“So the bottom line of this particular theory is that at any stage, a successfully navigated conflict results in ego strength and an unsuccessful resolution results in a sense of inadequacy?”
“Bingo! My work here is done.” Denise clapped her hands together and stretched her arm across the table for another doughnut. Having surpassed the limit of what I could tolerate regarding her complete immunity to empty calories, I grabbed the edge of the platter and tugged it toward me and out of her reach.
“And the conflict for a teenager?” Kane left the question dangling in the air like a loaded pistol and turned his piercing green gaze in my direction. Seriously? Was the Grim Reaper implying I had failed to negotiate my own adolescent conflict successfully? My sense of self was just fine, thanks. Any confusion or insecurity I struggled with for now was a direct result of the fickle finger of fate poking me in the eye well after the age of thirty.
“Identity versus confusion,” Denise supplied. “During adolescence, kids are taking those first tentative steps toward independence, seeking a sense of self. With the right encouragement and reinforcement, successful resolution in this stage results in a strong sense of self and a feeling of independence and control. Conversely, failure results in insecurity and confusion about the future.”
“Fascinating.”
“You already said that,” I muttered, uncomfortably aware that though Kane directed his response to Denise, he continued to regard me intently, as though we were the only two people in the room. Denise seemed to realize, after having shared her expertise she effectively was being dismissed. Pushing her chair back from the table, she grabbed her mug and announced she’d better see what the kids were up to. She attempted to snag a doughnut as she passed me.
“You are tempting fate. And pissing me off. I have two words for you, Denise—Rodent Butt. Have mercy on your yoga pants and step away from the baked goods.”
“You know, Max, sometimes you are just weird.”
“And this is supposed to be a newsflash?”
“Yeah, I guess not,” she laughed and headed toward the den leaving me alone with the doughnuts, the Grim Reaper, and an overactive sense of foreboding.
“Soooo...” I dropped my gaze and proceeded to draw amazing and intricate patterns in the loose coconut that had scattered on the tabletop during the consumption of my uber delicious Long John. I pushed a couple of stray strands back and forth with my finger before giving into temptation and popping them in my mouth, then asked, “What was that all about, exactly?”
“Maybe I was just making conversation.” Kane shrugged. Really, this apparent obsession of his with drawing attention to the breadth of his shoulders was becoming tiresome. It was working, but it was tiresome.
“Maybe. And maybe I can leap tall buildings in a single bound.”
“Logan, you aren’t tall enough to leap an ottoman in a single bound.” Kane’s lips tilted up in a smile. I admit I was momentarily distracted. I was not, however, rendered speechless.
You may have correctly presumed by this time I seldom am.
I tilted my head back and looked down my nose with what I hoped was an expression of disdain.
“I rest my case.”
His smile grew wider. My nerves stretched thinner. He was up to something, I just knew it.
“Were you paying attention to Denise’s dissertation?”
“I’ve heard it so many times I could repeat it back verbatim. I would be happy to demonstrate. However there are no guarantees I will remain conscious until the end so maybe you could just cut to the chase?”
The Grim Reaper leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs out in front of him.
“Tell me, what’s your theory about identity versus confusion? Would you agree a teenager struggling to find himself and mostly failing would be prone to insecurity and confusion about right and wrong?” His bright green eyes bored into me, and I suppressed the urge to squirm like a naughty child being called on the carpet for her mischief.
“Are you implying I failed to resolve my adolescent conflict? Because I didn’t, you know.” Granted, insecurity rears its ugly head now and again, but I know right from wrong. Most of the time.
“I know this will come as a shock, Logan, but sometimes it isn’t about you.”
“I know that,” I sniffed. “And in that case, yes, I agree. So who are we talking about?”
“Buddy.”
