by Tessa Bailey
She watered the herb garden on her fire escape, waving her green, metal can at Mr. Jung as he watered the sidewalk outside his fish market across the street. She pinched some basil off between her thumb and pointer finger, carrying it to the kitchen to sprinkle over her eggs. If there was a knife missing from the chopping block, she didn’t consider it odd. Her stepmother liked a midnight grilled cheese on occasion and routinely left cutlery in odd places.
Like the freezer. Or outside beneath the welcome mat.
Her stepmother Larissa hadn’t been an excessive drinker when Ginny’s father was alive, but she’d really put the pedal to the metal of late. Ginny didn’t blame her. The former pageant queen had fallen in love with a mortician, but she’d never expected to become one. P. Lynn Funeral Home had fallen into quite a bit of debt under her father’s supervision, however, and after marrying a woman with supremely expensive taste in jewelry and leisurewear, he’d promptly bitten the dust, leaving them with two choices.
Attempt to sell an outdated funeral home (spoiler: no one wanted it) that was rather unfortunately located beneath the Q train, which on more than one occasion had caused a casket to tip over. And some very unhappy online reviews.
Or, option two. Continue on, business as usual, and attempt to dig out from under mounds of small business loans and credit card debt.
Really, they’d only ever had one option. Knuckle down and keep going, a decision that had relieved Ginny greatly. The home might be a heap, but it was her home. One her father had built into a neighborhood landmark and managed to make a happy place, despite the dead bodies downstairs. She didn’t want to watch everything he’d worked for crumble when she was more than capable of keeping the doors open. There had to be a reason he’d spent countless hours patiently teaching her the family trade, right?
A loud crash above Ginny’s head made her drop the fork she was using to scramble her eggs. She tapped her fingers on the counter for several beats while deciding what to do. Larissa had a no wake ups, no matter the hour rule and expected Ginny to adhere to it. Okay, expected was a kind way of saying Larissa tended to throw hairbrushes or half-full glasses of water at Ginny if she even crept past her bedroom door to reach the bathroom. Many a full-to-bursting bladder had been endured since she’d been sharing a living space with her stepmother.
However. The silence that followed the loud crash convinced Ginny to leave her uncooked eggs on the counter and tiptoe slowly up the stairs.
P. Lynn Funeral Home consisted of three floors. The underground morgue, the first floor above it, which held the office, lobby and viewing areas. On the same middle floor, inaccessible to the public, was their small kitchen and dining room that could be reached through a locked corridor. Upstairs, on the top floor, lay the bedrooms. Three of them. One for Larissa, one for Ginny and an empty one Larissa used as a secondary closet.
On her way up the stairs, Ginny flexed her fingers at her sides, although no amount of warming up her digits would help catch any flying objects. Ginny was hopelessly unathletic. In middle school gym class, she’d earned the moniker No Win Gin on account of her being the kiss of death to whichever team had the misfortune of picking her last. It was just another way she’d become synonymous with bad luck around the neighborhood.
There was no sense in being tragic over it.
She had a legion of old movies to keep her company—To Catch a Thief was on the agenda for tonight—a place to live and herbs for her eggs. She could sew a mean dress. And while her profession might make people uncomfortable with their own mortality, she felt the opposite about it. People came to her on their worst day and she guided them through a process they often knew nothing about. In a way, she felt a little like a soft landing safety net for mourners who walked through the front door of P. Lynn Funeral Home. In that spirit, she often opened her meetings with a bright and cheerful, “How would you like to celebrate their life?”
An image of Jonas projected itself onto the back of her eyelids and she gave a prolonged blink to absorb it greedily. Had Jonas been given a funeral? Technically, he was dead, even if she’d never met anyone who’d crackled with more…existence.
Vitality.
Sexy sexiness.
Would he come back today? She couldn’t imagine a world where he didn’t. Where their one magical encounter was their first and last one. She’d dreamed of his eyes and the touch of his fingers in her hair. Replayed their conversations over and over in her mind so she’d never forget them. His voice was stuck in her head like a favorite song.
