one-handed, throwing an arm across my neck. Trying to protect myself as
I fell half-blind.

When I blinked up into the electric-shot darkness, I was alone. I was
unhurt. Why? Put me back, it had said. In my grave. How had it known
what I was? Most humans couldn't tell. Witches could tell sometimes, and
other animators always spotted me. Other animators. Shit.

Dolph was suddenly there, pulling me to my feet. "God, Blake, are you
hurt?"

I shook my head. "What the hell was that light?"

"A halogen flashlight."

"You damn near blinded me."

"We couldn't see to shoot," he said.

Police had run past us in the darkness. There were shouts of, "There it
is!" Dolph and I and the offending flashlight, bright as day, were left
behind as the chase ran merrily on.

"It spoke to me, Dolph," I said. .

"What do you mean, it spoke to you?"

"It asked me to put it back in its grave." I stared up at him as I said
it. I wondered if my face looked like Ki's had, pale, eyes wide and
black. Why wasn't I scared?

"It's old, a century at least. It was a voodoo something in life. That's
what went wrong. That's why Peter Burke couldn't control it."

"How do you know all this? Did it tell you?"

I shook my head. "The way it looked, I could judge the age. It
recognized me as someone who could lay it to rest. Only a witch or
another animator could have recognized me for what I am. My money's on
an animator."

"Does that change our plan?" he asked.

I stared up at him. "It's killed how many people?" I didn't wait for him
to answer. "We kill it. Period."

"You think like a cop, Anita." It was a great compliment from Dolph, and
I took it as one.

It didn't matter what it had been in life. So it had been an animator,
or rather a voodoo practioner. So what? It was a killing machine. It
hadn't killed me. Hadn't hurt me. I couldn't afford to return the favor.

Shots echoed far way. Some trick of the summer air made them echo. Dolph
and I looked at each other.

I still had the Browning in my hand. "Let's do it."

He nodded.

We started running, but he outdistanced me quickly. His legs were as
tall as I was. I couldn't match his pace. I might be able to run him
into the ground, but I'd never match his speed.

He hesitated, glancing at me.

"Go on, run," I said.

He put on an extra burst of speed and was gone into the darkness. He
didn't even look back. If you said you were fine in the dark with a
killer zombie on the loose, Dolph would believe you. Or at least he
believed me.

It was a compliment but it left me running alone in the dark for the
second time tonight. Shouts were coming from two opposite directions.
They had lost it. Damn.

I slowed. I had no desire to run into the thing blind. It hadn't hurt me
the first time, but I'd put at least one bullet into it. Even a zombie
gets pissed about things like that.

I was under the cool darkness of a tree shadow. I was on the edge of the
development. A barbed-wire fence cut across the entire back of the
subdivision. Farmland stretched as far as I could see. At least the
field was planted in beans. The zombie'd have to be lying flat to hide
in there. I caught glimpses of policemen with flashlights, searching the
darkness, but they were all about fifty yards to either side of me.

They were searching the ground, the shadows, because I'd told them
zombies didn't like to climb. But this wasn't any ordinary zombie. The
tree rustled over my head. The hair on my neck crawled down my spine. I
whirled, looking upwards, gun pointing.

It snarled at me and leapt.

I fired twice before its weight hit me and knocked us both to the
ground. Two bullets in the chest, and it wasn't even hurt.

I fired a third time, but I might as well have been hitting a wall.

It snarled in my face, broken teeth with dark stains, breath foul as a
new opened grave. I screamed back, wordless, and pulled the trigger
again. The bullet hit it in the throat. It paused, trying to swallow. To
swallow the bullet?

Those glittering eyes stared down at me. There was someone home, like
Dominga's soul-locked zombies. There was someone looking out of those
eyes. We froze in one of those illusionary seconds that last years. He
was straddling my waist, hands at my throat, but not pressing, not
hurting, not yet. I had the gun under his chin. None of the other
bullets had hurt him; why would this one?

"Didn't mean to kill," it said softly, "didn't understand at firsst.
Didn't remember what I wass."

The police were there on either side, hesitating. Dolph screamed, "Hold
your fire, hold your fire, dammit!"

"I needed meat, needed it to remember who I wass. Tried not to kill.
Tried to walk past all the houssess, but I could not. Too many
houssess," he whispered. His hands tensed, stained nails digging in. I
fired into his chin. His body jerked backwards, but the hands squeezed
my neck.

Pressure, pressure, tighter, tighter. I was beginning to see white star
bursts on my vision. The night was fading from black to grey. I pressed
the gun just above the bridge of his nose and pulled the trigger again,
and again.

My vision faded, but I could still feel my hands, pulling the trigger.
Darkness flowed over my eyes and swallowed the world. I couldn't feel my
hands anymore.

I woke to screams, horrible screams. The stink of burning flesh and hair
was thick and choking on my tongue.

I took a deep shaking breath and it hurt. I coughed and tried to sit up.
Dolph was there supporting me. He had my gun in his hand. I drew one
ragged breath after another and coughed hard enough to make my throat
raw. Or maybe the zombie had done that.

Something the size of a man was rolling over the summer grass. It
burned. It flamed with a clean orange light that sent the darkness
shattering in fire shadows like the sun on water.

Two exterminators in their fire suits stood by it, covering it in
napalm, as if it were a ghoul. The thing screamed high in its throat,
over and over, one loud ragged shriek after another.

"Jesus, why won't it die?" Zerbrowski was standing nearby. His face was
orange in the firelight.

I didn't say anything. I didn't want to say it out loud. The zombie
wouldn't die because it had been an animator when alive. That much I
knew about animator zombies. What I hadn't known was that they came out
of the grave craving flesh. That they remembered only when they ate
flesh.

That I hadn't known. Didn't want to know.

John Burke stumbled into the firelight. He was cradling one arm to his
chest. Blood stained his clothing. Had the zombie whispered to John? Did
he know why the thing wouldn't die?

The zombie whirled, the fire roaring around it. The body was like the
wick of a candle. It took one shaking step towards us. Its flaming hand
reached out to me. To me.

Then it fell forward, slowly, into the grass. It fell like a tree in
slow motion, fighting for life. If that was the word. The exterminators
stayed ready, taking no chances. I didn't blame them.

It had been a necromancer once upon a time. That burning hulk, slowly
catching the grass on fire, had been what I was. Would I be a monster if
raised from the grave? Would I? Better not to find out. My will said
cremation because I didn't want someone raising me just for kicks. Now I
had another reason to do it. One had been enough.

I watched the flesh blacken, curl, peel away. Muscles and bone popped in
miniature explosions, tiny pops of sparks.

I watched the zombie die and made a promise to myself. I'd see Dominga
Salvador burned in hell for what she'd done. There are fires that last
for all eternity. Fires that make napalm look like a temporary
inconvenience. She'd burn for all eternity, and it wouldn't be half long
enough.

Chapter 33
----------

I was lying on my back in the emergency room. A white curtain hid me
from view. The noises on the other side of the curtain were loud and
unfriendly. I liked my curtain. The pillow was flat, the examining table
was hard. It felt white and clean and wonderful. It hurt to swallow. It
even hurt a little bit just to breathe. But breathing was important. It
was nice to be able to do it.

I lay there very quietly. Doing what I was told for once. I listened to
my breathing, the beating of my own heart. After nearly dying, I am
always very interested in my body. I notice all sorts of things that go
unnoticed during most of life. I could feel blood coursing through the
veins in my arms. I could taste my calm, orderly pulse in my mouth like
a piece of candy.

I was alive. The zombie was dead. Dominga Salvador was in jail. Life was
good.

Dolph pushed the curtain back. He closed the curtain like you'd close a
door to a room. We both pretended we had privacy even though we could
see people's feet passing under the hem of the curtain.

I smiled up at him. He smiled back. "Nice to see you up and around."

"I don't know about the up part," I said. My voice had a husky edge to
it. I coughed, tried to clear it, but it didn't really help.

"What'd the doc say about your voice?" Dolph asked.

"I'm a temporary tenor." At the look on his face, I added, "It'll pass."

"Good."

"How's Burke?" I asked.

"Stitches, no permanent damage."

I had figured as much after seeing him last night, but it was good to
know.

"And Roberts?"

"She'll live."

"But will she be alright?" I had to swallow hard. It hurt to talk.

"She'll be alright. Ki was cut up, too, on the arm. Did you know?"

I shook my head and stopped in mid-motion. That hurt, too. "Didn't see
it."

"Just a few stitches. He'll be fine." Dolph plunged his hands in his
pants pockets. "We lost three officers. One hurt worse than Roberts, but
he'll make it."

I stared up at him. "My fault."

He frowned. "How do you figure that?"

"I should have guessed," I had to swallow, "it wasn't an ordinary
zombie."

"It was a zombie, Anita. You were right. You were the one who figured
out it was hiding in one of those damn trash cans." He grinned down at
me. "And you nearly died killing it. I think you've done your part."