Buddy, the thorn in my side, the stick in my spokes, the living breathing incompetent bumbler responsible for my untimely demise, broken bond, and currently questionable status as a supernatural superhero. That Buddy? Since Morgan Kane and I had only one slick-faced teen with a slippery façade of moderate acne, purple braces, and coke bottle thick glasses named Buddy in common, I assumed the worst. I reached for another Long John and shoved it in my pie hole. I had a hunch I would need all of the fortification I could get for whatever was coming, and besides it was chilly outside, and it’s a known fact skinny girls freeze to death faster.
Chapter 7
“You have got to be kidding.” I mumbled around a mouthful of raspberry stuffed pastry, favoring the Grim Reaper with an appalled expression. I swallowed my doughnut hard and washed it down with a rapidly cooling mouthful of coffee. “You honestly expect me to go into the Between and save that sorry weasel?”
“You did just agree with me that a teenager struggling to find himself and mostly failing would be prone to insecurity and confusion,” Kane replied easily, utterly unmoved by the murderous look I was shooting across the table. “Sure the kid is a screw up, but maybe he just needs the right mentor to help him find his way.”
“In that case, why don’t you hoof it on over to the Between and get him yourself? Anyway, he’s got uncles…why can’t they take some responsibility for the kid?”
Buddy’s uncles were estranged twins Marvin and Melvin Jenks. The former was the Director of the Office of Central Processing, the foul smelling outpost where I’d landing following my untimely demise. The latter was the fully licensed and bonded afterlife tour guide who served as Director of the Crossroads Visitor and Information Center who’d directed me to Dirk Kramer and Roger on my introductory soul retrieval mission. Both were small, nervous men with a penchant for poorly tailored suits and wire rimmed glasses, and both were laboring under the delusion they were fooling people into believing they had a lush head of hair with their oh-so-sexy comb-overs.
“Look, I wouldn’t ask but, though I can cross over, unlike you I can’t bring anyone back with me.” Kane shook his head ruefully. “And as you’re well aware, his uncles didn’t have a whole lot of luck with the kid. I was thinking maybe he would benefit from a woman’s touch,” Kane continued in that maddeningly conversational tone.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re about as subtle as a two by four to the back of the head?” I replied slowly, sucking the coconut crumbs from my fingers and noting with interest how Kane’s eyes were glued to my mouth. He grinned, and I was struck yet again by the sheer perfection of his features sans scars. This could not be good.
“Once or twice.”
“I know you can’t be suggesting I babysit him since we both know I would rather douse myself in lighter fluid and run naked through Hell than have anything whatsoever to do with Buddy the Bungler.”
“Actually, Logan, you were exactly who I had in mind.”
“C’mon, Kane. He killed me, for the love of Pete! And he killed Roger, too.” I didn’t owe the little weasel anything except maybe a nice big pat on the back while he was standing on the edge of a cliff.
“Severing your soul was an accident, Logan. He was just trying to be a big shot and make an impression. Please refer to Denise’s lecture and the consequences of an unresolved psychosocial conflict. As for Roger, Buddy may have taken down the plane, but I’m the one who severed Roger’s soul and only because it was his time. If it hadn’t been the plane crash it would have been something else, so if you’re looking for someone to blam
e, look no further. That’s on me.”
I knew he’d been the one to sever Roger’s soul. Kane and I had discussed it shortly after Roger’s death, and I’d decided if Roger had to go, I’d rather it was Morgan Kane who’d been assigned to take him out than some strange, uncaring Grim Reaper. At least Kane was compassionate. Or so I’d believed until he suggested I take on Buddy the Bungler as my own personal pet project. He wasn’t compassionate; he was crazy. What did I know about straightening out a screwed-up teenager? I had enough trouble straightening myself out. Did this man not know me at all?
“You know I don’t hold you responsible for Roger’s death, Morgan.” The Grim Reaper’s gaze slid to the side and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he nodded shortly. I realized then that maybe he had thought I blamed him. Of course, I hadn’t been taking his calls, and there was that ugly scene after I returned from the Between without Roger. I’d never been intended to retrieve him in the first place, and everyone in the supernatural hierarchy apparently knew it in advance, except me. To say I had not taken the news well might be a teeny understatement. A major meltdown, copious tears, and an attempted throttling of the Grim Reaper by yours truly had been involved. So okay, maybe I could see how he might think I blamed him just a bit. My bad.