Was it pathetic that she’d deemed their encounter monumental? That’s how it felt. She was like one of those people who claimed they’d seen God while in a coma. No one would believe her, but she’d been forever changed nonetheless.
Come back, Jonas, she said in a mental whisper, somehow positive he’d hear.
Would he listen?
Ginny deftly avoided the creaky hallway floorboard and approached Larissa’s room. The hair on the back of her neck rose the closer she got. Her stepmother never failed to sleep with the television on at medium volume, usually tuned to the shopping network, but silence reigned from the other side of the door. There wasn’t so much as a snore or a rustle of sheets.
“Curious,” Ginny whispered, her big toes climbing over one another on the carpet. “Mmmm.” She crept closer. “Larissa?”
She ducked on instinct, in preparation for a shrill screech or perhaps her father’s brass urn crashing through the closed door and rendering her unconscious. Throwing an urn would definitely be a first for Larissa, but totally in keeping with her escalating behavior. Best to be on guard.
After several more moments of quiet ticked past, Ginny straightened and closed the remaining distance to the door, curling her palm around the knob and turning. At this stage, she was definitely starting to worry.
Dead silence in a funeral home was only a good sign if it was coming from one of their downstairs guests.
“Larissa?” Ginny called, pushing open the door.
She stopped short as soon as her eyes adjusted to the dimness.
There was her stepmother, her prize-winning figure outlined beneath the sheets. One arm dangled off the bed, an empty bottle of Stolichniya within reaching distance. Ginny squinted into the darkness, trying to discern Larissa’s back moving up and down in a typical breathing pattern, but couldn’t tell for sure. Abandoning the hallway, she moved into the room slowly, her fingers laced together beneath her chin. “Larissa?”
“She’ll be fine.”
Ginny spun around with a bloodcurdling scream trapped in her throat. She’d never be able to say for sure why she didn’t release it, but suspected it had something to do with the smirking moon-haired young woman looking back at her. Quite possibly, she was too fascinated to scream. Who was this person and what was she doing in Coney Island, let alone Larissa’s room? In her leather pants, blood red boots and studded bustier, she appeared to have stepped out of a futuristic eighties movie. And she was holding the missing kitchen knife in her hand.
Am I still sleeping?
Perhaps Ginny was having one continuously long dream about vampires and…whatever this woman was. It had been an extremely bizarre twelve hours.
Maybe none of it was real.
Maybe the person who’d tried to kill her had partially succeeded and this was one big insane dream brought on by a terrible fever. She might be surrounded by nurses in the Intensive Care Unit right this very second.
“You are saying all of this out loud,” said the woman, her voice faintly accented with Russian. “I swear you are awake. But I could pinch you, if you’d like to confirm this?”
“No, thanks.” Oh God, was this the person who’d been causing her to look over her shoulder? Had this intruder killed Larissa first so there would be no witnesses? Was Ginny going to die without even finding out why someone wanted her six feet under in the first place? “Is my stepmother dead?”
Two bright blonde eyebrows pulled together. �
�Were you listening? I just said she would be fine.”
“Then…why are you holding a knife?”
“I’m sharpening it for you. Mine is made of the finest silver.” She lifted the knife, regarding the blade with disgust. “You think I could even break the skin with a blade this dull?” With that, Moonhair slipped another, larger knife from the small of her back and began striking and dragging the two blades together, setting off sparks in the dark room. “You’re welcome.”
Ginny gaped. “You’re making the knife sharper so my death will be swifter? And you want me to thank you for it?”
Moonhair didn’t bother looking up from her task. “I am not here to kill, even though it would much more interesting. Unfortunately, I am here to protect you.”
“Protect me from what?” Ginny twisted around briefly to find Larissa’s upper half now sagging off the bed. “What did you do to her?”
“A little conk.” She used the flat of the blade to tap herself in the middle of the forehead. “Right here. Lights out.”
