Chapter 2
I shoved my chair back under the table and stood behind it. It was probably a good idea to remain on my feet. All the better to run like hell. I moved behind my father’s chair, alert for anything unusual beyond the awkward drunken revelry surrounding me. Gail glanced up briefly and then did a double take.
“Max, honey, are you okay?” she asked. “Your complexion is the color of pea soup.”
Wucking fonderful! Another color that didn’t flatter me in the least. Pretty soon I’d be forced to beat the would-be suitors off with a stick. My father swiveled in his chair, a forkful of cake frozen halfway to his mouth and eyes opened wide. He swallowed hard and his brows jumped up into his receding hairline where they hung precariously like crooked crescent moons while he carefully returned the fork to his plate. He looked about as uneasy as I felt. Maybe I was wearing an expression he recognized from back in the day. The day when my mother was still alive, that is. Then again, maybe he’d finally stuffed himself to the point of no return.
It seems my mother possessed supernatural DNA, which had been inherited by yours truly. Frankly, I would have been a lot happier with the slender waist or the ample bosom gene. Coupled with the fact I’d also been blessed with my father’s less than attractive feet, I was definitely splashing around in the shallow end of the family gene pool.
But I digress.
When I finally learned the truth, I also discovered my father had known about my paranormal proclivities all along but decided to ignore the entire matter as he and my mother had taken pains to have my powers bound for all eternity before she died.
One would think that was the end of it. Well, one would be wrong.
Don’t sweat it. It happens to me all the time.
I am, if you can believe it—and frankly, even if you can’t—a Retriever.
I will pause here briefly while you giggle. Go ahead. Get it out of your system. I had pretty much the same reaction myself. Finished?
All righty then, let’s continue. I was not the canine variety with the big, soulful eyes and the soft floppy ears. My breed of Retriever is the poor schmuck variety—the one who hightails it into the afterlife when someone else screws up and retrieves the poor souls who don’t belong there and returns them to their bodies.
Awesome, huh?
Believe me I wasn’t especially impressed either. Imagine my surprise when I discovered the American Kennel Club doesn’t even have a pedigree for this puppy.
My first and only retrieval thus far produced mixed results. Actually, I’d managed to retrieve the soul I was sent to snare. But despite my most heroic attempt, I hadn’t been able to save Roger. After the fact, I learned I was never intended to save him in the first place. I was simply being given the chance to say good-bye. Everyone said this was some great gift, which in hindsight, I suppose it was, but it sure hadn’t seemed that way at the time. It felt as though the entire supernatural community had conspired deliberately to misinform me.
It still doesn’t sit well. And though I don’t blame him personally, I haven’t taken any of the Grim Reaper’s calls in months. Not even when I was thinking about him more frequently than I thought I should. Not even when the beautiful potted dogwood showed up on my porch on Christmas morning. He cultivates them himself. Kind of a strange hobby for a Hellhound Grim Reaper I suppose, but what’s more amazing is the fact the damn thing is not only still living, it’s truly thriving. In my house. This might not seem to be a big deal, but on those rare occasions when I decide to tempt fate and consider filling my apartment, better known as the Plant Cemetery, with lush greenery, I always manage to select plants with no will to live. Sadly, some have even felt obliged to commit suicide in my car on the way home. Plants and I are not friends. Just saying.
“Is something wrong?” Dad whispered out of the side of his mouth, gangster style.
“I’m not sure.” Apparently, even ignoring Death’s phone calls wasn’t enough to keep him away indefinitely. My eyes continued to scan the room but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Well, except for the big chicken head still bobbing through the crowd. I’m sure that isn’t considered ordinary anywhere.
Finally, I spotted him lounging with one massive shoulder holding up the wall at the back of the ballroom. He was huge. He was hot. He was wearing a big, black cape so I couldn’t see for sure, but I had no doubt he still had a great ass. He was Morgan Kane, Hellhound Grim Reaper.
Oddly, his wicked scars seemed less pronounced than when I’d last seen him. The hood of his cloak hid his long, dark hair, but his eyes were just as green, so green I could discern their color even from this side of the room. I felt as though they were boring right into my soul as he stared across the distance between us. Sometimes he’s kind of intense like that.
