Death Incarnate

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  She sees me looking, and a grin lights her face. Kim walks toward me.

  I puff away, meeting her root beer brown eyes through the veil of my smoke.

  “Those will kill you,” she notes. But there's a smile in her eyes.

  I shrug. “Takes a lot.”

  “I gathered that.” Her voice is droll. She tucks an errant lock of rich-brown hair behind her ear. “So... ”

  I nod. “This is my place.”

  She lowers her chin in subtle agreement. “It has your stamp, Mac.”

  My brows knot.

  “Stop frowning,” Kim says, taking a step up the first stair of my deck steps. She reaches up and presses a fingertip to the furrow between my eyebrows.

  “Yeah?” I catch her hand inside my own.

  “Yeah,” she returns softly, and I give her the look of a man considering intimate things.

  And her return look answers questions I have not yet posed.

  Things are looking up.

  “This isn't a good time for a romance,” Kim says, stating the obvious. “I'm on another world, with a probable bounty on my head and no way to explain my existence here. I don't—our world cultures are different. I'll be a burden,” she explains in a low, pain-filled voice as her luminous eyes search mine.

  With my free hand, I carefully put my cigarette out in the large ashtray that miraculously remains unbroken and perched on the low bench that runs the perimeter of my deck.

  Taking her face in my hands, I go down one step.

  Only one tread remains between us—it maintains that last physical distance.

  The noise of the group swells, nearly drowning out my next words. But she hears them.

  “Don't care,” I sweep a thumb down her face, where a stray tear has escaped her eye, and she catches my hand like a drowning victim.

  Forgot how silky a woman's skin feels. How gentle their touch. An ache begins deep inside. One I can't afford to feel—or accept.

  But sometimes emotions rebel against all kinds of logic. They sneak up on a man, biting him in the ass of his good intentions.

  “No?” She smiles, shaking her head slightly, eyes shining with unshed tears.

  “I like ya.” I know in my bones it's the truth. I'm almost sad to hear myself admit it. Like a death, but more painful.

  “How much?” Kim breathes against my face as I close that careful distance.

  “A lot,” I say right before I lay one on her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Deegan

  My menstruation cup is nearly full.

  Those are the first thoughts I have. Not “Will I live for the next three seconds?” Or—this one's really great—“Can Gramps stop making out with Kim?”

  Or “What are we going to do with this cop that Pax blinked?”

  Do not cry, Deegan Hart. Or you will be forced to kick your own ass.

  That thought brings a smile. It's weak, and forced, but it's on my face.

  “Young Mistress,” Clyde says from behind me.

  I give a small shrug, afraid to speak because that would unleash a torrent of emotions, and he lays a solid, reassuring palm on my shoulder. “All will be well.”

  Without turning, I say, “Is that one of those things you say because you're comforting someone else—or is it real?” I sniffle, and it sounds kind of snotty.

  Seconds draw out into moments. “Both, I believe,” he replies in his wise way.

  My breath eases out, and I take his offer of comfort. Real or not, it was given sincerely. “Okay.”

  Clyde tightens his grip into the barest squeeze, and that hand—a comfort beyond words—drops.

  He's family, and he's dead. And that combination is uniquely perfect for me.

  Pax, along with the rest of the loose group, is studying the cop like an insect underneath an old-fashioned microscope. Gramps and Kim, finally done with their inopportune macking, are on their way across the lawn.

  Night sucks at day, and what's left of the sun sinks beneath the calm waves of the lake.

  “So what's your name?” Mitchell asks, and I gulp back my shame. It's a multifaceted emotion. Regret, guilt, and plain-old fatigue mingle together as I look at a zombie I've pulled in a bunch of different directions.

  Hands cuffed behind his back, the cop looks up and glares at Mitch.

  Pretty hard to look tough when he's spitting out grass. “I'm the cop here.”

  Mitchell rolls his eyes. “I know—you think we're criminals.”

  A surprised laugh bursts out of him. “Look at it from my perspective, bud. I'm cuffed. I just survived... I don't even know what, and now you're interrogating me?” I can see all the ghost hand gestures he'd make if he could use his hands.

