by Michele Vail
I hesitated.
I did not want to see Mrs. Woodbine, especially not after she found out her husband was done for. Plus, I’d have to explain to Ally about the bite and she would call Dad and he would freak and do something parental like call an ambulance or the National Guard.
No, thanks.
If I hurried, I could get home, use the hide-a-key, change clothes and come back. Ally wouldn’t be thrilled to get stuck in the customer care center, but she’d deal.
Vegas didn’t have seasons. It was hot most of the time, though it cooled down in the winter months. It had snowed only once in my whole life, and that lasted all of two days. September had brought lower temperatures, but it wasn’t jacket weather. I had nothing to cover my ruined shirt or messed-up shoulder.
I strode out of the parking lot to the stoplight. It took forever to cross Warm Springs Road. If I’d been wearing sneakers instead of my fabulous black ankle boots, I would’ve jogged.
I walked past a shopping center and then I was clipping down the sidewalk that ran in front of the school grounds. The school was set on the other side of a large parking area. The sports arena was up on the left. I was almost to the edge of the structure when I heard my name being called.
“Hey, Molly!”
I looked over my shoulder. I’d just crossed the entrance to the school parking lot, and Rick’s Mustang had just rolled up to exit the lot. He leaned over the center console and peered at me through the open passenger-side window.
“Wanna ride home?”
My heart skipped a beat. I sniffed and grimaced. The salve’s awful smell was still evident, though its stench had lessened. And there was the matter of my ripped shirt. Still, there was no way I was giving up a ride in Rick’s Mustang. Or—and here’s my shallowness showing again—the potential to be seen in Rick’s Mustang.
I opened the door and slid inside. Oh. My. God. New car smell was so delicious. Everything was clean and shiny. I glanced at Rick and saw him check me out. Then his nose wrinkled.
Heat surged to my cheeks. “Sorry,” I said. “I had an accident at work.”
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yeah. It’s just that the medicine is kinda...fragrant.”
Wouldn’t my English teacher, Mrs. Dawson, be proud? Rick grinned, which made me feel warm and squirmy. His blond hair was cut short, his face all angular like a movie star’s. He even had a little dimple in his chin. “No big. I just finished football practice and the showers are under maintenance or something. So I don’t exactly smell like a petunia.”
“Petunia?”
He grinned. “My mother runs a flower shop. It’s almost enough to get my dude card revoked.”
I laughed.
He seemed pleased that he made me giggle and offered another melt-alicious grin. “You live on Grimsby, right?”
I nodded. He looked at me with one eyebrow cocked. “Seat belt.”
I put it on, embarrassed that he’d had to remind me. “It’s the ’rents,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe all the rules I have to follow to keep my ride.”
“Was blood sacrifice involved?”
He laughed as he flipped on the signal and made a right onto Arroyo Grand Boulevard. “Almost.” He glanced at me. “You have to deal with any of that...you know with your powers?”
“Nah. We drink blood only on Thursdays.” Rick’s eyes widened and I smiled. “Joking.”
He chuckled, but I was aware of the tension in his body. I’m a necro, and part of the gig is an über awareness of people’s body language and emotions. I think Rick was a little weirded out by my gift.
It wasn’t like there was a shortage of necromancers in the world, but most people were born without any reaper gifts. Being a necro doesn’t make anyone really special, though. Everyone has to learn about necromancy, about zombies and SEER machines, and even Ancient Egyptian history (required course, like math and science). But it’s not exactly a big deal these days, not like it was waaaaay back. So, reading about necromancy is like reading about the Titanic and World War I. The necros on board that Titanic couldn’t stop it from sinking, but they used their zombies and death magic to help people. And World War I? The American zombies were the reason we saved so many lives on the frontlines.
Anyway. Some necros take themselves too seriously, and wear black and act mysterious. I tried to be normal, but some people were still weirded out by the whole “she touches dead people,” thing.
Whatevs.
