Managing Death
Page 28
‘You willing to take that risk?’
‘Flushing evidence won’t take care of the basement.’
I looked down at the old leather of my cowboy boots, pretending to see past them into the cavernous underbelly of the warehouse shelter. Furniture used to be manufactured in this place. Some of the big sewing machines and leatherworks still gathered dust in those dim, dark spaces. Lots of places to hide down there. Rooms undiscovered.
One in particular, hidden behind some broken stairs. Found by accident, just this morning. Filled with heat lamps. Packed wall to wall with a jungle of carefully cultivated, highly illegal plants. A makeshift operation. And one old lady hip deep in the middle of it, singing to her green babies. Knitting little booties for real babies.
Crazy, charming, sweet old Mary. I had no idea how she had managed to pull off an underground farm. She might have had help. Or been manipulated. Maybe she was just resourceful, highly motivated. Either way, there was a mess to clean up – and not just for Grant’s sake, because he owned this shelter.
He liked Mary. He liked her enough to bend his moral backbone and risk his reputation – hold her hand and try to make things better. I felt the same. The old woman needed someone to make things better. No way she would survive jail. I knew it. He knew it. Not even handcuffs. Not a glint of them. Mary was like a butterfly wing. Rubbed the wrong way, and it would be scarred from flying.
‘Sin is in the basement,’ she warbled sweetly, oblivious. ‘Turn on the light, Jesus. Shine, Lord, shine.’
The zombie laughed. It was an ugly, mocking sound, and I stared at Rex until he stopped. He tried to hold my gaze, but we had played this game for two months. Two months, circling each other. Fighting our instincts.
Rex looked away, leathery hands fidgeting as he adjusted the frayed red knit cap pulled low over his grizzled head. The high collar of his thick flannel coat hugged his coarse jaw. His host’s skin was brown from a lifetime spent working under the sun. Palms callused, covered in fresh nicks and white scars. He wore his stolen body with ease, but the old ones, the deep possessors, always did. Wholly demon, in human flesh.
He was afraid of me. He hid it well, his human mask calm, but I could see it in the little things. I could taste it. Made the boys even more restless on my skin, but in a good way. We liked our zombies scared. We liked them better dead.
Grant gave the zombie a stern look and swayed close to my elbow, leaning hard on his carved wooden cane. Tall man, broad, his face too angular to be called pretty. Brown hair tumbled past the collar of his flannel shirt and thermal. His jeans were old, his eyes intense, brown as an old forest in the rain. He could be a wolf, another kind of hunter, but not like me. Grant was nicer than me.
‘Maxine,’ he rumbled. ‘Think you can handle Mary?’
Sunset was still two hours away, which meant I could handle a nuclear blast, the bogeyman, and a vanful of clowns – all at once – but I hesitated anyway, studying the old woman. I grabbed the front of Grant’s shirt, stood on my toes, and pressed my mouth against his ear. ‘She likes you better.’
‘She adores me,’ he agreed, ‘but I can deal with the police.’
I blew out my breath. ‘What do I do with her?’
His hand crept up my waist, squeezing gently. ‘Be kind.’
I pulled away, just enough to see his mouth soften into a rueful smile, and muttered, ‘You trust me too much.’
‘I trust you because I know you,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘And I love you, Maxine Kiss.’
Grant Cooperon. My magic bullet.
And it was going to kill me one day.
‘Okay,’ I told him weakly. ‘Mary and I will be fine.’
He smiled and kissed my brow. Mary’s singing voice cracked, and when I glanced around Grant’s broad shoulder, I found the old woman glaring at me. She was not the only one. The zombie looked like he wanted to puke.
Whatever. My cheeks were hot. I cleared my throat and glanced at the flute case dangling over Grant’s shoulder. ‘You going to use your voodoo-hoodoo?’
‘Just charm,’ he said wryly, kissing me again on the cheek before limping from the small kitchen, his bad leg nearly twisting out from under him with every step. Rex gave me a quick look, like he wanted to say something, then shook his head and followed Grant past the swinging doors.