The woman handed Ginny back her sharpened kitchen knife and she had no choice but to take it, bolstered by the fact that, if nothing else, she’d have an easier time chopping carrots now. “Does you being here have anything to do with Jonas?”
“Yes.” Moonhair leaned back against the wall, regarding Ginny with smug speculation. “So you are the one, hmm?”
“The one…?”
“The one making the prince tear out his perfect hair.”
“The prince?”
“I refer to Jonas, obviously.”
“Oh.” Ginny scoffed to hide her smile. “Was he…talking about me or something?”
Moonhair let out a throaty laugh. “It goes both ways, I see. This can only end in disaster.” She shrugged. “At least it will be entertaining.”
“Why did you call him a prince?”
“Among his kind, he is something of a…reluctant leader, one could say.” She studied the tip of her blade with a sniff. “He has morals and principles and things of that nature. I can’t stand him, really.”
This conversation was completely insane and Ginny had no choice but to keep having it. This woman knew Jonas. Having the barest connection to him, even in the form of this potentially murderous woman, replenished her lungs with oxygen. It meant he was real. “What’s your name?”
“Roksana.” She gave a sarcastic curtsey. “At your service.”
An abrupt snore from Larissa almost sent Ginny skyrocketing through the roof. Under Roksana’s sharp regard, she pressed a hand over her racing heart and waited for it to slow back down to a normal tempo. “Can we go somewhere else and talk?” She shifted on her feet. “I’m feeling a little guilty discussing anything other than my stepmother’s possible concussion when she’s right behind me.”
“That’s fair.” Roksana pushed off the wall and stomped out into the hallway. “Let’s talk in the morgue so you can show me the bodies.”
“Oh…I was thinking we could use my room.”
“Whatever.”
Ginny jogged to keep up with the long-legged Roksana down the hallway, around the bend and into the second door on the right. “I’m trying not to be worried that you know exactly where my room is,” Ginny said, shutting the door behind her. “How did you know, by the way?”
Roksana frowned as if she’d asked a ridiculous question. “I’ve been here all night. You think I didn’t map the layout?”
“I’m so confused right now.”
“Not my concern. I’m only here to make sure no one murders you.” Roksana used her index finger to pull down the blinds, the morning sun leaving a stripe of light across her eyes. “That should be the only explanation necessary.”
“You can stand the sunlight, so you must not be a vampire…” Ginny murmured, mostly to herself.
Roksana released the blinds with a snap and spat on the floor. “Hell no, I am not one of those pale parasites. They are a plague. A disease.”
“I-I thought you were friends with Jonas,” Ginny sputtered.
“I’m friend to no one.” She lifted her chin. “I have sworn an oath to slaughter the prince and his two shit-for-brains roommates someday soon. Three stakes in the chest—boom, boom, boom. Probably tomorrow. I haven’t decided yet.”
“Oh.” Ginny massaged the throb in her forehead, trying to forestall the urge to push Roksana out the window. She was the furthest thing from a violent person, but something fierce and protective welled inside her at having Jonas threatened. “Please…don’t do that.”
“If you want to shout, why don’t you just shout?” Roksana mused, now standing inches away.
Ginny jerked back and slammed into the door. “Wow, you move fast.”
“Yes, I know.” Roksana wiggled a finger at her, then the door. “Please try not to give yourself a concussion. I’m not positive I could win a battle against Jonas if he’s riled over you being hurt. Any other time, I’d take him no problem.”
“Right.” Ginny swallowed, her brain trying to make sense of the conversation. Of, well…everything. “So you hate Jonas, but he asked you to protect me and you said yes? Why help him if you think he’s part of a plague?”
“I slay their kind.” Roksana’s finger poked the air. “It’s my job.”
“Okay. You slay vampires. That’s a real thing.”
“Yes, of course. I’m just…” A touch of uncertainty passed across her features. “I’m lulling them into a false sense of security. And maybe I’m taking a little bit of a vacation while I’m at it. Tomorrow, though…” She stomped away with a dark laugh. “Tomorrow I slaughter them all.”