"Didn't kill it. Exterminators killed it." Big words seemed to hurt more
than little words.

"Do you remember what happened as you were passing out?"

"No."

"You emptied your clip into its face. Blew its damn brains out the back
of its head. You went limp. I thought you were dead. God"--he shook his
head--"don't ever do that to me again."

I smiled. "I'll try not to."

"When its brains started leaking out the back of its head, it stood up.
You took all the fight out of it."

Zerbrowski pushed into the small space, leaving the curtain gaping
behind him. I could see a small boy with a bloody hand crying into a
woman's shoulder. Dolph swept the curtain closed. I bet Zerbrowski was
one of those people who never shut a drawer.

"They're still digging bullets out of the corpse. And every bullet's
yours, Blake."

I just looked at him.

"You are such a bad ass, Blake."

"Somebody has to be with you around, Zerbrow. . ." I couldn't finish his
name. It hurt. It figures.

"Are you in pain?" Dolph asked.

I nodded, carefully. "The doc's getting me painkiller. Already got
tetanus booster."

"You've got a necklace of bruises blossoming on that pale neck of
yours," Zerbrowski said.

"Poetic," I said.

He shrugged.

"I'll check in on the rest of the injured one more time, then I'll have
a uniform drive you back to your place," Dolph said.

"Thanks."

"I don't think you're in any condition to drive."

Maybe he was right. I felt like shit, but it was happy shit. We'd done
it. We'd solved the crime, and people were going to jail for it. Yippee.

The doctor came back in with the painkillers. He glanced at the two
policemen. "Right." He handed me a bottle with three pills in it. "This
should see you through the night and into the next day. I'd call in sick
if I were you." He glanced at Dolph as he said it. "You hear that,
boss?"

Dolph sort of frowned. "I'm not her boss."

"You're the man in charge, right?" the doctor asked.

Dolph nodded.

"Then..."

"I'm on loan," I said.

"Loan?"

"You might say we borrowed her from another department," Zerbrowski
said.

The doctor nodded. "Then tell her superior to let her off tomorrow. She
may not look as hurt as the others, but she's had a nasty shock. She's
very lucky there was no permanent damage."

"She doesn't have a superior," Zerbrowski said, "but we'll tell her
boss." He grinned at the doctor.

I frowned at Zerbrowski.

"Well, then, you're free to go. Watch those scratches for infection. And
that bite on your shoulder." He shook his head. "You cops earn your
money." With that parting wisdom, he left.

Zerbrowski laughed. "Wouldn't do for the doc to know we'd let a civie
get messed up."

"She's had a nasty shock," Dolph said.

"Very nasty," Zerbrowski said.

They started laughing.

I sat up carefully, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. "If you
two are through yukking it up, I need a ride home."

They were both laughing so hard that tears were creeping out of their
eyes. It hadn't been that funny, but I understood. For tension release
laughter beats the hell out of tears. I didn't join them because I
suspected strongly that laughing would hurt.

"I'll drive you home," Zerbrowski gasped between giggles.

I had to smile. Seeing Dolph and Zerbrowski giggling was enough to make
anyone smile.

"No, no," Dolph said. "You two in a car alone. Only one of you would
come out alive."

"And it'd be me," I said.

Zerbrowski nodded. "Ain't it the truth."

Nice to know there was one subject we agreed on.

Chapter 34
----------

I was half asleep in the back of the squad car when they pulled up in
front of my apartment building. The throbbing pain in my throat had slid
away on a smooth tide of pain medication. I felt nearly boneless. What
had the doctor given me? It felt great, but it was like the world was
some sort of movie that had little to do with me. Distant and harmless
as a dream.

I'd given Dolph my car keys. He promised to have someone park the car in
front of my apartment building before morning. He also said he'd call
Bert and tell him I wouldn't be in to work today. I wondered how Bert
would take the news. I wondered if I cared. Nope.

One of the uniformed police officers leaned back over the seat and said,
"You going to be alright, Miss Blake?"

"Ms.," I corrected automatically.

He gave me a half smile as he held the door for me. No door handles on
the inside of a squad car. He had to hold the door for me, but he did it
with relish, and said, "You going to be alright, Ms. Blake?"

"Yes, Officer"--I had to blink to read his name tag-- "Osborn. Thank you
for bringing me home. To your partner, too."

His partner was standing on the other side of the car, leaning his arms
on the roof of the car. "It's a kick to finally meet the spook squad's
Executioner." He grinned as he said it.

I blinked at him and tried to pull all the pieces together enough to
talk and think at the same time. "I was the Executioner long before the
spook squad came along."

He spread his hands, still grinning. "No offense."

I was too tired and too drugged to worry about it. I just shook my head.
"Thanks again."

I was a touch unsteady going up the stairs. I clutched the railing like
it was a lifeline. I'd sleep tonight. I might wake up in the middle of
the hallway, but I'd sleep.

It took me two tries to put the key in the door lock. I staggered into
my apartment, leaning my forehead against the door to close it. I turned
the lock and was safe. I was home. I was alive. The killer zombie was
destroyed. I had the urge to giggle, but that was the pain medication. I
never giggle on my own.

I stood there leaning the top of my head against the door. I was staring
at the toes of my Nikes. They seemed very far away, as if distances had
grown since last I looked at my feet. The doc had given me some weird
shit. I would not take it tomorrow. It was too reality-altering for my
taste.

The toes of black boots stepped up beside my Nikes. Why were there boots
in my apartment? I started to turn around. I started to go for my gun.
Too late, too slow, too fucking bad.

Strong brown arms laced across my chest, pinning my arms. Pinning me
against the door. I tried to struggle now that it was too late. But he
had me. I craned my neck backwards trying to fight off the damn
medication. I should have been terrified. Adrenaline pumping, but some
drugs don't give a shit if you need your body. You belong to the drug
until it wears off, period. I was going to hurt the doctor. If I lived
through this.

It was Bruno pinning me to the door.

Tommy came up on the right. He had a needle in his hands.

"NO!"

Bruno cupped his hand over my mouth. I tried to bite him, and he slapped
me. The slap helped a little but the world was still cotton-coated,
distant. Bruno's hand smelled like after-shave. A choking sweetness.

"This is almost too easy," Tommy said.

"Just do it," Bruno said.

I stared at the needle as it came closer to my arm. I would have told
them that I was drugged already, if Bruno's hand hadn't been clasped
over my mouth. I would have asked what was in the syringe, and whether
it would react badly with what I had already taken. I never got the
chance.

The needle plunged in. My body stiffened, struggling, but Bruno held me
tight. Couldn't move. Couldn't get away. Dammit! Dammit! The adrenaline
was finally chasing the cobwebs away, but it was too late. Tommy took
the needle out of my arm and said, "Sorry, we don't have any alcohol to
swab it off with." He grinned at me.

I hated him. I hated them both. And if the shot didn't kill me, I was
going to kill them both. For scaring me. For making me feel helpless.
For catching me unaware, drugged, and stupid. If I lived through this
mistake, I wouldn't make it again. Please, dear God, let me live through
this mistake.

Bruno held me motionless and mute until I could feel the injection
taking hold. I was sleepy. With a bad guy holding me against my will, I
was sleepy. I tried to fight it, but it didn't work. My eyelids
fluttered. I struggled to keep them open. I stopped trying to get away
from Bruno and put everything I had into not closing my eyes.

I stared at my door and tried to stay awake. The door swam in dizzying
ripples as if I were seeing it through water. My eyelids went down,
jerked up, down. I couldn't open my eyes. A small part of me fell
screaming into the dark, but the rest of me felt loose and sleepy and
strangely safe.

Chapter 35
----------

I was in that faint edge of wakefulness. Where you know you're not quite
asleep, but don't really want to wake up either. My body felt heavy. My
head throbbed. And my throat was sore.

The last thought made me open my eyes. I was staring at a white ceiling.
Brown water marks traced the paint like spilled coffee. I wasn't home.
Where was I?

I remembered Bruno holding me down. The needle. I sat up then. The world
swam in clear waves of color. I fell back onto the bed, covering my eyes
with my hands. That helped a little. What had they given me?

I had an image in my mind that I wasn't alone. Somewhere in that
dizzying swirl of color had been a person. Hadn't there? I opened my
eyes slower this time. I was content to stare up at the water-ruined
ceiling. I was on a large bed. Two pillows, sheets, a blanket. I turned
my head carefully and found myself staring into Harold Gaynor's face. He
was sitting beside the bed. It wasn't what I wanted to wake up to.

Behind him, leaning against a battered chest of drawers was Bruno. His
shoulder holster cut black lines across his blue short-sleeved dress
shirt. There was a matching and equally scarred vanity table near the
foot of the bed. The vanity sat between two high windows. They were
boarded with new, sweet-smelling lumber. The scent of pine rode the hot,
still air.

I started to sweat as soon as I realized that there was no
air-conditioning.

"How are you feeling, Ms. Blake?" Gaynor asked. His voice was still that
jolly Santa voice with an edge of sibilance. As if he were a very happy
snake.