“Seriously, even if I didn’t detest the little shit, I hardly think I’m the best role model. I mean, let’s face it, I could screw up a one car funeral. Find somebody else.”
The chair legs scraped loudly against the floor tile as he pushed back his chair and rose to his full, intimidating height. He forked a hand through his hair, obviously forgetting he’d tied it back. With half of it falling around his newly perfect face, he tugged out the elastic band and shook it all free in the manner of an aggravated lion, and then gathered it back into a slick new ponytail.
“There isn’t anyone else. Alicia is busy with the baby and I may be…indisposed for a while. And maybe someone who could screw up a one car funeral is exactly what he needs. Maybe he can relate to you.” Alicia was the official Superintendent of Spiritual Impediment, aka SSI, who—when the mood struck her—could glow like a radioactive Christmas tree. On steroids. She also had a toddler named Esmeralda who had inherited the talent and who, I assumed, would one day step into her mother’s perpetually radiant kitten heels. I only hoped the child had also inherited her mother’s beautifully pedicured feet and taste in footwear.
“Indisposed?”
“I’ll be distracting my cousin while you get Buddy out.”
“Cerberus? Oh my stars, Kane! I gave you far more credit. You don’t mean to tell me you’re going to deliberately seek out that smoking pile of chrome and leather? You said it yourself, he wants you back on his team, and he nearly tore you to ribbons the last time you crossed his path.”
“Because he shifted and I didn’t. Otherwise, we’re pretty evenly matched. Won’t make that mistake again. And no, I don’t trust the mangy mutt as far as I can throw him, but Buddy’s just a kid, Logan. Don’t you think he deserves a second chance?”
Did I think he deserved a second chance? Seems it wasn’t all that long ago I was waxing poetic about second chances. I’d been given a lot of them. A second chance at life, a second chance with Roger, a second chance to be a welcome and productive member of my family. For a while I’d become my own worst enemy, and I’d been a lot older than Buddy when I tumbled into that trap. I couldn’t help remembering one of the last times I’d seen him. It was while I was on the other side, in the Between, still believing I could save Roger. Buddy was running through the middle of a field, and the Seekers, Cerberus’ diaphanous black shadows that look like big creepy worms, surrounded him in a funnel cloud. His eyes wild, he mouthed the words help me before they consumed him completely, and both Buddy and the Seekers disappeared. Apparently, he’d realized by then that trying his luck on the dark side hadn’t resulted in the jackpot payoff he’d been hoping for. Having enough of my own problems to worry about at the time, I’d attributed the unsettling twinge of sympathy and concern I felt for the incompetent nincompoop to indigestion, as a result of the cookies and lemonade I’d consumed at the Timekeeper’s cottage before setting out on my retrieval mission. Citrus and I are not friends. Honestly, I hadn’t really given Buddy much thought over the last year. I hated to admit it, but Kane was right. Buddy was just a kid. And he deserved a second chance. Probably.
Hell, if it’s not one thing it’s another, and in my case, it’s often the same thing twice. I pushed back my chair and climbed slowly to my feet while exhaling a loud, dramatic sigh designed to wordlessly communicate my opinion of the entire situation.
“What do I have to do?”
Morgan Kane, Hellhound, aka the Grim Reaper, froze for a moment as though unsure he’d heard me correctly, and then he favored me with a blinding smile that caused my heart to stutter like the alternator on my old jalopy.
“Personally, I think my cousin realizes he bit off more than he could chew and will be glad to get the kid out of his hair. Of course, that doesn’t mean he’ll admit it and give him up without a fight. You get him out, and when I get back, I’ll take him off your hands. Just try to have some patience with him for however long it takes, huh?”
I wondered if Kane actually believed any of this was going to go smoothly. Even if Cerberus felt unusually agreeable, which in my opinion was about as likely as my winning a gardening competition, there was still the wildcard named Buddy to consider.
