Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 (28 page)

In the corner closest to the dance floor, the three reapers were enjoying some downtime. Which would be fine if they didn’t appear to be celebrating a victory of the Little Miss Emerald City Pageant, all made up like hookers and slurping body shots off a near-naked male sprite.

“Excuse me.” I bounded away from Wendy. I needed to thank the “girls” for the healing.

Their mouths dropped as I approached, as if shocked by my intrusion. The dark-haired one stood on the seat and held out her hand. “Hold up, bitch. Don’t try to horn in on our action.”

The sprite was about their height and pale as paper. He climbed on the table, gyrating for them, thrusting, wearing nothing but a japonica leaf and an unwholesome grin. I pushed down a gag.

“Nonono. I just wanted to thank you.”

“Oh there’s no need. You’ll get the invoice in the mail, sweetie,” the blonde said.

“With interest.” The redhead threw back her head, snorting laughter into the air like a choking victim. The others joined in.

“Okay. That’s fine,” I said. “Thanks again.” I backed away. The girls appeared to have completely dismissed the interruption and were salting the sprite’s pectoral cleavage. I noticed the redhead clung to a bottle of tequila the size of a ham. She held it like a baby doll.

I couldn’t get away from the snotty bitches fast enough. But they did fix the bullet hole in my leg, the tear in my arm, and a nasty scratch on my ankle, so I was thankful. At least, I wouldn’t be subjected to any more of Wendy’s craft projects. Let’s face it, she’s no Martha. They should have stuffed Wendy in Camp Powderpuff for that
As Seen on TV
shit.

Wendy was waiting with Gil by the bar.

Gil’s shoulder, of course, healed on its own. He’d been the one to carry me down the stairs—my hero
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. To say I was jealous of his healing ability was an understatement. But don’t think for a minute that I didn’t take note of Shane’s insane ramblings in the torture chamber. I fully expect to be able to heal, myself, one day.

Just like a big girl.

As for Ricardo, he survived unscathed, of course. Not a single scratch, like someone rubbed him down with four-leaf clovers. The weeks ahead would prove that the opening of Mortuary was a success, despite the melee. As far as opening night P.R. goes, infamous is the new fabulous. The club would be a hit, once it was remodeled. Ricardo figured it would be two months before he could reopen. The candy asses in the actual club had done the most damage with their damn barricade.

I sat with Elizabeth for a while. We worked out some strategy to clean house at Pendleton, Avery and Feral. I was all for it, but the devil is in the details, and not as Elizabeth has pointed out sitting in the booth with me. She pulled out all the stops on the zombie horde after I left for the balconies, tore through them with something she called a lightning whip. I was totally jealous. And she had nothing but great things to say about Liesl and Cameron; apparently, they fought like savages, ripping the zombies apart with the zest of healthy German women carving into a plate of over-boiled brats.

Speaking of the two sex killers, they sidled up to the bar next to Wendy, Gil and me. “Hey y’all,” Cameron said. “We’ve got a little announcement to make.”

He pulled Liesl to him and anchored her around the shoulders. She produced a gigantic ruby engagement ring, shook her fingers with pride, and shouted, “We’re getting married!”

“Jesus!” I turned my face and gagged.

“Tell me you’re joking?” Gil asked, barely raising his mouth from his glass of blood. A William Shatner donation, if I’m not mistaken.

Wendy had no response, except for a cold stare.

“What?” Liesl glared at us.

I only hope Cameron wears lifts to the ceremony. I’m not sure how he’ll explain it to the Hollywood crowd, either.

Liesl got her amulet back, by the way. She’d had to pull it from the pulsing stomach of a mistake, but she got it. It belonged to her grandmother, so it was special enough to claw through rotting intestine and undigested human meat to get back. Don’t make that face; that’s what they make soap for.

As for its thief, Mr. Norris, I settled on a conclusion about the man who made me. I like to think it went down like this: Mr. Norris got hooked up with Claire’s batty ass and couldn’t disengage without getting killed. But, he was always looking for a way out. When he stole the amulet from Liesl’s, he found her phone and looked me up. He’d known me all along, of course, and since he made me figured I’d help.