  My eyes travel to where his pulse badge should be (and only a “dead” scripted badge hangs askew). A frown settles between my eyes. There are no stats running across the badge like there would be in this time. Nothing.

  He’s from 2010. No pulse. No high-tech anything. But from what history taught me, the people of that time had felt really high-tech.

  Just a lone name in strange but neatly scribed font rambles across a retro name badge: McNeil.

  “Officer McNeil,” Gramps interrupts Mitchell. “I'll handle this, son.”

  Mitchell nods, walking back to my side. I give another hard swallow, praying that Mitchell doesn't notice the little flutter that mimics butterfly wings deep within my body just at his approach.

  I shoot a covert glance around the group. Mom is in a heated, low-voiced discussion with Dad, and Sophie is the only woman I catch eyes with. And for all her faults of seeming to not care about the important things, she appears to get my silent plea.

  Or it’s not a very subtle signal.

  I need to go to the bathroom. Bad.

  “Let's go, girls,” Sophie trumpets.

  Tiff frowns, then enlightenment wipes the expression from her face.

  Mom, Tiff, Sophie, and I all walk toward the house.

  “Hey!” Pax yells.

  “You help Gramps interrogate Officer McNeil,” I say over my shoulder. In my head I add, Just leave it, Pax—I need to attend to some girl stuff.

  Oh, sorry.

  It's okay. I'm sure my emotional signature is all over my thought transference, though. It’s, in a word, weary.

  I'm tired. This menstruation stuff sucks the life out of you.

  We get into the house, and I glance around. Grampsʼs stuff is all messed up.

  “Graysheets,” Mom whispers, emotion making her voice thrum.

  “Yeah,” Sophie agrees softly, aqua eyes hopping from one island of a mess to another.

  “Fuckers,” Tiff hisses.

  That's what I was thinking and didn't say.

  I grin at her.

  She smiles right back. “You're okay, Deegan.”

  I nod. Guess I am. “Never had a cycle before. Know all about them, though.” My shoulders lift into a small shrug.

  Reading about cycling is not the same as standing around, bleeding. Just isn't.

  “Nothing to be embarrassed about, honey,” Mom says.

  “I kinda am, though. I mean, it had to start around Dad, Gramps... and Mitchell.”

  “He's hot,” Sophie remarks, spotting the bathroom and making a beeline for the door.

  “Soph—that's just wrong. Deegan doesn't like her zombie.” Tiff turns, folding her arms across her flat chest. “Right?”

  I know my silence isn't a good answer, but I don't have a better one. I might be a numbered IQ, but socially, I've never been very quick on my feet verbally. I get all tongue-tied and awkward just naturally. It's really sucky.

  Sophie's hand slides off the doorknob as she turns to me, hair sticking away from her head in a riot of deep-golden spirals.

  Jutting out a hip, she says, “Girl, do not tell me you're crushing on Mitchell.”

  I bite my lip hard, drawing a bead of blood. “It's pretty obvious about now, huh?”

  “Not so much,” Tiff says, cover
ing for me in a rare moment of perfect compassion.

  “Deegan—” Mom begins.

  I raise my hand to ward off whatever lecture she had in mind.

  “I know, Mom—God. It's just...”

  They all look at me, and I can't bear it, so I stare at my ruined All Stars, covering the once-pristine white toe, with the scuffed-to-black other. “Uncle Clyde and Bobbi—”

  “That's different,” Mom replies instantly, and my chin lifts.

  “How?”

  “That was a need born out of necessity”—Mom arches her black eyebrows—“and Bobbi is AftD.”

  All that's true, but it doesn't stop my feelings. I can't help how I feel.

  Love is the messiest of planners.

  Tiff gives Mom a considering look, tapping her finger on her chin. “So, Clyde and Bobbi can do the dance between the sheets and produce kids...” Tiff pauses over that last detail before soldiering on. “But Deegan admits”—Tiff glances my way, and my nod is small and miserable—“she has a eensy-weensy crush on hunk oʼlove out there, and she's what?”

  “Young,” Mom says softly. Her tender look of affection causes my face to flame.