The corner of his mouth quirked up in a lopsided grin when he realized I’d spotted him. I gathered up the unwieldy layers of my skirt and stomped across the floor in his direction. I had no idea who he was here for, but I wondered if there was any way I could play the guilt card and persuade him to deviate from his schedule for at least a couple of hours.
“Logan.” He nodded pleasantly as I pulled up short, less than six inches from his chest. He inclined his head slightly and looked down his nose at me. No great accomplishment on his part. He was well over six and half feet tall, and I wouldn’t be considered statuesque anywhere, except perhaps in Munchkinland. Assuming I was wearing heels. And standing on a crate.
What? God only lets things grow until they’re perfect and some of us simply didn’t take as long.
“Kane,” I hissed through my pasted on grin. “What in the hell are you doing here?”
“Gee, Logan, it’s nice to see you, too,” he sighed. “If you would answer a phone call once in a while, I might not have to resort to showing up unexpectedly at family functions to get your attention.”
“If I didn’t answer your call, it’s probably because I was singing along with my ringtone and got carried away,” I sniffed.
It happens.
“Besides, it’s not like you don’t know where I live.”
I wasn’t trying to be insolent, but it’s often the way I react to terror. The arrival of the Grim Reaper at anyone’s wedding was probably not the most auspicious way to start a marriage.
Before he had a chance to respond, my third cousin Fred shuffled up behind me.
“Maxine, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Why?”
I realize some people might perceive Morgan Kane with his black cape, immense size, and unearthly green eyes as a threat. I, on the other hand, found him incredibly appealing. Which I refuse to examine too closely. Nonetheless, I couldn’t believe Fred was tactless enough to ask me if I was okay right in front of the man.
“Well.” Fred shifted from one foot to the other. “You’re standing here talking to the wall.”
“I’m…” I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Then I opened them and glared at Kane.
“Guess I should have mentioned no one except you can see me at the moment.” He grinned.
Thinking quickly—What? It happens—I tapped the side of my head near my ear.
“Phone,” I mouthed, shrugging at Fred.
“Oh! Right. Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.” He scurried away, glancing over his shoulder every few feet as though he wasn’t quite sure whether to or not to believe me.
“So,” I asked in the most nonchalant tone I could muster, as soon as Fred had moved a safe distance away. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“And it couldn’t have waited until…oh, I don’t know… never? Seriously, Kane, couldn’t it at least wait until after the wedding? You showing up here is going to give my father a coronary, and you promised he wasn’t on your list anytime soon.”
“He’s not. What’s wrong, Logan? You’re all flushed. In fact, right at the moment, your face almost matches your dress. Nice look, by the way. Haven’t seen that p
articular style in…hmm, actually, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen that particular style.”
“If you must know, this dress makes me feel like a sparkly princess,” I retorted with a haughty toss of my head.
He didn’t seem convinced, either.
Anyway, I was pretty sure he was wrong about my face matching my dress. Based on the level of heat baking my cheeks, I suspected I was sporting an unbecoming shade of scarlet rather than the soft petal pink of my voluminous skirt.
“Yeah, you should go with that. And for future reference, pink is not your color.”
“Says the guy in the big black cape of doom. Who are you, the Fashion Police? You packing a scythe under there, too?”
“Maybe.” He laughed.
“So you just dropped by to stoke the fires of my raging self-consciousness?”
“Actually, Logan, I’m here on a tip, trying to head off a problem. The tip didn’t pan out, and I realized you were here, so I figured it was a good opportunity to talk to you.”
“Really? Then what’s with the cloak?” I plucked at the layers of black fabric swirling around him. Not that he wasn’t a sight to behold, but personally, I thought the cloak covered way too much. In a tight pair of jeans, Morgan Kane was downright drool-worthy. Not that I’d noticed.
“Well, it is a formal occasion.” He shrugged those massively broad shoulders.