I wasn’t too surprised when Rick knew which driveway was mine. He lived in the same neighborhood, although in a bigger house with a killer pool, and we saw each other occasionally. Usually with me walking to school and him catching a ride with his friends, waving as they drove past.
We sat awkwardly for a moment. Then I smiled and said, “Well, you know. Thanks.”
“No prob.” He looked at the house then at me. “Your dad home?”
“Nah. He’s in Reno.” I looked at Rick (sooo cute!) and realized he was waiting for something. For me to...oh. My pulse leapt. “You...uh, wanna come in?”
He turned off the car and slid the keys out of the ignition. “Sure.”
I looked at my empty house and felt my stomach hitch. We would be alone in there. Squee! I was really glad that my uncle Vinnie was at the Zomporium helping Demetrius with the less-than-savory tasks of zombification. Vinnie had been my dad’s older brother and he’d died when I was three. He’d helped Dad start the business and wanted to help even after his death. Mom was the one who’d zombified him. She might’ve sucked as a mom, but she’d been a Class A zombie-maker.
Vinnie was a good zombie, but sometimes I wished I remembered what it was like to have him as an uncle.
I picked up the fake rock hidden in the Angelita daisies that lined the sidewalk up to our house. The rest of the yard was zero-scaped—you know, volcano rocks and cacti. We’d planted the daisies and the fortnight lilies along the walkway because Nonna really liked them. She missed having a garden like she had back in New York. I almost made a comment on them, so Rick would know I was sorta flower savvy, but it seemed like a lame move.
I slid the key out of the bottom of the rock, unlocked the door and then put it back. Rick watched this all without comment. I didn’t want to explain why my purse was still at the Zomporium because I didn’t want to admit to the zombie bite. Hopefully, he just thought I was some kind of klutz and whacked my shoulder or something. I’m glad he hadn’t asked me for details. If my gift freaked him at all, he’d probably bail if he knew I’d almost been zombie chow.
“C’mon.” I led the way into the house.
Rick followed, shutting the door behind him. “I need to change,” I said, looking over my shoulder. I caught Rick checking out my ass. Thank you, jean gods. “You want something to drink?”
“What do you have?” His voice sounded a little rough, but I wasn’t sure if it was from being caught gawking or from lust. Yeah, I said the L word. Necro, remember? His eyes were dilated, his breathing had shortened and a delicious tension filled his muscles. Oh, yeah. He was definitely feeling attracted to me. It’s the body language thing, you know? You have to pay attention to the details, especially when you’re reanimating a corpse. That’s a Dem-ism—and I’ve only heard it 3,000 times or so.
The front door opened into a small foyer. Three feet forward and you were in the living room. We had a sectional, a big-screen television and lots of bookshelves. The patio doors led to the backyard, which sadly had no pool. If you kept going to the right, you’d see the dining room and beyond that, our kitchen.
The hallway to the left of the foyer led to the downstairs bathroom and the master bedroom (that was Nonna’s). The stairs led to the other four bedrooms and another guest bathroom. My room connected to Ally’s via the third bathroom. Yeah. That made getting ready for school the opposite of pleasant, especially since both of us hated mornings. And sharing.
I led Rick into the kitchen and pointed at the fridge. “Ta
ke whatever you want. I’ll be right back.”
“Thanks.”
I started to walk away, but Rick looped his fingers around my wrist. He looked at me, his eyes sparkling. “Don’t be gone too long.”
“Promise.” My belly squeezed in excitement. Dad would be so un-thrilled to know I was alone in the house with a b-o-y. Not that he would have to know. Ever. Rick dropped my wrist, gave me another grin and I suppressed the urge to skip through the house.
In my room, I took off my shirt and assessed the damage to my shoulder. It didn’t look too bad. I got a washcloth and wiped some of the goop off and then smeared what was left across the teeth marks. Yuck.