"I've felt better," I said.

"I'm sure you have. You have been asleep for over twenty-four hours. Did
you know that?"

Was he lying? Why would he lie about how long I'd been asleep? What
would it gain him? Nothing. Truth then, probably.

"What the hell did you give me?"

Bruno eased himself away from the wall. He looked almost embarrassed.
"We didn't realize you'd already taken a sedative."

"Painkiller," I said.

He shrugged. "Same difference when you mix it with Thorazine."

"You shot me up with animal tranquilizers?"

"Now, now, Ms. Blake, they use it in mental institutions, as well. Not
just animals," Gaynor said.

"Gee," I said, "that makes me feel a lot better."

He smiled broadly. "If you feel good enough to trade witty repartee,
then you're well enough to get up."

Witty repartee? But he was probably right. Truthfully, I was surprised I
wasn't tied up. Glad of it, but surprised.

I sat up much slower than last time. The room only tilted the tiniest
bit, before settling into an upright position. I took a deep breath, and
it hurt. I put a hand to my throat. It hurt to touch the skin.

"Who gave you those awful bruises?" Gaynor asked.

Lie or truth? Partial lie. "I was helping the police catch a bad guy. He
got a little out of hand."

"What happened to this bad guy?" Bruno asked.

"He's dead now," I said.

Something flickered across Bruno's face. Too quick to read. Respect
maybe. Naw.

"You know why I've had you brought here, don't you?"

"To raise a zombie for you," I said.

"To raise a very old zombie for me, yes."

"I've refused your offer twice. What makes you think I'll change my
mind?"

He smiled, such a jolly old elf. "Why, Ms. Blake, I'll have Bruno and
Tommy persuade you of the error of your ways. I still plan on giving you
a million dollars to raise this zombie. The price hasn't changed."

"Tommy offered me a million five last time," I said.

"That was if you came voluntarily. We can't pay full price when you
force us to take such chances."

"Like a federal prison term for kidnapping," I said.

"Exactly. Your stubbornness has cost you five hundred thousand dollars.
Was it really worth that?"

"I won't kill another human being just so you can go looking for lost
treasure."

"Little Wanda has been bearing tales."

"I was just guessing, Gaynor. I read a file on you and it mentioned your
obsession with your father's family." It was an outright lie. Only Wanda
had known that.

"I'm afraid it's too late. I know Wanda talked to you. She's confessed
everything."

Confessed? I stared at him, trying to read his blankly good humored
face. "What do you mean, confessed?"

"I mean I gave her to Tommy for questioning. He's not the artist that
Cicely is, but he does leave more behind. I didn't want to kill my
little Wanda."

"Where is she now?"

"Do you care what happens to a whore?" His eyes were bright and birdlike
as he stared at me. He was judging me, my reactions.

"She doesn't mean anything to me," I said. I hoped my face was as bland
as my words. Right now they weren't going to kill her. If they thought
they could use her to hurt me, they might.

"Are you sure?"

"Listen, I haven't been sleeping with her. She's just a chippie with a
very bent angle."

He smiled at that. "What can we do to convince you to raise this zombie
for me?"

"I will not commit murder for you, Gaynor. I don't like you that much,"
I said.

He sighed. His apple-cheeked face looked like a sad Kewpie doll. "You
are going to make this difficult, aren't you, Ms. Blake?"

"I don't know how to make it easy," I said. I put my back to the cracked
wooden headboard of the bed. I was comfortable enough, but I still felt
a little fuzzy around the edges. But it was as good as it was going to
get for a while. It beat the hell out of being unconscious.

"We have not really hurt you yet," Gaynor said. "The reaction of the
Thorazine with whatever other medication you had in you was accidental.
We did not harm you on purpose."

I could argue with that, but I decided not to. "So where do we go from
here?"

"We have both your guns," Gaynor said. "Without a weapon you are a small
woman in the care of big, strong men."

I smiled then. "I'm used to being the smallest kid on the block, Harry."

He looked pained. "Harold or Gaynor, never Harry."

I shrugged. "Fine."

"You are not in the least intimidated that we have you completely at our
mercy?"

"I could argue that point."

He glanced up at Bruno. "Such confidence, where does she get it?"

Bruno didn't say anything. He just stared at me with those empty doll
eyes. Bodyguard eyes, watchful, suspicious, and blank all at the same
time.

"Show her we mean business, Bruno."

Bruno smiled, a slow spreading of lips that left his eyes dead as a
shark's. He loosened his shoulders, and did a few stretching exercises
against the wall. His eyes never left me.

"I take it, I'm going to be the punching bag?" I asked.

"How well you put it," Gaynor said.

Bruno stood away from the wall, limber and eager. Oh, well. I slid off
the bed on the opposite side. I had no desire for Gaynor to grab me.
Bruno's reach was over twice mine. His legs went on forever. He had to
outweigh me by nearly a hundred pounds, and it was all muscle. I was
about to get badly hurt. But as long as they didn't tie me up, I'd go
down swinging. If I could cause him any serious damage, I'd be
satisfied.

I came out from behind the bed, hands loose at my side. I was already in
that partial crouch that I used on the judo mat. I doubted seriously if
Bruno's fighting skill of choice was judo. I was betting karate or tae
kwon do.

Bruno stood in an awkward-looking stance, halfway between an x and a t.
It looked like someone had taken his long legs and crumbled them at the
knees. But as I moved forward he scooted backwards like a crab, fast and
out of reach.

"Jujitsu?" I made it half question.

He raised an eyebrow. "Most people don't recognize it."

"I've seen it," I said.

"You practice?"

"No."

He smiled. "Then I am going to hurt you."

"Even if I knew jujitsu, you'd hurt me," I said.

"It'd be a fair fight."

"If two people are equal in skill, size matters. A good big person will
always beat a good small person." I shrugged. "I don't have to like it,
but it's the truth."

"You're being awful calm about this," Bruno said.

"Would being hysterical help?"

He shook his head. "Nope."

"Then I'd just as soon take my medicine like, if you'll excuse the
expression, a man."

He frowned at that. Bruno was accustomed to people being scared of him.
I wasn't scared of him. I'd decided to take the beating. With the
decision came a certain amount of calm. I was going to get beat up, not
pleasant, but I had made my mind up to take the beating. I could do it.
I'd done it before. If my choices were a) getting beat up or b)
performing human sacrifice, I'd take the beating.

"Ready or not," Bruno said.

"Here you come," I finished for him. I was getting tired of the bravado.
"Either hit me or stand up straight. You look silly crouched down like
that."

His fist was a dark blur. I blocked it with my arm. The impact made the
arm go numb. His long leg kicked out and connected solidly with my
stomach. I doubled over like I was supposed to, all the air gone in one
movement. His other foot came up and caught me on the side of the face.
It was the same cheek of Seymour had smashed. I fell to the floor not
sure what part of my body to comfort first.

His foot came for me again. I caught it with both hands. I came up in a
rush, hoping to trap his knee between my arms and pop the joint. But he
twisted away from me, totally airborne for a moment.

I dropped to the ground and felt the air pass overhead as his legs
kicked out where my head had been. I was on the ground again, but by
choice. He stood over me, impossibly tall from this angle. I lay on my
side, knees drawn up.

He came for me, evidently planning to drag me to my feet. I kicked out
with both feet at an angle to his kneecap. Hit it just right above or
below and you dislocate it.

The leg buckled, and he screamed. It had worked. Hot damn. I didn't try
to wrestle him. I didn't try to grab his gun. I ran for the door.

Gaynor grabbed for me, but I flung open the door and was out in a long
hallway before he could maneuver his fancy chair. The hallway was smooth
with a handful of doors and two blind corners. And Tommy.

Tommy looked surprised to see me. His hand went for his shoulder
holster. I pushed on his shoulder and foot-swept his leg. He fell
backwards and grabbed me as he fell. I rode him down, making sure my
knee ground into his groin. His grip loosened enough for me to slip out
of reach. There were sounds behind me from the room. I didn't look back.
If they were going to shoot me, I didn't want to see it.

The hallway took a sharp turn. I was almost to it when the smell slowed
me from a run to a walk. The smell of corpses was just around the
corner. What had they been doing while I slept?

I glanced back at the men. Tommy was still lying on the floor, cradling
himself. Bruno leaned against the wall, gun in hand, but he wasn't
pointing it at me. Gaynor was sitting in his chair, smiling.

Something was very wrong.

Around the blind corner came that something that was wrong, very, very
wrong. It was no taller than a tall man, maybe six feet. But it was
nearly four feet wide. It had two legs, or maybe three, it was hard to
tell. The thing was leprously pale like all zombies, but this one had a
dozen eyes. A man's face was centered where the neck would have been.
Its eyes dark and seeing, and empty of everything sane. A dog's head was
growing out of the shoulder. The dog's decaying mouth snapped at me. A
woman's leg grew out of the center of the mess, complete with black
high-heeled shoe.