The sad part is…I’m not sure I would have.

Now…yes.

But back then, unlikely. He’d never come to me and been civil, after all. It would have been nice to have a choice in the matter of one’s death.

Anyway, that’s how I’ll remember the man.

The other amulet never turned up. Scary, huh? A mistake shuffling around invincible—I’m sure it’ll turn up.

It has to eventually.

One last thing…

I was telling Wendy recently, “Now I realize that therapists are meant to send out a welcoming empathic vibe, but Martin really got me. He could finish my sentences.”

“They can all do that,” Wendy said, hiking her shorts up another inch and stretching back to expose her long legs to the sun and to the men waiting at the Starbucks drive-thru. We liked this spot for the effortlessness of the hunt. It was a sunny patch of concrete, a home for umbrellas and black iron bistro sets, between the coffeehouse and the drive-up lane. Despite its reputation as the hub of the high maintenance woman, you’d be surprised how many men go to Starbucks for the grande decaf misto with heavy whipping cream and sugar free vanilla. Most times we would bring books to alert drivers of specific traits we were after; sci-fi or computer how-to would often lure a needy, eager-to-please programmer
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, some literary fiction, Roth or Updike, may snare some pseudo-intellectual panty-sniffer. Sometimes, and believe me, Wendy frowns on it, I’ll pull out my copy of
The Heroine’s Journey
to rope a lonely lesbian or an experimental feminist coed from the liberal arts college.

“No, no, I mean he was like a psychic. We didn’t even talk that much and he knew. He knew. He knew how lonely I was, how eating is so tricky for me. How dirty doorknobs and faucet handles can be, even after a good cleaning.”

“You have to stop mooning over him. He’s gone,” Wendy said. “Maybe you should find another therapist that can help you work all this crap out. I’ve been through five in the last ten years and I still wake up screaming from my mother’s backhanded compliments.”

I decided to skim over the mother comment. Ethel Ellen Frazier could stay exactly where she was—Chicago I think, at least that’s where the bitch was the last time I checked—thoroughly out of my mind.

“Yeah…no. I’m swearing off men.”

Wendy tsked.

“Well, except to eat, obviously.”

She rolled her eyes and lit on an Asian man eyeballing her from a gunmetal Hummer. Her tongue traced the outline of her lips. “What do you think about Chinese?” she asked, making her way to the tank’s high window.

“Yeah, that’s fine, I had Mexican last night.” I packed my book and pulled the sunglasses from my hair.

“Maybe we could do the chocolate cake trick, later.”

“What?”

“Oh come on, Amanda, you remember…on the buckets?”

I honestly don’t know what she was talking about. You should know me by now. I don’t do
that
.

I don’t.

Anymore.

Despite the opinion that writing about oneself is just mental fingerbanging, the process of a memoir is a major undertaking
131
. I couldn’t have done it without my new friends.

Thank you Wendy, for the late-night snacks:—she knows what I mean, oh…wait; you do, too.

To Gil, my main vamp, for endless readings of first draft drivel. The price? A paltry 2007 Lance Bass brut—Thank you Mr. Bass
132
.

And, of course, I offer a huge debt of thanks to my mentor Ricardo. Equal parts teacher, savior, and smarty-pants.

My editor tells me the book can’t help but be a hit. It’d better be, because I tend to eat when I’m disappointed, and I know where he lives. Food is love, after all.

As always, to Martin Allende. You will always be in my heart, and, well—heh, heh—my stomach.

Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
ROAD TRIP OF THE LIVING DEAD,
now on sale!

Gil brought lawn chairs to the cemetery—not stylish Adirondacks, not even semi-comfortable camp chairs (the ones with those handy little cup holders). No. He dug up some cheap plastic folding chairs, the kind that burrow into your leg flesh like leeches.
1
He arranged them in a perfect semicircle around a freshly sodded grave, planted an iBoom stereo in the soft earth, pulled out a bottle of ’07 Rose McGowan,
2
and drained half of it before his ass hit plastic. Granted, he managed these mundane tasks in a pricey Gucci tuxedo, the tie loose and dangling. On any other day, this would have been his sexy vamp look, but tonight…not so much. His eyelids sagged. His shoulders drooped. He looked exhausted.