The bright and witty retort on the tip of my tongue dissolved into thin air, replaced by a panicked stutter the moment I heard the scream. A small knot of people had gathered on the opposite side of the dance floor, and I saw Brad-the-Famous-Vascular-Surgeon shouldering his way through the crowd until he reached the center. This could not be good. Throwing a dark look in Kane’s direction, I hiked up my skirt and ran.
When I finally elbowed my way to the center of the circle, the man lying face up on the floor with wide, staring eyes and a rapidly mottling face wasn’t anyone I knew. Must be someone from the groom’s side. Thank God! Then I realized how selfish that was. It might not be anyone I knew, but it was someone somebody here knew…and probably loved.
“Kane you somabitch, she’s been planning this wedding since 1979,” I shouted at the ceiling. “Don’t you dare pull this crap now. A couple of hours either way won’t cause the universe to implode.” The stunned wedding guests clustered in a circle around us regarded me oddly.
Oops! Did I say that out loud? My bad.
“Oh…and um, God bless us, every one.” I bowed my head and improvised quickly. A smattering of puzzled amens punctuated the air. Apparently you really could fool some of the people some of the time. Who knew?
I dropped to my knees across from Brad, which caused my hoop skirt to lever up in the back, exposing my miscellanea to all and sundry. No doubt, Morgan Kane had a dandy view from where he was standing. Of course, he’d seen it all before. In fact, he hadn’t simply seen it, he’d also laundered it when, in a frozen stupor, I peed myself on the occasion of our first meeting.
Hey, it’s a body’s natural reaction to hypothermia, okay?
The vessels in the extremities constrict and force the fluid to the core to conserve heat. The kidneys start working overtime to process the fluid…it’s got to go somewhere. Do I know how to make a first impression, or what? Yeah, story of my life. Anyway, I was over the mortification. Mostly. At least they’d been nice panties.
Brad had already loosened the guy’s tie and was feeling for a pulse while calmly directing the bystanders to elevate the victim’s legs and call 911. His eyes met mine over the afflicted man’s chest.
“I’ve got a pulse, but he’s not breathing,” Brad shared in a hushed voice, no doubt hoping to avoid a panic. “I’ll start rescue breathing. Can you monitor his pulse and let me know if it stops?”
I nodded mutely and pressed two fingers to the guy’s neck, sliding them to the side of his windpipe and feeling for his carotid artery while Brad moved to his head and tipped it back, thrusting the jaw forward. Just as Brad was about to seal his lips around those of the stricken man and administer the breath of life, a voice as deep and smooth as dark chocolate whispered next to my ear, ruffling my hair and suffusing my entire being with heat.
“Olive.”
“What?”
“Jerry’s been guzzling dirty martinis like there’s no tomorrow. ’Course if you don’t get that olive out of his windpipe, there won’t be for him. I’d suggest abdominal thrusts.”
My head jerked up so fast I feared I’d given myself whiplash. I cranked my head first to the left and then to the right. No one was there. Naturally. Oh, what the hell. If the Grim Reaper offers you an out, it’s best to go with the flow. I bunched up my skirt and threw my leg over Jerry’s hips like a drunken cowgirl mounting a mechanical bull. If the look Brad-the-Famous-Vascular-Surgeon shot in my direction was any indication, I wasn’t alone in thinking I might be crazy.
“One word, Bradley, and I will personally hunt down and burn every single pair of cashmere socks you own,” I threatened darkly. An expression of reluctant fear crept into his face. My brother-in-law, Brad-the-Famous-Vascular-Surgeon, has a peculiar attachment to his cashmere socks. The socks are black. He wears them every day. Even in the summer. With sandals. It is not an attractive look. My sister Denise and I have conspired against him for years. We’ve switched out his sock drawer, and we’ve hidden his sandals. We have achieved limited success. Okay, so maybe we’ve accomplished squat. He clings to those damn socks with the determination of a baby holding onto its security blanket.
I curled my right hand and set the heel of my fist in the region of Jerry’s solar plexus topping it with my left. I shifted my weight forward, pressing in and upward with everything I had. Nothing happened. I took a deep, fortifying breath and tried again.