Faithful zombie, tracking the heels of his Pied Piper. My mother would turn in her grave if she had one. All my ancestors would. They would kill Grant. No second thoughts. Coldblooded murder.
Stamping him out like any other threat to this world.
I glanced at Mary. She was licking brownie mix off her chopsticks – watching me warily. I tried to smile, but I had never been good at holding a smile, not when it mattered, not even for pictures, and all I managed was a slight twitch at the corner of my mouth. I gestured at the jar in her hand. ‘Probably ought to put that away.’
Mary continued to stare. Zee stirred against the back of my neck – a clutching sensation, as though his tiny clawed heels were digging into my spine. It sent a chill through me; or maybe that was Mary, who suddenly stared with more clarity in her eyes, more uncertainty. As though she realized we were alone and that I might be dangerous.
She had good instincts. It made me wish I was better with words. Or that I knew how to be alone with one old woman and not feel homesick for something I could not name, but that made my throat ache as though I had been chewing bitterness so long, a lump the size of my heart was lodged like a rock behind my tongue.
‘Mary,’ I said again gently, and edged closer, wondering how I could get the jar out of her hand. I did not want to scare her, but I had to hurry. No matter what Grant said, I did not believe in coincidence. Odds were never that good. Not when it mattered.
Zee twitched. I ignored it, but a moment later my stomach started churning, like my bowels were going loose, and that was odd enough to make me stop in my tracks and listen to my body. Except for nerves, I never got sick. Not a single day in my life. Not a cough, not a fever, no vaccinations needed. I had an iron gut, too. Give me a food stand in Mexico with local water, old meat, some questionable cheese – and I would still walk away without a burp.
But this felt like the beginning of something. I rubbed my arms, my stomach. Zee shifted, tugging on my spine, then the others joined him – all over my body – and every inch of me suddenly burned like I had been dipped in nettle oil.
I swayed, leaning hard on the table. Mary flinched. I could not reassure her. I could not think. I was too stunned. And then I could do nothing at all, because pain exploded in my eyes, like a razor shaving tissue from my eye sockets. I bent over, pressing my fingers hard against my face. Digging in. Breathing through my mouth. My knees buckled.
Then, nothing. Pain stopped. All over my body, just like that. No warning.
I huddled, breathless, waiting for it to return. All I felt was an echo, burning through my skull and skin like a ghost. My heart hammered so hard I wanted to vomit. I was light-headed, dizzy. My upper lip tasted like blood. My nose was bleeding.
I sensed movement. Looked up, vision blurred with tears, and found Mary staring, chopsticks pointed in my direction like chocolate hallucinogenic magic wands. Her blue eyes were sharp. My knees trembled. Blood roared in my ears.
‘Devil always comes knocking like a bastard,’ she whispered.
I heard footsteps, the rough click of a cane. I snatched the jar of weed from Mary’s hand, and ignored her squeak of protest as I hurried to the sink and dumped its contents down the trash disposal.
I turned on the faucet, flipped the switch – and while the disposal rattled, I dashed water on my face.
Coming soon
THE BUSINESS OF DEATH
A DEATH WORKS NOVEL
It’s tough at the top when work is matter of life or death.
It’s one thing to run Mortmax International as head of a team, but it’s quite another to rule alone. Staff fatalities have left Steven by himself on the Throne of Death
, and there’s no time to get comforatble.
The Stirrer god’s arrival is imminent, threateninig life as we know it. Plus Steven has managed to mortally offend the only ally strong enough to help out. And how can he ask someone to marry him when the End of Days seems inevitable? As if they’re going to think he’s committed. The portents don’t look good as a comet burns vast and looming in the sky and Steven can almost hear a dark clock ticking. He will have to play nice if he want his ally back, and must address the madness of the Hungry Death within himself if he has a chance at defeating the Stirrer god.
If he fails, Hell and Earth are doomed and wedding bells will be quite out of the question.