Lord, this was a heavy conversation to have when her coffee light was on empty. “And in the meantime, you’re going to protect me.”
Roksana settled a fist over her heart and turned briefly serious. “To the death.” She flipped her knife end over end and caught it. “Can we see the bodies now?”
Ginny did not show Roksana the bodies.
She made the vampire slayer breakfast. How often did someone get to say that? Roksana wasn’t talkative during the meal and ate with her ankles crossed on the table, but Ginny was thrilled for the company, nonetheless. She wasn’t sure how their arrangement was going to work exactly, but quickly found out the slayer would be shadowing her every move.
Roksana trailed Ginny to the grocery store and back. Then to the fabric shop to buy two yards of persimmon chiffon for the new, fall-inspired dress she was planning. Everyone who passed was given a suspicious once-over from Roksana. To be fair, she got quite a few once-overs in return. Coney Island was full of eccentricities and yet Roksana stood out among the crowd. It might have had a lot to do with the knife tucked into the back of her leather pants, but Ginny was only speculating.
Ginny was in her room preparing for the night shift downstairs when Larissa stumbled into her doorway. The former queen of the Coney Island Mermaid Parade was one of the most beautiful women Ginny had ever seen, even in a dressing gown and a head of curlers.
Every year, Ginny and her father had gone to watch the floats and revelers go past, always standing in their same spot outside the Famiglia snackbar. That afternoon in 2015, he’d gone silent as Larissa passed by in the sunshine, completing her pageant wave and dazzling crowds with a movie star smile, which she’d seemed to aim directly at him.
When the parade ended, Ginny’s father had found Larissa and asked to take her out for pierogis, an event that had shocked Ginny, considering her father spent his days trying to blend in with the wood paneling that lined their viewing rooms. Still, Larissa had said yes and a week later, she’d moved into the P. Lynn Funeral Home and never left.
“What time is it?” Larissa cried now, wiping at her smeared mascara.
Ginny checked the clock on here bedside table, noticing Roksana was nowhere to be seen. Where had she hidden herself? “It’s 6:49.”
“I’ve slept through my entire shift!” She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “And I h
ad the strangest dream. A woman was in my room and…” She cupped the air over her breasts. “She had on a leather bustier with studs.”
Ginny had checked on Larissa several times throughout the day and she hadn’t stirred once, even when Ginny laid a cold compress on the unfortunate lump at her temple. The smell of alcohol on her breath hinted at the possibility Larissa would have slept through her shift even if Roksana hadn’t conked her on the head. “That was a crazy dream,” Ginny said. “After all, it’s much too brisk outside for a bustier.”
“There was a time when I’d have worn one in a snowstorm—and did,” Larissa said wistfully. “Did I miss anything while I was sleeping? Any new arrivals?”
“Not today.”
Her stepmother stared off into the distance. “Here I am, hoping people die so we can keep the lights on. It’s ghastly.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Have you given any more thought to selling the business at a lower price?”
Ginny felt a stab of guilt. There was part of her that wanted to put her father’s legacy on the market and take far less than he’d paid for it—thank you, Q train. Just so Larissa would be free. But every time the real estate agent called to ask if they’d consider relisting the home at a lower price, Ginny balked. These walls were the only witnesses besides her to the memories she’d made with her father. If she sold the home and moved, she’d be the only one with those memories. With every change in her life, they faded a little more, like continually washed black jeans.
Also. Was it wrong of her to enjoy her job?
She took responsibility and pride in caring for the dearly departed. Any lingering eeriness she’d experienced as a child learning at her father’s side had long since passed. Now the deceased were just people who’d lived, loved, cried, laughed, spilled sodas, rode roller coasters, told jokes, got mosquito bites. They were to be handled with love, and she wasn’t confident in many of her abilities, but no one could treat them with more respect or do a better job. This was her profession and she wanted to keep it.