I got out my precious bottle of Dior Addict, which I saved for special occasions, and squirted it along my neck and collarbone. Then I spritzed my wrists. I picked out another shirt, my teal flutter-sleeve with a V-neck, and put it on. It looked pretty good with my jeans. I took a second to brush my hair, which I wore long and straight. It was a boring shade of brown, but I had hazel eyes, which kinda made up for the witchy locks. I also freshened my makeup. Luckily, I had decent skin and didn’t need too much coverage. I wore peach blush on my cheekbones, lightly lined eyes with a smidge of mascara and gloss (Dad put the kibosh on colored lipsticks).
Then I brushed the hell out of my teeth. Just in case.
Finally, I came downstairs, heart racing. I wasn’t sure what to talk about with Rick. We were in a couple classes together, but we didn’t usually run in the same circles. I’d been kinda surprised when he started hanging around me more at school. I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed, either. My friends thought it was way cool, but Mina Hamilton, head cheerleader, perfect princess and Rick’s ex-girlfriend, did not. She’d been giving me dirty looks, making snide comments within earshot and “accidentally” pushing me aside when sashaying down the hall. Her mean-girl attention scared me worse than dealing with hungry Mortimer. Surviving a zombie attack was easy; getting out unscathed from a Mina attack was not.
Rick was standing in the living room, staring at our bookshelves. He held a can of 7UP and he took a sip as he studied the shelf filled with necro books.
“Hey.”
He turned, checked out my blouse (and okay, my boobs) and smiled. “Hey.”
He put the soda on the coffee table and stretched out his hand. Heart pounding, I took it and he drew me into his arms.
Holy. Freaking. Anubis.
“You’re very pretty,” he said. I smelled mints and the tang of 7UP. My heart beat faster still and my knees went all mooshy.
“Thanks,” I whispered.
His blue eyes darkened. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. Remember when I said I had no social life? Dad had rules about me and boys—as in never the twain shall meet (another point to Mrs. Dawson). Sixteen was the magic number for dating. And driving. And everything else.
“You nervous?” he asked softly, his face dropping closer to mine.
“No.”
“Liar.” He chuckled.
I didn’t answer because silence was better than admitting he was right.
He drew me closer and I realized how muscular he was. He was six inches taller than me, too, even with my two-inch boot heels making up some of the height difference.
“I really like you,” he said.
“I really like you, too.”
“Good.” Then he lowered his lips toward mine—
“Excuse me?”
I jumped out of Rick’s arms and whirled around. I knew that thick accent. Dad only pulled out the Bronx voice when he was trying to intimidate. He made it sound like he had mob connections—which he sooo did not. He’d lived in Las Vegas longer than he ever had New York.
“Dad!” I pasted on a smile as frustration (no kiss) warred with embarrassment (so busted). Dad had the worst timing ever. “This is my friend. Rick Widdenstock.”
My father wasn’t much taller than I was, but he was built like a bull. Barrel-chested and muscular with slicked-back dark hair and amber eyes that took in everything, he did kinda look mob-ish.
“How ya doin’, Rick?”
Rick pretended my dad hadn’t scared the crap out of us. He crossed the room and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
My father pumped Rick’s hand. He was impressed by good manners. Me, too, actually.
“My little girl, you know, she’s not sixteen yet.”
“No, sir. But I’ll be here tomorrow night to celebrate her birthday.”
“Just see that you celebrate it with your hands in your pockets, Rick.”
“I have every intention of kissing Molly, sir,” he said. “I’ve waited for her a long time.”
I almost fell over. A long time? I didn’t think he’d noticed me until two weeks ago. And that was only after he’d broken up with Mina—and they’d dated all last year. Maybe he was just laying it on thick for my father. Although his announcing he wanted to make-out with me probably hadn’t made Dad all that happy.
But it sure did me.
“I appreciate honesty, Rick. But watch the hanky panky, y’hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Walk your young man out, Molly,” said Dad. “I’ll wait for you here.”
Terrific.
Rick might’ve been cowed by my father, but he’d hidden it well. He’d made a stand, too. He took my hand and we walked outside together. We leaned against the driver’s side door, close but not touching. I wouldn’t put it past my dad to be looking out a window and scowling at us.