The thing shambled towards me. Pulling with three of a dozen arms,
dragging itself forward. It left a trail behind it like a snail.

Dominga Salvador stepped around the corner. "Buenas noches, chica. "

The monster scared me, but the sight of Dominga grinning at me scared me
just a little bit more.

The thing had stopped moving forward. It squatted in the hallway,
kneeling on its inadequate legs. Its dozens of mouths panted as if it
couldn't get enough air.

Or maybe the thing didn't like the way it smelled. I certainly didn't.
Covering my mouth and nose with my arm didn't block out much of the
smell. The hallway suddenly smelled like bad meat.

Gaynor and his wounded bodyguards had stayed at the end of the hall.
Maybe they didn't like being near Dominga's little pet. I know it didn't
do much for me. Whatever the reason we were isolated. It was just her
and me and the monster.

"How did you get out of jail?" Better to deal with more mundane problems
first. The mind-melting ones could wait for later.

"I made my bail," she said.

"This quickly on a murder involving witchcraft?"

"Voodoo is not witchcraft," she said.

"The law sees it as the same thing when it comes to murder."

She shrugged, then smiled beatifically. She was the Mexican grandmother
of my nightmares.

"You've got a judge in your pocket," I said.

"Many people fear me, chica. You should be one of them."

"You helped Peter Burke raise the zombie for Gaynor."

She just smiled.

"Why didn't you just raise it yourself?" I asked.

"I didn't want someone as unscrupulous as Gaynor to witness me murdering
someone. He might use it for blackmail."

"And he didn't realize that you had to kill someone for Peter's
gris-gris?"

"Correct," she said.

"You hid all your horrors here?"

"Not all. You forced me to destroy much of my work, but this I saved.
You can see why." She caressed a hand down the slimy hide.

I shuddered. Just the thought of touching that monstrosity was enough to
make my skin cold. And yet . . .

"How did you make it?" I had to know. It was so obviously a creation of
our shared art that I had to know.

"Surely, you can animate bits and pieces of the dead," Dominga said.

I could, but no one else I had ever met could do it. "Yes," I said.

"I found I could take these odds and ends and meld them together."

I stared at the shambling thing. "Meld them?" The thought was too
horrible.

"I can create new creatures that have never existed before."

"You make monsters," I said.

"Believe what you will, chica, but I am here to persuade you to raise
the dead for Gaynor."

"Why don't you do it?"

Gaynor's voice came from just behind us. I whirled, putting the wall at
my back so I could watch everybody. What good that would do me, I wasn't
sure. "Dominga's power went wrong once. This is my last chance. The last
known grave. I won't risk it on her."

Dominga's eyes narrowed, her age-thinned hands forming fists. She didn't
like being dismissed out of hand. Couldn't say I blamed her.

"She could do it, Gaynor, easier than I could."

"If I truly believed that, I would kill you because I wouldn't need you
anymore."

Hmm, good point. "You've had Bruno rough me up. Now what?"

Gaynor shook his head. "Such a little girl to have taken both my
bodyguards down."

"I told you ordinary methods of persuasion will not work on her,"
Dominga said.

I stared past her at the slathering monster. She called this ordinary?

"What do you propose?" Gaynor asked.

"A spell of compulsion. She will do as I bid, but it takes time to do
such a spell for one as powerful as she. If she knew any voodoo to speak
of, it would not work at all. But for all her art, she is but a baby in
voodoo."

"How long will you need?"

"Two hours, no more."

"This had better work," Gaynor said.

"Do not threaten me," Dominga said.

Oh, goody, maybe the bad guys would fight and kill each other.

"I am paying you enough money to set up your own small country. I should
get results for that."

Dominga nodded her head. "You pay well, that is true. I will not fail
you. If I can compel Anita to kill another person, then I can compel her
to help me in my zombie business. She will help me rebuild what she
forced me to destroy. It has a certain irony, no?"

Gaynor smiled like a demented elf. "I like it."

"Well, I don't," I said.

He frowned at me. "You will do as you are told. You have been very
naughty."

Naughty? Me?

Bruno had worked himself close to us. He was leaning heavily on the
wall, but his gun was very steadily pointed at the center of my chest.
"I'd like to kill you now," he said. His voice sounded raw with pain.

"A dislocated knee hurts like hell, doesn't it?" I smiled when I said
it. Better dead than a willing servant of the voodoo queen.

I think he ground his teeth. The gun wavered just a little, but I think
that was rage, not pain. "I will enjoy killing you."

"You didn't do so good last time. I think the judges would have given
the match to me."

"There are no fucking judges here. I am going to kill you."

"Bruno," Gaynor said, "we need her alive and whole."

"After she raises the zombie?" Bruno asked.

"If she is a willing servant of the Seora, then you are not to hurt
her. If the compulsion doesn't work, then you may kill her."

Bruno gave a fierce flash of teeth. It was more snarl than smile. "I
hope the spell fails."

Gaynor glanced at his bodyguard. "Don't let personal feelings interfere
with business, Bruno."

Bruno swallowed hard. "Yes, sir." It didn't sound like a title that came
easily to him.

Enzo came around the corner behind Dominga. He stayed near the wall as
far from her "creation" as he could get.

Antonio had finally lost his job as bodyguard. It was just as well. He
was much better suited to stool pigeon.

Tommy came limping down the hall, still sort of scrunched over himself.
The big Magnum was in his hands. His face was nearly purple with rage,
or maybe pain. "I'm gonna kill you," he hissed.

"Take a number," I said.

"Enzo, you help Bruno and Tommy tie this little girl to a chair in the
room. She's a lot more dangerous than she seems," Gaynor said.

Enzo grabbed my arm. I didn't fight him. I figured I was safer in his
hands than either of the other two. Tommy and Bruno both looked as if
they were looking forward to me trying something. I think they wanted to
hurt me.

As Enzo led me past them, I said, "Is it because I'm a woman or are you
always this bad at losing?"

"I'm gonna shoot her," Tommy grunted.

"Later," Gaynor said, "later."

I wondered if he really meant that. If Dominga's spell worked, I'd be
like a living zombie, obeying her will. If the spell didn't work, then
Tommy and Bruno would kill me, a piece at a time. I hoped there was a
third choice.

Chapter 36
----------

The third choice was being tied to a chair in the room where I woke up.
It was the best of the three choices, but that wasn't saying much. I
don't like being tied up. It means your options have gone from few to
none. Dominga had clipped some of my hair and the tips of my
fingernails. Hair and nails for her compulsion spell. Shit.

The chair was old and straight-backed. My wrists were tied to the slats
that made up the back of the chair. Ankles tied separately to a leg of
the chair. The ropes were tight. I tugged at the ropes, hoping for some
slack. There wasn't any.

I had been tied up before, and I always have this Houdini fantasy that
this time I'll have enough slack to wiggle free. It never works that
way. Once you're tied up, you stay tied up until someone lets you go.

The trouble was when they let me go, they were going to try a nasty
little spell on me. I had to get away before then. Somehow, I had to get
away. Dear God, please let me get away.

The door opened as if on cue, but it wasn't help.

Bruno entered, carrying Wanda in his arms. Blood had dried down the
right side of her face from a cut above the eye. Her left cheek was ripe
with a huge bruise. The lower lip had burst in a still bleeding cut. Her
eyes were shut. I wasn't even sure she was conscious.

I had an aching line on the left side of my face where Bruno had kicked
me, but it was nothing to Wanda's injuries.

"Now what?" I asked Bruno.

"Some company for you. When she wakes up, ask her what else Tommy did to
her. See if that will persuade you to raise the zombie."

"I thought Dominga was going to bespell me into helping you."

He shrugged. "Gaynor doesn't put much faith in her since she screwed up
so badly."

"He doesn't give second chances, I guess," I said.

"No, he doesn't." He laid Wanda on the floor near me. "You best take his
offer, girl. One dead whore and you get a million dollars. Take it."

"You're going to use Wanda for the sacrifice," I said. My voice sounded
tired even to me.

"Gaynor don't give second chances."

I nodded. "How's your knee?"

He grimaced. "I put it back in place."

"That must have hurt like hell," I said.

"It did. If you don't help Gaynor, you're going to find out exactly how
much it hurt."

"An eye for an eye," I said.

He nodded and stood. He favored his right leg. He caught me looking at
the leg.

"Talk to Wanda. Decide what you want to end up as. Gaynor's talking
about making you a cripple, then keeping you around as his toy. You
don't want that."

"How can you work for him?"

He shrugged. "Pays real well."

"Money isn't everything."

"Spoken by somebody who's never gone hungry."

He had me there. I just looked at him. We stared at each other for a few
minutes. There was something human in his eyes at last. I couldn't read
it though. Whatever emotion it was, it was nothing I understood.

He turned and left the room.

I stared down at Wanda. She lay on her side without moving. She was
wearing another long multicolored skirt. A white blouse with a wide lace
collar was half-ripped from one shoulder. The bra she wore was the color
of plums. I bet there had been panties to match before Tommy got hold of
her.