I, on the other hand, looked stunning.

One of those movie moons, fat and bloated as a late-night salt binge, striped the graveyard with tree branch shadows, and spotlit your favorite zombie heroine reclining starlet-like on the polished marble of the new tombstone—there was no way I was subjecting vintage Galliano to the inquisition of plastic lawn chairs; the creases would be unmanageable.

Wendy didn’t take issue with the cheap and potentially damaging seating. She wore a tight pink cashmere cardigan over a high-waisted chestnut skirt that hit her well above the knee. She crossed her legs and popped her ankle like a 1950s housewife, each swivel bringing attention to her gorgeous peek-toe stilettos—certainly not the most practical shoe for late-night graveyard roaming, but who am I to judge?
3

The dearly departed were our only other company; about twenty or so ghosts circled the grave—in a rainbow of moody colors and sizes. A little boy spirit, dressed in his Sunday best and an aqua-green aura, raced by, leaving a trail of crackling green sparks; the other, older specters muttered to each other, snickered and pointed. Popular opinion aside, zombies do not typically hang out in graveyards—ask the ghosts. We don’t crawl out of the ground all rotty and tongue-tied, either. We’re created through bite or breath, Wendy and I from the latter. So you won’t see us shambling around like a couple of morons, unless there’s a shoe sale at Barney’s.

“You’re killin’ me with The Carpenters, can’t you skip this one?” I stretched for the iPod with my heel trying to manipulate its doughnut dial. Karen was bleating on about lost love from beyond the grave—and just a little to the left. “She’s forcing me to search my bag for a suicide implement. I swear I’ll do it.”

“No shit. Her warble is drawing the less-than-present out of the woodwork.” Wendy looked over the top of huge Chanel sunglasses—she seemed to wear them as a joke, so I refused to comment. She’d be more irritated with every second that passed. Such a simple pleasure, but those are often the best, don’t you find?

“Bitches.” Gil opened an eye. “This is a classic. Besides, Markham put this playlist together.”

“Who’s that?” I’d decided against self-harm and opted for a smart cocktail. I pulled a mini shaker from my bag and followed that up with miniature bottles of vodka, gin, and rum. Who says Suicides are just for kids? I mixed while Gil chattered.

“Him.” He jabbed a thumb toward the grave. “That’s Richard Markham; they call him the Beaver King. He’s a millionaire, entrepreneur, and genuinely bad guy. He owns a chain of strip clubs, you might have heard of them. Bottoms.”

The Beaver King’s Maudlin Resurrection Jams

 

The Carpenters
• Superstar

Harry Chapin
• The Cat’s in the Cradle

Barry Manilow
• Mandy

Captain & Tennille
• Muskrat Love

Gordon Lightfoot
• If You Could Read My Mind

John Denver
• Leaving on a Jet Plane

Carole King
• So Far Away

Melissa Manchester
• Don’t Cry Out Loud

Judy Collins
• Send in the Clowns

When neither of us registered a hint of recollection, he became animated.

“You know. He’s been in the news recently because of some shady business deals. He also coined the phrase ‘All Bottomless Entertainment’.”

“Don’t you mean ‘all nude’?” Wendy asked.

“No. ‘All
Bottomless.
’ He’s decidedly anti-boobs. His clubs feature blouses
and
beaver. It’s a very specialized niche.”

“Well then, this should be fun.” I stuck a straw into the shaker and sucked.

It was nice to see Gil’s enthusiasm; he had been a complete ass-pipe since he’d opened Luxury Resurrections Ltd., stressing about every little detail. I had to hand it to the guy. After the money dried up—his sire left him a hefty sum in their bank account and then left (said Gil was too needy)—he launched his plan to charge humans for vamping. He was one of the first in Seattle, but the copycats were close on his heels. A few months later he bought into my condominium—not a penthouse like mine, but a pretty swank pad, nonetheless.

“Explain to me again why we’re out here?” Wendy struggled to separate her legs from the sweaty straps—I cringed, afraid that she’d leave some meat on the plastic; we were fresh out of skin patch—they finally released with a slow sucking sound. She massaged the pattern of dents on the backs of her legs. “It’s not like vampires need to rise from the
actual
grave. It’s a little melodramatic. Don’t ya think?”