“You must really want to date me,” I said, realizing as the words left my mouth that I’d made a huge assumption. I mean, kissing me was one thing, committing to dinner and a movie every weekend was something else. That was dating, right?
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I really do.”
“Why?” I asked. I didn’t feel like anyone special, and I certainly didn’t fit in with Mina and her crowd.
“You’re pretty, smart and funny. What’s not to like?”
I pretended to think about it. “True.” I looked up at him through my eyelashes. “So why should I date you?”
“Because I have a kickin’ ride, I’ll pay for every date and...” He leaned down and whispered, “I’m a very good kisser.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” I said primly.
He laughed. Then he put a finger to my lips. “You’ll see tomorrow night.”
Disappointment crowded my stomach. “Tomorrow?”
“When you’re sweet sixteen, Molly Bartolucci, I will kiss your socks off.” His lips melted into that oh-so-sexy grin, and I grinned back, butterflies jumping and fluttering.
I stood in the driveway and watched him leave. He waved at me then drove sedately down the street. I turned to go back into the house, prepping my story for Dad.
He was still in the living room. He’d pulled a picture off one of the shelves, the last one we’d taken before Mom bailed. When he looked at me, tears glittered in his eyes.
“You look just like her.”
Dad didn’t really talk about Mom that much. For a while, there’d been a hole in our family, but eventually it closed up. She’d left, and we’d survived. Still. This was weird. I’d been expecting the chewing out of my life, and he was getting all sentimental. I sucked in a breath and said, “We weren’t doing anything. He just gave me a ride. I had to change clothes—”
Dad put the picture back and waved off my explanation. “Demetrius called my cell and said that Whacko Woodbine’s zombie bit you.” His gaze dropped to my shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah, Dad.”
He nodded. “Good.”
I put a hand on my hip and frowned at him. “Who are you? And what have you done with Al Bartolucci?”
Dad chuckled. “You think I don’t know about you and boys? Oh, I know. You’re a good girl, Molly. But you’re gonna be sixteen and you wanna date. I get it. And that guy, Rick, he’s all right.”
“And the zombie bite?”
; “Demetrius is a world-class necromancer,” said Dad. “He says you’re gonna be fine, so you are.” He opened his arms and I walked forward to accept his hug. He kissed the top of my head. “You’re very special, Molly. I know that. You gotta lot of things to do, you know? I’m real proud of you.”
For some reason his words weren’t comforting. His body was tense, and I felt the sorrow woven in with his pride in me. He wasn’t telling me something—and I knew it was important. And it made him sad.
I leaned away from his embrace and looked into his eyes. I didn’t know if I’d be able to bear it if something happened to my dad. I already knew life wasn’t fair—if it was, parents wouldn’t leave. “Daddy, is something wrong? Are you sick?”
He looked surprised. “What? No. No way. I’m just wallowing because you’re a young lady now and you’re making me feel like an old man.”
I felt the truth in his words, but I still knew that he was holding back something important. Something I wasn’t gonna like.
“C’mon. We’ll go to the Zomporium and rescue your sister.”
“I think you mean we’ll rescue Mrs. Woodbine.”
Dad laughed. “Yeah. Ally will eat her for lunch, that’s true. But that woman deserves it. I should’ve never taken her business.”
“What’s done is done.”
He looked at me, another flash of sorrow in his eyes. “Yeah,” he said softly. “What’s done is done.”
Chapter 3
“The Greeks loved a good oracle, though they were not the first culture to embrace the art of prophecy. For millennia, necromancers have approached the Oracle of Anubis to find out their life’s purpose. Not every query is answered nor is all news heard welcomed. However, unlike the questionable nature of the Greeks’ oracles, the prophecies told by the Oracle of Anubis might as well be written in stone. A necromancer is always at the behest of Anubis’s will.”
~History of Necromancy, Volume II
In the dream, I walked through a tunnel carved out of rock. Ahead, I saw lights flickering and my footsteps quickened. Unrelenting black followed me, shadows that seemed to chase and growl, as if trying to stop me from going forward.