  Sometimes it sucks to have nice parents. I would love to heap blame on them and just dump accountability for myself. Human nature, I guess. But Mom and Dad make that so hard. They're fair and loving.

  Gah.

  “Mitchell is very handsome,” Tiff contemplates.

  “Hey, girls.”

  We turn to Sophie.

  “He's dead. Period. He could be the hottest thing in...” She giggles, and Tiff rolls her eyes. “All these worlds we just found out about, but nothing changes his status. And I'm not talking about single white male here.”

  Yeah. I know. “But...” I knot my fingers, knowing I need to go to the bathroom and that we could be discovered any second, and I'm hungry, tired, and confused. I'm also sure about one thing: I'm AftD, and that talent, for better or worse, makes things different between me and the dead.

  Super-different.

  “Look at Onyx.”

  Sophie frowns, and Tiff appears impressed.

  Mom shakes her head. “Mitchell is not a dog, baby. Just because Daddy's kept his...” Mom hesitates.

  Tiff interjects, “Undead doggie.”

  Mom winces but continues (can't refute that one). “Just because he kept his reanimated dog for over twenty years, doesn't mean we can just keep zombies that we like,” she finishes awkwardly.

  What am I? Five? Ugh. No, Deegan, you can't have the puppy in the window. God.

  “Really, Jade? Reanimated? Call a spade a spade. Deegan digs a dead guy, and let's face facts: there aren't many guys to be had here. The few that were in the high school—Brad Thompson ring any bells?—are psychotic. Genuine nut bunnies.”

  “That's a mental thing,” Mom says.

  As if that makes it right or will alter the reality that sweet sixteen passed me by, and no—I wasn't kissed. But the kiss that Mitchell gave me (kisses) have been seared into my brain for forever.

  He didn't kiss like he was dead.

  I feel like I was a sleeping princess in some fairytale, and when he kissed me, I woke up. Really awoke for the very first time.

  Mitchell kissed me like nothing else in the world mattered but me. That moment. Our kiss.

  I've never been treated as though I was the only one who mattered.

  It's always been: Deegan, don't zap anything, Deegan, careful—you don't raise the latest felon.

  Deegan, stay with brother.

  I hate it.

  My life.

  Pax is right. Kim is free here. But how free? Free to find love? Free to work? Free for how long?

  Tiff and Mom start to argue, and I give up, walking to where Sophie is by the bathroom door. She takes one look at my face and slings an arm around my shoulders, guiding me into the bathroom.

  “It's okay, baby girl. Sophie will take care of you.”

  I put my hand over my heart, eyes so full of tears she's an uncertain image standing before me.

  She closes the door, and I lean against it, breathing in fits and starts as hot tears boil out my eyes and drip down my face.

  Sophie bends over, because on top of it all—I'm fucking short!

  “Listen to me. This too shall pass.” She presses my hair back and keeps her slim fingers on either side of my face, and I realize she has the prettiest sea-blue eyes I've ever seen. “Things will get figured out. Your period will end, and we'll get rid of these new ass wipes, and your dead man, Mitch, will be okay.”

  My dead man, Mitch.

  “Now that his sister's here.” I can't contain my bitter words.

  Sophie's lips curl. “That's why I don't think—and Sophie can think just fine, thank you very much—that Mitch Boy is goinʼ anywhere. Even though all the menfolk are all in a tail-chasing contest to boot his luscious dead ass back to the grave.”

  I giggle, my tears drying. Hating how hopeful I sound, I’m unable to stop my next question. “You think so?”

  She nods, chucking a finger under my chin. “I know it.” Sophie cocks her head, giving me a critical glance. “Let's clean you up. I think you still have leaves in your hair from bot world.”

  I suppress a shiver, hiccuping back another nervous laugh.

  I never want to go back there.

  *

  Sophie still has her big orange handbag. And I soon found out that there was more in there than extra leggings.

  My period has actually ended, and after endless internal struggle, I chucked the well-used menstrual cup. I never really wanted to see it again. If I had another cycle, I would buy a new one.