"Wanda," I said it softly. "Wanda, can you hear me?"

Her head moved slowly, painfully. One eye opened wide and
panic-stricken. The other eye was glued shut with dried blood. Wanda
pawed at the eye, frantic for a moment. When she could open both eyes,
she blinked at me. Her eyes took a moment to focus and really see who it
was. What had she expected to see in those first few panicked moments? I
didn't want to know.

"Wanda, can you speak?"

"Yes." The voice was soft, but clear.

I wanted to ask if she was alright, but I knew the answer to that. "If
you can get over here and free me, I'll get us out of here."

She looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "We can't get out. Harold's
gonna kill us." She made that last sound like a statement of pure fact.

"I don't believe in giving up, Wanda. Untie me and I'll think of
something."

"He'll hurt me if I help you," she said.

"He's planning on you being the human sacrifice to raise his ancestor.
How much more hurt can you get?"

She blinked at me, but her eyes were clearing. It was almost as if panic
were a drug, and Wanda was fighting off the influence. Or maybe it was
Harold Gaynor who was the drug. Yeah, that made sense. She was a junkie.
A Harold Gaynor junkie. Every junkie is willing to die for one more fix.
But I wasn't.

"Untie me, Wanda, please. I can get us out of this."

"And if you can't?"

"Then we're no worse off," I said.

She seemed to think about that for a minute. I strained for sounds from
the hallway. If Bruno came back while we were in the middle of escaping,
it would be very bad.

Wanda propped herself up on her arms. Her legs trailed out behind her
under the skirt, dead, no movement at all. She began dragging herself
towards me. I thought it would be slow work, but she moved quickly. The
muscles in her arms bunched and pushed, working well. She was by the
chair in a matter of minutes.

I smiled. "You're very strong."

"My arms are all I have. They have to be strong," Wanda said.

She started picking at the ropes that bound my right wrist. "It's too
tight."

"You can do it, Wanda."

She picked at the knot with her fingers, until after what seemed hours,
but was probably about five minutes, I felt the rope give. Slack, I had
slack. Yea!

"You've almost got it, Wanda." I felt like a cheerleader.

The sound of footsteps clattered down the hall towards us. Wanda's
battered face stared up at me, terror in her eyes. "There's not time,"
she whispered.

"Go back where you were. Do it. We'll finish later," I said.

Wanda hand-walked back to where Bruno had laid her. She had just
arranged herself into nearly the same position when the door opened.
Wanda was pretending to be unconscious, not a bad idea.

Tommy stood in the doorway. He'd taken off his jacket and the black
webbing of the shoulder rig stood out on his white polo shirt. Black
jeans emphasized his pinched-in waist. He looked top-heavy from lifting
so many weights.

He'd added one new thing to the outfit. A knife. He twirled it in his
hand like a baton. It was almost a perfect sheen of light. Manual
dexterity. Wowee.

"I didn't know you used a knife, Tommy." My voice sounded calm, normal,
amazing.

He grinned. "I have a lot of talents. Gaynor wants to know if you've
changed your mind about the zombie raising."

It wasn't exactly a question, but I answered it. "I won't do it."

His grin widened. "I was hoping you'd say that."

"Why?" I was afraid I knew the answer.

"Because he sent me in here to persuade you."

I stared at the glittering knife, I couldn't help myself. "With a
knife?"

"With something else long and hard, but not so cold," he said.

"Rape?" I asked. The word sort of hung there in the hot, still air.

He nodded, grinning like a damn Cheshire cat. I wished I could make him
disappear except for his smile. I wasn't afraid of his smile. It was the
other end I was worried about.

I jerked at the ropes helplessly. The right wrist gave a little more.
Had Wanda loosened the rope enough? Had she? Please God, let it be.

Tommy stood over me. I stared up the length of his body and what I saw
in his eyes was nothing human. There were all sorts of ways to become a
monster. Tommy had found one. There was nothing but an animal hunger in
his gaze. Nothing human left.

He put a leg on either side of the chair, straddling me without sitting
down. His flat stomach was pressed against my face. His shirt smelled of
expensive after-shave. I jerked my head back, trying not to touch him.

He laughed and ran fingers through the tight waves of my hair. I tried
to jerk my head out of his reach, but he grabbed a handful of hair and
forced my head back.

"I'm going to enjoy this," he said.

I didn't dare jerk at the ropes. If my wrist came free he'd see it. I
had to wait, wait until he was distracted enough not to notice. The
thought of what I might have to do to distract him, allow him to do to
me, made my stomach hurt. But staying alive was the goal. Everything
else was gravy. I didn't really believe that, but I tried.

He sat down on me, his weight settling on my legs. His chest was pressed
against my face, and there was nothing I could do about it.

He rubbed the flat of the knife across my cheek. "You can stop this
anytime. Just say yes, and I'll tell Gaynor." His voice was already
growing thick. I could feel him growing hard where he was pressed
against my belly.

The thought of Tommy using me like that was almost enough to make me say
yes. Almost. I jerked on the ropes and the right one gave a little more.
One more hard tug and I could get free. But I'd have just one hand to
Tommy's two, and he had a gun and a knife. Not good odds, but it was the
best I was going to get tonight.

He kissed me, forcing his tongue in my mouth. I didn't respond, because
he wouldn't have believed that. I didn't bite his tongue either because
I wanted him close. With only one hand free, I needed him close. I
needed to do major damage with one hand. What? What could I do?

He nuzzled my neck, face buried in my hair on the left side. Now or
never. I pulled with everything I had and the right wrist popped free. I
froze. Surely he'd felt it, but he was too busy sucking on my neck to
notice. His free hand massaged my breast.

He had his eyes closed as he kissed to the right side of my neck. His
eyes were closed. The knife was loose in his other hand. Nothing I could
do about the knife. Had to take the chance. Had to do it.

I caressed the side of his face, and he nuzzled my hand. Then his eyes
opened. It had occurred to him that I was supposed to be tied. I plunged
my thumb into his open eye. I dug it in, feeling the wet pop as his eye
exploded.

He shrieked, rearing back, hand to his eye. I grabbed the wrist with the
knife and held on. The screams were going to bring reinforcements.
Dammit.

Strong arms wrapped around Tommy's waist and pulled him backwards. I
grabbed the knife as he slid to the floor. Wanda was struggling to hold
him. The pain was so severe, it hadn't occurred to him to go for his
gun. Putting out an eye hurts and panics a lot more than a kick to the
groin.

I cut my other hand free and nicked my arm doing it. If I hurried too
much, I'd end up slitting my own wrist. I forced myself to be more
careful slicing my ankles free.

Tommy had managed to get free of Wanda. He staggered to his feet, one
hand still over the eye. Blood and clear liquid trailed down his face.
"I'll kill you!" He reached for his gun.

I reversed my grip on the knife and threw it. It thunked into his arm.
I'd been aiming for his chest. He screamed again. I picked up the chair
and smashed it into his face. Wanda grabbed his ankles, and Tommy went
down.

I pounded at his face with the chair until the chair broke apart in my
hands. Then I beat him with a chair leg until his face was nothing but a
bloody mess.

"He's dead," Wanda said. She was tugging at my pants leg. "He's dead.
Let's get out of here."

I dropped the blood-coated chair leg and collapsed to my knees. I
couldn't swallow. I couldn't breathe. I was splattered with blood. I'd
never beaten someone to death before. It had felt good. I shook my head.
Later, I'd worry about it later.

Wanda put an arm over my shoulders. I grabbed her around the waist, and
we stood. She weighed a lot less than she should have. I didn't want to
see what was under the pretty skirt. It wasn't a full set of legs, but
for once that was good. She was easier to move.

I had Tommy's gun in my right hand. "I need this hand free, so hold on
tight."

Wanda nodded. Her face was very pale. I could feel her heart pounding
against her ribs. "We're going to get out of this," I said.

"Sure," but her voice was shaky. I don't think she believed me. I wasn't
sure I believed me.

Wanda opened the door, and out we went.

Chapter 37
----------

The hallway was just like I remembered it. A long stretch with no cover,
then a blind corner at each end.

"Right or left?" I whispered to Wanda.

"I don't know. This house is like a maze. Right I think."

We went right, because at least it was a decision. The worst thing we
could do was just stand there waiting for Gaynor to come back.

I heard footsteps behind us. I started to turn, but with Wanda in my
arms, I was slow. The gunshot echoed in the hallway. Something hit my
left arm, around Wanda's waist. The impact spun me around and sent us
both crashing to the floor.

I ended up on my back with my left arm trapped under Wanda's weight. The
left arm was totally numb.

Cicely stood at the end of the hallway. She held a small caliber handgun
two-handed. Her long, long legs were far apart. She looked like she knew
what she was doing.

I raised the .357 and aimed at her, still lying flat on my back on the
floor. It was an explosion of sound that left my ears ringing. The
recoil thrust my hand skyward, backwards. It was everything I could do
not to drop the gun. If I'd needed a second shot I'd have never gotten
it off in time. But I didn't need a second shot.