“Yeah.” I drained the final droplets from the shaker with loud staccato slurps. The alcohol seeped into my veins, flooding them with welcome warmth.

“I told you, I have to provide an experience with the Platinum package,” Gil huffed, then snatched up his man bag and dug through it. He pulled out some Chapstick, spread it on in a wide “
O
,” retrieved a crumpled brochure, and tossed it at me. “Here. Service is the only thing that’s going to set my business apart from the chain vampire manufacturers. I provide individualized boutique-like vamping, at reasonable prices.”

“Mmm hmm.” I slid from the headstone, carefully hop-scotched across the grave—I’d hate to misstep and harpoon Gil’s client, or worse, break off a heel in the dirt—and stood next to Wendy. I smoothed the crinkled paper and turned to catch the moonlight.

“The Platinum Package,” I read aloud. “Includes pre-death luxury accommodations at the Hyatt Regency, voted by readers of
Supernatural Seattle
as the best undead-friendly hotel in the city, a thorough consultation with a vamping specialist, a fully realized death scenario, including funeral and interment, bereavement counseling for immediate family, and an exclusive orientation to the afterlife from the moment of rising. Hmm.”

“I spent a lot of time on that.” Gil beamed.

“Yeah, at least fifteen minutes.” My eyes found a series of numbers after the description, that if it weren’t for the dollar sign, I’d have mistaken for binary code. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Is this the price down here?” I pointed out the figure.

“Yep.”

Wendy took a slug from a crystal-studded flask—she couldn’t find her usual Hello Kitty one.
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Immediately, her skin took on the rosy glow of most living alcoholics. I love the look: almost human.

“One million dollars, Gil? You call that reasonable pricing?”

Wendy did a spit take that flecked the brochure and my hands. “Jesus! So, if that’s the platinum, what’s the bronze package, then?” Wendy asked, wiping at the Grey Goose trickling from her nose. “A drive-by vamping?”

“Cute.” Gil tongued and sucked at his fangs in irritation.

He shrugged off our outrage and plopped down in his own lawn chair. “Five hundred grand is the going rate nowadays, the markup is for my fabulous luxury features. It’s not cheap, but look what you get…” He swept his hands from his head to toes like a game show hostess. “…a super hot greeting party. And…a couple of hot go-go dancers.”

“Where?” I looked around. “Are they late?”

“Why, you two pork chops, of course. You remembered to leave the panties at home, right?”

“Oh yeah. Of course.” I plucked a miniature Goldschläger from my purse and drained it. “When am I not airing out the chamber of horrors?”

“Me, too,” Wendy said. “Totally commando.”

“Gross.” Gil covered his mouth, heaving. “Let’s not talk about the vage, anymore. I think I’m traumatized.”

“You started it.” I tossed the empty bottle aside and dug for another.

From there, the conversation dwindled to nothing, an uncharacteristic silence settling over us like a late summer fog. The ghosts had even settled down. Except for a particularly downtrodden specter pacing under a nearby tree, the rest seemed content settling into their various routines (friendly visits to neighboring graves, a spirited game of cards over by the mausoleum, a display of ghost lights in the woods). Relaxing, even.

And that’s when I opened my big fat mouth.

“I got a weird call today.”

“Oh yeah?” Wendy asked. She must have been bored because this normally mundane news had her wide-eyed.

“My mother’s hospice worker.”

“What?” Gil twisted in his chair to face me. “Hospice? She’s dying? You never even talk about her. I thought she’d already kicked it.”

“Yeah, right?” Wendy muttered.

The dead are so sympathetic. If you’re looking for an honest opinion, and don’t want any handholding or softeners, this is the crowd for you. Not that we’re auditioning for friends, just now.

“Nope. She’s still alive. The doctors say she’s in the end stages of stomach cancer; it’s pretty much spread everywhere. Been at the hospice for a few weeks now. Apparently, it’s not pretty, nor is she.” Inside
or
out, I thought.

“Wow.”

“That’s bad.”