  She fixed my hair by braiding it in this pretty style where the braid sits on top of my head. Then she pulled each plait so it looked super chunky. Finally, after all the mess of figuring out our menstrual cups was over, Sophie applied a lot of makeup.

  I mean a lot.

  My eyes in the reflection of the mirror are big as saucers. And without the distraction of all my thick black hair, the irises of my green eyes look deeper. Though they would never be the vivid green color of Mom's, they’re pretty in a forest-y way.

  “Make your mouth into an O,” Sophie says.

  I open my mouth, and she puts on the tenth layer of black mascara.

  “Why are we putting on makeup?”

  “Shh.” Sophie repeatedly stabs the mascara wand into the tube until there's a grotesque amount on the applicator.

  The squatty wand comes toward my face like an obese black out-of-focus weapon.

  Quicker than I can blink, on goes another swipe.

  I sigh.

  “Because, sweet thing, this will cure you of all your ills.”

  “Why?” I prop my chin on my hand.

  “There's just something about looking pretty that makes everything better. Hard to cope with bad hair and no makeup. Very defeatist.”

  A vague smile curves her lips.

  I burst out laughing.

  “Defeatist?” I manage between guffaws.

  She nods very solemnly and spins me around for the second perusal.

  Sophie has made me look more than pretty.

  I'm not much for thinking about how great I am. Mainly, I look dark, with mossy-green eyes pushed into a face that's too stark to be ultra-feminine. High cheekbones, slight almond-shaped eyes, and dusky skin ruin a true symmetrical beauty, like the one Tara has. Even in a state of shock and after a rape attempt, she has porcelain skin, beautiful dark-blue eyes, and silky whitish-blond hair that’s the epitome of perfection.

  “What are you thinkinʼ? Why aren't you admiring my awesome transformation?”

  “I... you did fantastic. And you're right—I do feel better.”

  Sophie studies my face.

  “I'm never going to be beautiful, Sophie. And I make things disappear and raise convicts.” I suck in a shaky breath.

  She heaves her shoulders in a dramatic shrug. “So? Nobody's perfect.”


  I laugh again.

  “I'm never going to look like Tara,” I admit in the barest voice.

  We gaze at each other in the mirror. It's easy since Sophie's a good shot taller.

  “We don't want you to look like Tara. We want you to look like you.”

  “She can probably have a baby.”

  Sophie gives a slow nod. “Yup. She's 2010. No fertility issues. But I don't think Mitchell's sister is going to be giving any shits about humping and spitting out babies in the near future.”

  I grin. Mom's friends are what Gramps would call “plain-spoken.” Boy, are they.

  I love them. They never make me feel lesser.

  Covering my mouth, I speak between my fingers. “I don't want Mitchell to like me because he's my zombie.”

  “Well, when the time comes, command him—or whatever you dead talents do—to tell you how he actually feels.”

  I nod rapidly, trying like crazy not to cry again. I don't know how my life digressed so far in the space of only days—all because of feeling this fragile over a zombie.

  But here's the thing. Mitchell's not really a zombie to me anymore. He's just Mitchell. I can't separate the two—and that loss of perspective is scary.

  How can I be this smart and be dumb too?

  “Now”—Sophie grips my shoulders—“we've taken care of the girl mess, gotten you all spruced up, I will do whatever patch job I can do on my own self, but we've been in here a half hour. The gang's probably wondering if we died. Or got sucked into a black hole.”

  “Not funny, Sophie.”

  She flips her hair behind her shoulder. “It's an expression.”

  A bad one.

  “Sophie?” I ask, hand on the doorknob to exit the bathroom.

  “Yup,” she says absently, already attacking her hair.

  “I'm scared of zapping everyone.”

  Sophie turns, strangely toothed hair pick in the air. “I'm not.” Her eyes gleam at me with bright blue-green fire. “So far, darlinʼ, you've been zapping all the right ones, and things.” She barks out a soft laugh.

  Then she turns back to the mirror, teasing and combing out hair so kinky, it springs back as though untouched.

  Our eyes meet in the reflection.

  Hold.

  Sophie knows what I mean, but she trusts me anyway. She trusts that I'll do what's right. No matter what the circumstance.