Cicely lay crumpled in the middle of the hallway. Blood was spreading on
the front of her blouse. She didn't move, but that didn't mean anything.
Her gun was still gripped in one hand. She could be pretending, then
when I walked up, she'd shoot me. But I had to know.

"Can you get off my arm, please?" I asked.

Wanda didn't say anything, but she lifted herself to a sitting position,
and I could finally see my arm. It was still attached. Goody. Blood was
seeping down my arm in a crimson line. A point of icy burning had
started to chase away the numbness. I liked the numbness better.

I did my best to ignore the arm as I stood up and walked towards Cicely.
I had the Magnum pointed at her. If she so much as twitched, I'd hit her
again. Her miniskirt had hiked up her thighs, displaying black garters
and matching underwear. How undignified.

I stood over her, staring down. Cicely wasn't going to twitch, not
voluntarily. Her silk blouse was soaked with blood. A hole big enough
for me to put my fist through took up most of her chest. Dead, very
dead.

I kicked the .22 out of her hand, just in case. You can never tell with
someone who plays voodoo. I've had people get up before with worse
injuries. Cicely just lay there, bleeding.

I was lucky she'd had a ladylike caliber pistol. Anything bigger and I
might have lost the arm. I stuck her pistol in the front of my pants,
because I couldn't figure out where else to put it. I did click the
safety on first.

I'd never been shot before. Bitten, stabbed, beaten, burned, but never
shot. It scared me because I wasn't sure how badly I was hurt. I walked
back to Wanda. Her face was pale, her brown eyes like islands in her
face. "Is she dead?"

I nodded.

"You're bleeding," she said. She tore a strip from her long skirt.
"Here, let me wrap it."

I knelt and let her tie the multicolored strip just above the wound. She
wiped the blood away with another piece of skirt. It didn't look that
bad. It looked almost like a raw, bloody scrap.

"I think the bullet just grazed me," I said. A flesh wound, nothing but
a flesh wound. It burned and was almost cold at the same time. Maybe the
cold was shock. One little bullet graze, and I was going into shock?
Surely not.

"Come on, we've got to get out of here. The shots will bring Bruno." It
was good that I had pain in the arm. It meant I could feel and I could
move the arm. The arm did not want to be wrapped around Wanda's waist
again, but it was the only way to move her and keep my right hand free.

"Let's go left. Maybe Cicely came in this way," Wanda said. There was a
certain logic to that. We turned and walked past Cicely's body.

She lay there, blue eyes staring impossibly wide. There is never a look
of horror on the face of the newly dead, more surprise than anything. As
if death had caught them while they weren't looking.

Wanda stared down at the body as we passed it. She whispered, "I never
thought she'd die first."

We rounded the corner and came face-to-face with Dominga's monster.

Chapter 38
----------

The monster stood in the middle of a narrow little hall that seemed to
take up most of the back of the house. Many-paned windows lined the
wall. And in the middle of those windows was a door. Through the windows
I could see black night sky. The door led outside. The only thing
standing between us and freedom was the monster.

The only thing, sheesh.

The shambling mound of body parts struggled towards us. Wanda screamed,
and I didn't blame her. I raised the Magnum and sighted on the human
face in the middle. The shot echoed like captive thunder.

The face exploded in a welter of blood and flesh and bone. The smell was
worse. Like rotten fur on the back of my throat. The mouths screamed, an
animal howling at its wound. The thing kept coming, but it was hurt. It
seemed confused as to what to do now. Had I taken out the dominant
brain? Was there a dominant brain? No way to be sure.

I fired three more times, exploding three more heads. The hallway was
full of brains and blood and worse. The monster kept coming.

The gun clicked on empty. I threw the gun at it. One clawed hand batted
it away. I didn't bother trying the .22. If the Magnum couldn't stop it,
the .22 sure as hell couldn't.

We started backing down the hallway. What else could we do? The monster
pulled its twisted bulk after us. It was that same sliding sound that
had chased Manny and I out of Dominga's basement. I was looking at her
caged horror.

The flesh between the different textures of skin, fur, and bone was
seamless. No Frankenstein stitches. It was like the different pieces had
melted together like wax.

I tripped over Cicely's body, too busy watching the monster to see where
my feet were. We sprawled across her body. Wanda screamed.

The monster scrambled forward. Misshapen hands grabbed at my ankles. I
kicked at it, struggling to climb over Cicely's body, away from it. A
claw snagged in my jeans and pulled me towards it. It was my turn to
scream. What had once been a man's hand and arm wrapped around my ankle.

I grabbed onto Cicely's body. Her flesh was still warm. The monster
pulled us both easily. The extra weight didn't slow it down. My hands
scrambled at the bare wood floor. Nothing to hold on to.

I stared back at the thing. Eager rotting mouths yawned at me. Broken,
discolored teeth, tongues working like putrid snakes in the openings.
God!

Wanda grabbed my arm, trying to hold me, but without legs to brace she
just succeeded in being pulled closer to the thing. "Let go!" I screamed
it at her.

She did, screaming, "Anita!"

I was screaming myself, "No! Stop it! Stop it!" I put everything I had
into that yell, not volume, but power. It was just another zombie, that
was all. If it wasn't under specific orders, it would listen to me. It
was just another zombie. I had to believe that, or die.

"Stop, right now!" My voice broke with the edge of hysteria. I wanted
nothing more than just to start screaming and never stop.

The monster froze with my foot halfway to one of its lower mouths. The
mismatched eyes stared at me, expectantly.

I swallowed and tried to sound calm, though the zombie wouldn't care.
"Release me."

It did.

My heart was threatening to come out my mouth. I lay back on the floor
for a second, relearning how to breathe. When I looked up, the monster
was still sitting there, waiting. Waiting for orders like a good little
zombie.

"Stay here, do not move from this spot," I said.

The eyes just stared at me, obedient as only the dead can be. It would
sit there in the hallway until it got specific orders contradicting
mine. Thank you, dear God, that a zombie is a zombie is a zombie.

"What's happening?" Wanda asked. Her voice was broken into sobs. She was
near hysterics.

I crawled to her. "It's alright. I'll explain later. We have a little
time, but we can't waste it. We've got to get out of here."

She nodded, tears sliding down her bruised face.

I helped her up one last time. We limped towards the monster. Wanda
shied away from it, pulling on my sore arm.

"It's alright. It won't hurt us, if we hurry." I had no idea how close
Dominga was. I didn't want her changing the orders while we were right
next to it. We stayed near the wall and squeezed past the thing. Eyes on
the back of the body, if it had a back and a front, followed our
progress. The smell from the running wounds was nearly overwhelming. But
what was a little gagging between friends?

Wanda opened the door to the outside world. Hot summer wind blew our
hair into spider silk strands across our faces. It felt wonderful.

Why hadn't Gaynor and the rest come to the rescue? They had to have
heard the gunshots and the screaming. The gunshots at least would have
brought somebody.

We stumbled down three stone steps to the gravel of a turn around. I
stared off into the darkness at hills covered in tall, waving grass and
decaying tombstones. The house was the caretaker's house at Burrell
Cemetery. I wondered what Gaynor had done to the caretaker.

I started to lead Wanda away from the cemetery towards the distant
highway, then stopped. I knew why no one had come now.

The sky was thick and black and so heavy with stars if I'd had a net I
could have caught some. There was a high, hot wind blowing against the
stars. I couldn't see the moon. Too much starlight. On the hot seeking
fingers of the wind I felt it. The pull. Dominga Salvador had completed
her spell. I stared off into the rows of headstones and knew I had to go
to her. Just as the zombie had had to obey me, I had to obey her. There
was no saving throw, no salvaging it. As easy as that I was caught.

Chapter 39
----------

I stood very still on the gravel. Wanda moved in my arms, turning to
look at me. Her face by starlight was incredibly pale. Was mine as pale?
Was the shock spread over my face like moonlight? I tried to take a step
forward. To carry Wanda to safety. I could not take a step forward. I
struggled until my legs were shaking with the effort. I couldn't leave.

"What's the matter? We have to get out of here before Gaynor comes
back," Wanda said.

"I know," I said.

"Then what are you doing?"

I swallowed something cold and hard in my throat. My pulse was thudding
in my chest. "I can't leave."

"What are you talking about?" There was an edge of hysteria to Wanda's
voice.

Hysterics sounded perfect. I promised myself a complete nervous
breakdown if we got out of here alive. If I could ever leave. I fought
against something that I couldn't see, or touch, but it held me solid. I
had to stop or my legs were going to collapse. We had enough problems in
that direction already. If I couldn't go forward, maybe, backwards.

I backed up a step, two steps. Yeah, that worked.

"Where are you going?" Wanda asked.

"Into the cemetery," I said.

"Why!"