“I’ll do my best, Kane. But you should know while patience may be a virtue, sometimes I think it’s a lot more effective to just slap the stupid out of someone.”
“Somehow, Logan, I figured as much. Just try not to kill him until I get back, okay?”
“What? Oh, yeah, restraint, sure thing.” He was smiling again, and I was slightly vexed to discover I was having a real problem concentrating on what he was saying. Frankly, I didn’t understand my reaction. I mean okay, so I’d always thought he was a hot commodity even with the scars, and now that they had magically all but disappeared, he was—well, he was just my flavor of handsome. But I’d never had any difficulty with conversation in his presence before. Well, except for that embarrassing moment I found myself naked in his cabin and discovered he’d laundered my panties.
Can we say awkward, boys and girls?
Then again, he’d never kissed me into a lump of putty before, either.
“What happened to your scars?” I asked suddenly.
Yes, I can always be counted on for my subtlety. I did warn you.
“Hellhounds heal fairly quickly if they stay in their animal form,” he replied with a lift of his shoulders. His broad, muscular shoulders. “I’ve been shifting as often as I can.”
“Uh huh.”
I narrowed my eyes and tried to picture him in plaid, polyester golf-pants hoping the visual would put to rest the odd flutter in my nether regions. It might have worked if it hadn’t occurred to me polyester would cling like a second skin to his firm and magnificent buttocks. As appealing as that thought was, I admitted to myself there was more to recommend Morgan Kane than an exceptional posterior. I remembered the dogwood and gin he’d left in my kitchen the night before Roger’s funeral. It had been incredibly thoughtful. It was a lovely reminder that gave me hope at a time I had very little left to keep me breathing. Somehow, he’d known it was exactly what I needed. The dogwood, that is. The gin gave me a hangover the size of Texas.
“Logan?”
“Huh? What?” I snapped back to reality. The tone of his voice and the puzzled expression told me he’d had to repeat himself more than once to get my attention.
“Why are you squinting at me like a miner’s mule on his first expedition into the sunlight?” Stepping closer, he cupped my chin and tipped my head back.
“Though I’m rendered nearly speechless by that lovely compliment, I do have a question. Reaper,” I croaked as he leaned in so close that his warm breath fanned my face. I decided that was the reason my cheeks suddenly felt so
heated.
Yep, I was going with that.
“How do you feel about polyester?”
He arched a brow over one sparkling, emerald eye. “Polyester and I are not friends. More of a flannel and denim guy, myself.”
“Okay,” I breathed. “How about golf?”
“Beautiful walk ruined by a little white ball.”
Lordy, except for the whole scythe-wielding severer of souls thing, Morgan Kane was turning out to be darn near perfect. Taking a deep breath and gripping the back of the chair in preparation for the crushing disappointment I knew was inevitable, I cleared my throat and asked the all-important question.
“What color are your socks?”
He burst out laughing, and I felt something shift in the region of my heart. I’d never really heard him laugh before. I suppose that shouldn’t be surprising considering our rather unorthodox meeting and relationship to date. Not to mention his line of work.
To recap: After being forced to re-evaluate everything I’d ever believed about myself and my family, I’d ventured out into a freakin’ blizzard with a sadistic voice in a box who played navigator. I nearly died of exposure, was rescued by a large black Hellhound I thought was going to eat me (and not in a good way), who then turned out to be the Grim Reaper. As if that wasn’t enough adventure for one day, after peeing my pants, I was forced to drink tea, and hoofed my butt on over to the afterlife. I rescued a man I mostly despise and was forced to say good-bye to the man I loved. With the helpful assistance of a large white Hellhound who pushed me into a lake—aka portal between dimensions opened courtesy of my mom’s necklace—I crashed back into the land of the living like a bag of wet cement on a very hard floor—it hurt like hell—and I tried to strangle the Grim Reaper. Not your typical InternetCupid.com introduction, right?
Smitten With Death Page 6