“Yeah.” The truth was, I wasn’t feeling any pain about it. Ethel Ellen Frazier had been a rotten mother, wife, and human being. You name it. Now, she was rotting inside. Ironic? Harsh? Sure, but she’d earned it. Every wince of pain, bout of vomiting, and bloody toilet bowl—the caller had gone into some unnecessary specifics.

Let me give you a little “for instance.”

When I was young, Ethel convinced me—through months of badgering and ridicule—that I could benefit from a gym membership. Dad tried to talk her out of it, but like always, he had no say. So, off we went to Happy’s Gym and Pool. Happy was just that; he had the kind of smile I could never seem to muster, broad and beaming. I think it was even real. The gym and pool were in the same room, a massive barn-like structure with the pool in the center, the equipment to the right, and the men’s and women’s locker rooms on the left, separated by a dry sauna. With about ten minutes left on the treadmill, I noticed a growing number of horrified expressions. I took off my headphones. Screams were coming from the sauna. Long screams. Then, choppy short bursts. And in between low gurgling moans reminiscent of the ape house at the zoo.

I scanned the room for my mother; I didn’t expect to see her. She was behind closed doors. And I was out in the open, fifteen years old and humiliated. Happy’s smiling face was nowhere to be found, either. I suspected it was crammed firmly between my mother’s thighs. But I was wrong. The security guard cleared up the mystery by opening the sauna door. There was Mom. On all fours and facing a captive audience, Happy behind her caught up inside like a shamed dog; his perpetual smile replaced by an embarrassed “
O
”. I could see the words play across Ethel’s lips, as I ran for the exit. “Shut the door, dimwit!”

Now, tell me she didn’t buy herself some cancer on that day.

Did I mention how lucky I am to have friends like Wendy and Gil? I can always count on them to turn the conversation back around to…them, and I was glad to have the heat off this time.

“Oh my God!” Wendy grabbed my arm and shook it like an impatient kid in the candy aisle. “I totally knew about this. I was talking to Madame Gloria just the other day and—”

“Here we go.” Gil snatched up the bottle of McGowan and finished it off.

Madame Gloria was Wendy’s telephone psychic. According to our girl, she was “moderately accurate,” whatever that meant.

“Shut up, Gil. Madame Gloria said that someone was going to die and that we…” she pointed at Gil, herself, and me, “we would be going on a trip. A road trip.”

“Jesus.” I swatted her hand away. “You think she’s talking about Ethel? I’ll be damned if I haul my dead ass across three states for that bag of bones.”

“It might be good to get some closure.” Gil’s face was attempting sincerity. It missed. He did succeed in pulling off a smoosh-faced version of constipated.

“Alright. So, before the two of you go all psychotherapist on me, let me tell you a few things. The reason I never talk about my mother is that she’s a bitch. In fact, the last time I saw her was my high school graduation, where she blew me off to go to my ex-best friend’s party. I can’t say as I miss her.”

Wendy waved me off. “None of that matters, anyway. Madame Gloria says we’re going. It’s fate.”

“Yeah. It’s fate.” A sly smile played on Gil’s lips.

“Like Hell it is.” I punched his arm. “What was all that shit about breaking free from your family?”

He sneered, rubbing the spot. “What are you talking about?”

“When I first met you and you took me to see Ricardo?”

“Not ringing any bells.”

“Ricardo told me that I needed to make a clean break from any living family and friends.”

Ricardo Amandine had filled me in on a lot more than mere survival tactics. The club owner had become a mentor of sorts, doling out words of wisdom over drinks, shopping, and the odd kill. He was hot as hell, but as is the rule with male zombies, totally asexual.
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Shame.

“True,” Gil said. “But this is different. Your mother’s gonna die, anyway. And look at poor Wendy. Don’t her feelings count?” He gestured to the other chair.

Wendy’s lips pursed into a pathetic pout. She was even batting her eyes.

Christ
.

He continued. “She’s totally bored. Would a road trip be so bad?”

I imagined dirty rest-stop bathrooms, rows of trailers substituting for motels, a general lack of shopping opportunities. A zombie has certain needs. The upside? Cute country folk have cute country flavors.
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