Good question, but I wasn't sure I could explain it so that Wanda would
understand. I didn't understand. it myself. How could I explain it to
anyone else? I couldn't leave, but did I have to take Wanda back with
me? Would the spell allow me to leave her here?

I decided to try. I laid her down on the gravel. Easy, some of my
choices were still open.

"Why are you leaving me?" She clutched at me, terrified.

Me, too.

"Make it to the road if you can," I said.

"On my hands?" she asked.

She had a point, but what could I do? "Do you know how to use a gun?"

"No."

Should I leave her the gun, or should I take it with me, and maybe get a
chance to kill Dominga? If this worked like ordering a zombie, then I
could kill her if she didn't specifically forbid me to do it. Because I
still had free will, of a sort. They'd bring me, then send someone back
for Wanda. She was to be the sacrifice.

I handed her the .22. I clicked off the safety. "It's loaded and it's
ready to fire," I said. "Since you don't know anything about guns, keep
it hidden until Enzo or Bruno is right on top of you, then fire
point-blank. You can't miss at point-blank range."

"Why are you leaving me?"

"A spell, I think," I said.

Her eyes widened. "What kind of spell?"

"One that allows them to order me to come to them. One that forbids me
to leave."

"Oh, God," she said.

"Yeah," I said. I smiled down at her. A reassuring smile that was all
lie. "I'll try to come back for you."

She just stared at me, like a kid whose parents left her in the dark
before all the monsters were gone.

She clutched the gun in her hands and watched me walk off into the
darkness.

The long dry grass hissed against my jeans. The wind blew the grass in
pale waves. Tombstones loomed out of the weeds like the backs of small
walls, or the humps of sea monsters. I didn't have to think where I was
going, my feet seemed to know the way.

Was this how a zombie felt when ordered to come? No, you had to be
within hearing distance of a zombie. You couldn't do it from this far
away.

Dominga Salvador stood at the crown of a hill. She was highlighted
against the moon. It was sinking towards dawn. It was still night, but
the end of night. Everything was still velvet, silver, deep pockets of
night shadows, but there was the faintest hint of dawn on the hot wind.

If I could delay until dawn, I couldn't raise the zombie. Maybe the
compulsion would fade, too. If I was luckier than I deserved.

Dominga was standing inside a dark circle. There was a dead chicken at
her feet. She had already made a circle of power. All I had to do was
step into it and slaughter a human being. Over my dead body, if
necessary.

Harold Gaynor sat in his electric wheelchair. on the opposite side of
the circle. He was outside of it, safe. Enzo and Bruno stood by him,
safe. Only Dominga had risked the circle.

She said, "Where is Wanda?"

I tried to lie, to say she was safe, but truth spilled out of my mouth,
"She's down by the house on the gravel."

"Why didn't you bring her?"

"You can only give me one order at a time. You ordered me to come. I
came."

"Stubborn, even now, how curious," she said. "Enzo, go fetch the girl.
We need her."

Enzo walked away over the dry, rustling grass without a word. I hoped
Wanda killed him. I hoped she emptied the gun into him. No, save a few
bullets for Bruno.

Dominga had a machete in her right hand. Its edge was black with blood.
"Enter the circle, Anita," she said.

I tried to fight it, tried not to do it. I stood there on the verge of
the circle, almost swaying. I stepped across. The circle tingled up my
spine, but it wasn't closed. I don't know what she'd done to it, but it
wasn't closed. The circle looked solid enough but it was still open.
Still waiting for the sacrifice.

Shots echoed in the darkness. Dominga jumped. I smiled.

"What was that?"

"I think it was your bodyguard biting the big one," I said.

"What did you do?"

"I gave Wanda a gun."

She slapped me with her empty hand. It wouldn't really have hurt, but
she slapped the same cheek Bruno and what's-his-name had hit. I'd been
smacked three times in the same place. The bruise was going to be a
beaut.

Dominga looked at something behind me and smiled. I knew what it would
be before I turned and saw it.

Enzo was carrying Wanda up the hill. Dammit. I'd heard more than one
shot. Had she panicked and shot too soon, wasted her ammunition? Damn.

Wanda was screaming and beating her small fists against Enzo's broad
back. If we were alive come morning, I would teach Wanda better things
to do with her fists. She was crippled, not helpless.

Enzo carried her over the circle. Until it closed everyone could pass
over it without breaking the magic. He dropped Wanda to the ground,
holding her arms out behind her at a painful angle. She still struggled
and screamed. I didn't blame her.

"Get Bruno to hold her still. The death needs to be one blow," I said.

Dominga nodded. "Yes, it does." She motioned for Bruno to enter the
circle. He hesitated, but Gaynor told him, "Do what she says."

Bruno didn't hesitate after that. Gaynor was his greenback god. Bruno
grabbed one of Wanda's arms. With a man on each arm, and her legs
useless, she was still moving too much.

"Kneel and hold her head still," I said.

Enzo dropped first, putting a big hand on the back of Wanda's head. He
held her steady. She started to cry. Bruno knelt, putting his free hand
on her shoulders to help steady her. It was important for the death to
be a single blow.

Dominga was smiling now. She handed me a small brown jar of ointment. It
was white and smelled heavily of cloves. I used more rosemary in mine,
but cloves were fine.

"How did you know what I needed?"

"I asked Manny to tell me what you used."

"He wouldn't tell you shit."

"He would if I threatened his family." Dominga laughed. "Oh, don't look
so sad. He didn't betray you, chica. Manuel thought I was merely curious
about your powers. I am, you know."

"You'll see soon enough, won't you," I said.

She gave a sort of bow from the neck. "Place the ointment on yourself in
the appointed places."

I rubbed ointment on my face. It was cool and waxy. The cloves made it
smell like candy. I smeared it on over my heart, under my shirt, both
hands. Last the tombstone.

Now all we needed was the sacrifice.

Dominga told me, "Do not move."

I stayed where I was, frozen as if by magic. Was her monster still
frozen in the hallway, like I was now?

Dominga laid the machete on the grass near the edge of the circle, then
she stepped out of the circle. "Raise the dead, Anita," she said.

"Ask Gaynor one question first, please." That please hurt, but it
worked.

She looked at me curiously. "What question?"

"Is this ancestor also a voodoo priest?" I asked.

"What difference does it make?" Gaynor asked.

"You fool," Dominga said. She whirled on him, hands in fists. "That is
what went wrong the first time. You made me think it was my powers!"

"What are you babbling about?" he asked.

"When you raise a voodoo priest or an animator, sometimes the magic goes
wrong," I said.

"Why?" he asked.

"Your ancestor's magic interfered with my magic," Dominga said. "Are you
sure this ancestor had no voodoo?"

"Not to my knowledge," he said.

"Did you know about the first one?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Dominga said. Her power blazed around her like
a dark nimbus. Would she kill him, or did she want the money more?

"I didn't think it was important."

I think Dominga was grinding her teeth. I didn't blame her. He'd cost
her her reputation and a dozen lives. He saw nothing wrong with it. But
Dominga didn't strike him dead. Greed wins out.

"Get on with it," Gaynor said. "Or don't you want your money?"

"Do not threaten me!" Dominga said.

Peachy keen, the bad guys were going to fight among themselves.

"I am not threatening you, Seora. I merely will not pay unless this
zombie is raised."

Dominga took a deep breath. She literally squared her shoulders and
turned back to me. "Do as I ordered, raise the dead."

I opened my mouth to think of some other excuse to delay. Dawn was
coming. It had to come.

"No more delays. Raise the dead, Anita, now!" That last word had the
tone of a command.

I swallowed hard and walked towards the edge of the circle. I wanted to
get out, to leave, but I couldn't. I stood there, leaning against that
invisible barrier. It was like beating against a wall that I couldn't
feel. I stayed there straining until my entire body trembled. I took a
deep shaking breath.

I picked up the machete.

Wanda said, "No, Anita, please, please don't!" She struggled, but she
couldn't move. She would be an easy kill. Easier than beheading a
chicken with one hand. And I did that almost every night.

I knelt in front of Wanda. Enzo's hand on the back of her head kept her
from moving. But she whimpered, a desperate sound low in her throat.

God, help me.

I placed the machete under her neck and told Enzo, "Raise her head up so
I can make sure of the kill."

He grabbed a handful of hair and bowed her neck at a painful angle. Her
eyes were showing a lot of white. Even by moonlight I could see the
pulse in her throat.

I placed the machete back against her neck. Her skin was solid and real
under the blade. I raised it just above her flesh, not touching for an
instant. I drove the machete straight up into Enzo's throat. The point
speared his throat. Blood gushed out in a black wave.

Everyone froze for an instant, but me. I jerked the machete out of Enzo
and plunged it into Bruno's gut. His hand with the gun half-drawn fell
away. I leaned on the machete and drew it up towards his throat. His
insides spilled out, in a warm rush.

The smell of fresh death filled the circle. Blood sprayed all over my
face, chest, hands, coating me. It was the last step, and the circle
closed.