“What in the hell are you doing?” My brother-in-law whispered furiously.
“Olive.” I gasped, rocking back and burying my fist in Jerry’s gut for the third time.
“Huh?”
“I said…” I grunted breathlessly. I tried to shift my position and get up on my knees for added power, but lost my balance entirely—surprise—which then caused me to pitch forward and jam my elbows in Jerry’s midsection to catch myself in lieu of a fourth thrust. There was a muted pop and a squeal of air that reminded me of a deflating balloon. Jerry coughed once and a large green olive shot out of his mouth with the force of a bullet, smacking Brad-the-Famous-Vascular-Surgeon right between the eyes. “It’s an olive.”
I sat back and dragged my forearm across my moist brow, trembling. Surely, it was due to anxiety and exertion. Kane’s bone melting voice and hot breath on the side of my neck had absolutely nothing to do with it. Nope, not a thing.
“Max? What were you thinking?” Brad bellowed.
I gestured to the puddle of ice and shattered glass near my knee. “It occurred to me Jerry had one martini too many and may have choked on an olive.”
Quick thinker. That’s me.
Of course, it doesn’t exactly hurt to have a little afterlife assistance, either.
“What if it wasn’t, Maxine? What if you were wrong, and he was having a cardiac event?” Brad climbed to his feet and reached a hand down to pull me to mine.
“But it was, and he wasn’t. Honestly, I don’t know why you’re getting so upset with me for being right. I’m not the least bit upset with you for being wrong.” I shrugged, patted his cheek, and offered him an innocent smile. Then I disentangled my fingers from his to tug my skirt back into place. Brad opened his mouth to respond. Then he seemed to remember who he was dealing with and settled for rolling his eyes before turning to direct the paramedics wheeling a litter into the ballroom.
Jerry was still coughing and sputtering on the floor but had managed to take in enough oxygen to request another martini and make it clear he was loudly and vocally opposed to a scenic side trip to the emergency room.
“Look, pal,” Brad-the-Famous-Vascular-Surgeon said, squatting next to the man, exposing a flash of his oh-
so-sexy socks, and rocking his best Ivy League School of Medicine voice. “It’s always better to get checked out in these situations. If even a small piece of olive managed to get down into your lungs, you could end up with a vegetative pneumonia. Now, you don’t want that to happen, do you?”
The stricken man’s eyes widened, and he slowly shook his head from side to side like a hypnotized puppet. I was sure he had no idea what vegetative pneumonia was, but when Brad-the-Famous-Vascular-Surgeon delivered the threat in that particularly doctor-ish tone, he sure made it sound like something a guy didn’t want to mess around with.
I staggered back to my table and grabbed the pitcher of ice water, which was sweating a big wet ring onto the tablecloth next to the crookedly melting candlelit centerpiece. Barely resisting the urge to dump it over my head, I sloshed a generous portion into my glass and chugged it down. Swallow, fill, repeat.
“Is everything okay, Max?” Dad’s brows drew together like a thick, fuzzy caterpillar burrowed into the pleats in his forehead.
Drawing in a deep breath, I looked around slowly. I was no longer sweating, nor could I detect a hint of either sulfur or jelly doughnuts. Whatever his real reason for crashing my cousin’s wedding, Morgan Kane had apparently left the building. Crisis averted. For now, at least.
“I hope so, Daddy. I sure hope so.”
Chapter 3
I’m pretty sure I’d like mornings a whole lot better if they occurred at a more convenient time of the day. It had been one of those nights where sleep had been so elusive I suspected the limited capacity of my coffee pot might not be up to the challenge of jumpstarting my brain. In desperation, at two o’clock this morning, I’d even tried taking a little plastic cupful of that nighttime coughing, sneezing, stuffy head, oh my God there’s a freakin’ dragon under the bed medicine. Yeah, I won’t be doing that again anytime soon. I was seriously contemplating the idea of just filling the sink with coffee, dunking in my head, and opening my mouth. Attractive? No. Effective? Questionable, at best. I settled for brewing a second pot.
Smitten With Death Page 2