I'd felt a thousand circles close, but nothing like this. The shock of
it left me gasping. I couldn't breathe over the rush of power. It was
like an electric current was running over my body. My skin ached with
it.

Wanda was covered in other people's blood. She was having hysterics in
the grass. "Please, please, don't kill me. Don't kill me! Please!"

I didn't have to kill Wanda. Dominga had told me to raise the dead, and
I would do just that.

Killing animals never gave me this kind of rush. It felt like my skin
was going to crawl off on its own. I shoved the power flowing through me
into the ground. But not just into the grave in the circle. I had too
much power for just one grave. Too much power for just a handful of
graves. I felt the power spreading outward like ripples in a pool. Out
and out, until the power was spread thick and clean over the ground.
Every grave that I had walked for Dolph. Every grave but the ones with
ghosts. Because that was a type of soul magic, and necromancy didn't
work around souls.

I felt each grave, each corpse. I felt them coalesce from dust and bone
fragments to things that were barely dead at all.

"Arise from your graves all dead within sound of my call. Arise and
serve me!" Without naming them all I shouldn't have been able to call a
single one from the grave, but the power of two human deaths was too
much for the dead to resist.

They rose upward like swimmers through water. The ground rippled
underfoot like a horse's skin.

"What are you doing?" Dominga asked.

"Raising the dead," I said. Maybe it showed in my voice. Maybe she felt
it. Whatever, she started running towards the circle, but it was too
late.

Hands tore through the earth at Dominga's feet. Dead hands grabbed her
ankles and sent her sprawling into the long grass. I lost sight of her
but I didn't lose control of the zombies. I told them, "Kill her, kill
her."

The grass shuddered and surged like water. The sound of muscles pulling
away from bone in wet thick pieces filled the night. Bones broke with
sharp cracks. Over the sounds of tearing flesh, Dominga shrieked.

There was one last wet sound, thick and full. Dominga's screams broke
off abruptly. I felt the dead hands tearing out her throat. Her blood
splattered the grass like a black sprinkler.

Her spell shredded on the wind, but I didn't need her urging now. The
power had me. I was riding it like a bird on a current of air. It held
me, lifted me. It felt solid and insubstantial as air.

The dry sunken earth cracked open over Gaynor's ancestor's grave. A pale
hand shot skyward. A second hand came through the crack. The zombie tore
the dry earth. I heard other old graves breaking in the still, summer
night. It broke its way out of his grave, just like Gaynor had wanted.

Gaynor sat in his wheelchair on the crest of the hill. He was surrounded
by the dead. Dozens of zombies in various stages of decay crowded close
to him. But I hadn't given the order yet. They wouldn't hurt him unless
I told them to.

"Ask him where the treasure is," Gaynor shouted.

I stared at him and every zombie turned with my eyes and stared at him,
too. He didn't understand. Gaynor was like a lot of people with money.
They mistake money for power. It isn't the same thing at all.

"Kill the man Harold Gaynor." I said it loud enough to carry on the
still air.

"I'll give you a million dollars for having raised him. Whether I find
the treasure or not," Gaynor said.

"I don't want your money, Gaynor," I said.

The zombies were moving in on every side, slow, hands extended, like
every horror movie you've ever seen. Sometimes Hollywood is accurate,
whatta ya know.

"Two million, three million!" His voice was breaking with fear. He'd had
a better seat for Dominga's death than I had. He knew what was coming.
"Four million!"

"Not enough," I said.

"How much?" he shouted. "Name your price!" I couldn't see him now. The
zombies hid him from view.

"No money, Gaynor, just you dead, that's enough."

He started screaming, wordlessly. I felt the hands begin to rip at him.
Teeth to tear.

Wanda grabbed my legs. "Don't, don't hurt him. Please!"

I just stared at her. I was remembering Benjamin Reynolds's blood-coated
teddy bear, the tiny hand with that stupid plastic ring on it, the
blood-soaked bedroom, the baby blanket. "He deserves to die," I said. My
voice sounded separate from me, distant and echoing. It didn't sound
like me at all.

"You can't just murder him," Wanda said.

"Watch me," I said.

She tried to climb my body, but her legs betrayed her and she fell in a
heap at my feet, sobbing.

I didn't understand how Wanda could beg for his life after what he had
done to her. Love, I suppose. In the end she really did love him. And
that, perhaps, was the saddest thing of all.

When Gaynor died, I knew it. When pieces of him stained almost every
hand and mouth of the dead, they stopped. They turned to me, waiting for
new orders. The power was still buoying me up. I wasn't tired. Was there
enough to lay them all to rest? I hoped so.

"Go back, all of you, go back to your graves. Rest in the quiet earth.
Go back, go back."

They stirred like a wind had blown through them, then one by one they
went back to their graves. They lay down on the hard dry earth and the
graves just swallowed them whole. It was like magic quicksand. The earth
shuddered underfoot like a sleeper moving to a more comfortable
position.

Some of the corpses had been as old as Gaynor's ancestor, which meant
that I didn't need a human death to raise one three-hundred-year-old
corpse. Bert was going to be pleased. Human deaths seemed to be
cumulative. Two human deaths and I had emptied a cemetery. It wasn't
possible. But I'd done it anyway. Whatta ya know?

The first light of dawn passed like milk on the eastern sky. The wind
died with the light. Wanda knelt in the bloody grass, crying. I knelt
beside her.

She jerked back at my touch. I guess I couldn't blame her, but it
bothered me anyway.

"We have to get out of here. You need a doctor," I said.

She stared up at me. "What are you?"

Today for the first time I didn't know how to answer that question.
Human didn't seem to cover it. "I'm an animator," I said finally.

She just kept staring at me. I wouldn't have believed me either. But she
let me help her up. I guess that was something.

But she kept looking at me out of the edge of her eyes. Wanda considered
me one of the monsters. She may have been right.

Wanda gasped, eyes wide.

I turned, too slowly. Was it the monster?

Jean-Claude stepped out of the shadows.

I didn't breathe for a moment. It was so unexpected.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"Your power called to me, ma petite. No dead in the city could fail to
feel your power tonight. And I am the city, so I came to investigate."

"How long have you been here?"

"I saw you kill the men. I saw you raise the graveyard."

"Did it ever occur to you to help me?"

"You did not need any help." He smiled, barely visible in the moonlight.
"Besides, would it not have been tempting to rend me to pieces, as
well?"

"You can't possibly be afraid of me," I said.

He spread his hands wide.

"You're afraid of your human servant? Little ol' moi?"

"Not afraid, ma petite, but cautious."

He was afraid of me. It almost made some of this shit worthwhile.

I carried Wanda down the hill. She wouldn't let Jean-Claude touch her. A
choice of monsters.

Chapter 40
----------

Dominga Salvador missed her court date. Fancy that. Dolph had searched
for me that night, after he discovered that Dominga had made bail. He
had found my apartment empty. My answers about where I had gone didn't
satisfy him, but he let it go. What else could he do?

They found Gaynor's wheelchair, but no trace of him. It's one of those
mysteries to tell around campfires. The empty, blood-coated wheelchair
in the middle of the cemetery. They did find body parts in the
caretaker's house: animal and human. Only Dominga's power had held the
thing together. When she died, it died. Thank goodness. Theory was that
the monster got Gaynor. Where the monster came from no one seemed to
know. I was called in to explain the body parts, that's how the police
knew they'd once been attached.

Irving wanted to know what I really knew about Gaynor's vanishing act. I
just smiled and played inscrutable. Irving didn't believe me, but all he
had were suspicions. Suspicions aren't a news story.

Wanda is waiting tables downtown. Jean-Claude offered her a job at The
Laughing Corpse. She declined, not politely. She'd saved quite a bit of
money from her "business." I don't know if she'll make it or not, but
with Gaynor gone, she seems free to try. She was a junkie whose drug of
choice was dead. It was better than rehab.

By Catherine's wedding the bullet wound was just a bandage on my arm.
The bruises on my face and neck had turned that sickly shade of
greenish-yellow. It clashed with the pink dress. I gave Catherine the
option of me not being in the wedding. The wedding coordinator was all
for that, but Catherine wouldn't hear of it. The wedding coordinator
applied makeup to the bruises and saved the day.

I have a picture of me standing in that awful dress with Catherine's arm
around me. We're both smiling. Friendship is strange stuff.

Jean-Claude sent me a dozen white roses in the hospital. The card read,
"Come to the ballet with me. Not as my servant, but as my guest."

I didn't go to the ballet. I had enough problems without dating the
Master of the City.

I had performed human sacrifice, and it had felt good. The rush of power
was like the memory of painful sex. Part of you wanted to do it again.
Maybe Dominga Salvador was right. Maybe power talks to everyone, even
me.

I am an animator. I am the Executioner. But now I know I'm something
else. The one thing my Grandmother Flores feared most. I am a
necromancer. The dead are my specialty.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

REVISION HISTORY

v4.0 wg

-conversion to standard HTML format

-added chapter links

-proofread without DT, but merits a v4 due to quality

