Smitten With Death

by Sharon Saracino

  Maybe I should consider taking my act on the road.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your socks…what color are your socks?”

  “How is that relevant?”

  “They aren’t black cashmere, are they?”

  “Are you off your medication again, Logan?” He shook his head with a grin and twitched up the hem of his jeans to expose an ankle clad in a diamond pattern of yellow and blue. The argyles didn’t even come close to matching a single thing he was wearing. “Happy?”

  Yep. A little too happy for my own piece of mind, if you want to know the truth.

  Standing in my father’s kitchen with my entire family in the next room, I found myself considering Morgan Kane with the exact same heart thumping, sweaty palmed, tummy twisting eagerness I usually reserved for a second piece of chocolate lava cake with hot fudge sauce and whipped cream. Real whipped cream, not that fake, non-dairy product that can double as modeling clay when it sits too long. The Grim Reaper was just as decadent, delicious, and dangerous as any dessert I’d ever craved. I knew the wise thing was to push the plate away and get up from the table, resisting the urge to scramble for a fork and dive right in. I knew indulgence might be a bad idea...a very, very bad idea. However, I think we have established I am inherently incapable of exhibiting any willpower whatsoever in the presence of tempting carbohydrates.

  What? You thought my cellulite magically appeared all by itself?

  I reached up and grabbed him by the hair and pulled his lips to mine. One little taste couldn’t hurt, right?

  Chapter 8

  Apparently, it could. As the breath left my lungs and my bones dissolved, I heard a panicked voice in some far distant corner of my mind hinting that maybe one little taste wasn’t enough. When Roger had been alive, I’d enjoyed frequent, generous servings of chocolate lava cake with hot fudge sauce and whipped cream. Over the last year, I’d eliminated it from my diet completely and thought I’d grown accustomed to bland, processed snack food. Clearly, abstinence did not make chocolate lava cake with hot fudge sauce and whipped cream any less appealing. In fact, in some strange fashion, it made it taste even better.

  “What was that for?” Kane murmured against my lips as I unclenched my fists from his hair.

  “I thought I heard Denise coming,” I covered brilliantly.

  “Ah,” he whispered before claiming my lips again for a second helping.

  “What was that for?” I gasped as he pulled away and straightened to his full height.

  “Just in case.”

  “In case of what?”

  “I’ll pick you up later. We’ll use the portal at my place again.”

  It didn’t escape my notice he’d avoided my question, but I attributed his skillful evasion to the sound of footsteps in the hallway. My family had returned. I fleetingly wondered if I could use the Denise is coming excuse to grab another bite of chocolate lava cake, but Kane stepped away. “After we go through the portal, I want you to concentrate on getting Buddy and getting out. No matter what happens, Logan, just grab the kid and get yourself out.”

  I didn’t care for the sound of that at all. In fact, I heard echoes of his instructions to me the last time I’d ventured across dimensions and couldn’t help remembering I hadn’t been given the whole story. Perhaps the Grim Reaper shared my misgivings about this entire mission not being quite as cut and dried as he tried to make it appear. He shrugged.

  And yes, I noticed the breadth of his shoulders, yet again. I’m not blind, people.

  “Keep an eye on him, maybe pretend he’s your younger brother.”

  “I would have smacked the crap out of the little shit long ago if he was my brother.”

  “Point taken.” Kane’s teeth flashed briefly. “Okay, then pretend he’s a good friend’s younger, and very annoying, brother. Give him some responsibility. Make him toe the line and try not to kill him until I get back. Think you can manage that?”

  I didn’t think anything of the sort, but I figured since he was on his way to commune with Cerberus, the least I could do was give him one less thing to worry about.

  See how thoughtful and selfless I’ve become?

  “No problem.”

  “Great. Gotta run. See you around six.” My family arrived back in the kitchen just as Kane reached for the door. “Dan, Gail, thanks for the coffee and the company. Denise, thanks for the education.” He nodded at each of them in turn, then his gaze locked with mine, burning with an odd intensity. “See you later, Logan.”

  “Right,” I whispered. And then he was gone, and along with him went any confidence I had in the whole cockamamie plan. I tried to believe his story that Cerberus would be happy to get rid of Buddy, and Kane’s distracting him was just a formality, but my bullshit alarm was clanging loudly enough to give me a headache. There was more to this story. I knew it as surely as I knew that chocolate is a health food. Think about it. Chocolate is made from cocoa beans. Cocoa beans grow on a bush. A bush is a plant. A vegetable is a plant. Vegetables are good for you. Therefore, chocolate is a health food.

  You’re welcome. Hey, I said I could rationalize. I didn’t say it always works. Seriously, I just gave you a perfectly good excuse for eating as much chocolate as you want, and you’re going to criticize?

  Something about this whole thing smelled just shy of rancid, and I was damn sure planning to find out what it was before Kane and I left for the Between.

  “See you later, Logan?” my sister mimicked with a hopeful grin. “Dare I assume you have a date with the ass-tastick Grim Reaper?”

  “I guess it depends on your definition of a date, Denise. Kane will be going over to the other side, as will I. He will be paying his cousin, Cerberus, a visit. I will be staying as far away from Cerberus as humanly or inhumanly possible. We will, however, be sharing a mutual goal which is to rescue Buddy, the incompetent Grim Reaper in Training who killed me last year. If that constitutes a date in your world, then yep, we’ve definitely got it going on.”

  “I can work with it.” Denise flipped her butterscotch blond hair over one shoulder. “Now go hop in the shower and get dressed. It’s already noon and we have a lot of shopping to do and not much time to do it.”

  “I’m already dressed, and I have no desire to go shopping.”

  Denise’s perfectly manicured brows drew together in an inverted V as her gaze raked me from head to toe. “You weren’t planning on wearing that, were you?”

  “Of course not,” I replied with a healthy dose of scorn. As if I would even consider wearing this uncoordinated and uniquely me ensemble to the other side. Well, at least I wouldn’t now that my fashion forward younger sibling had given it the hairy eyeball. “But I wasn’t planning on going shopping either. I was planning on doing laundry.”

  “Oh yeah, as if that’s gonna happen before the second Tuesday of next week.” Denise rolled her eyes and both my father and step-mother bit back a laugh. Gail wasn’t quite successful at hiding her amusement, but to give him props, Dad did manage to convert his guffaw into a slightly believable cough. My love of laundry was legendary in my family.

  “Denise, you know I detest shopping.” I sighed. It wasn’t the actual shopping I hated so much as that moment of inevitable disappointment.

  Oh, please! You know exactly what I mean.

  …That moment you spot the most brilliant, perfect, awesome, sexy ensemble and rush into the fitting room with hangers draped over your arm, prepared to rock the world. You wriggle into said brilliant, perfect, awesome, sexy ensemble while clinging to your inaccurate illusion of your actual height, weight, and body type. Trapped inside the cubicle you push, pull, and contort yourself into physically impossible positions in an attempt to tame the jiggly bits defying you at every turn. At last, you turn to face the mirror expecting a runway model, and then you’re forced to wonder when the hell the short, round troll wearing your brilliant, perfect, awesome, sexy ensemble sneaked into the dressing room and hopped in front of you. Shopping w
as not worth the ego smack.

  “Shopping is an acquired skill, sister mine. You simply have not yet learned to select items that work for you. What you need is a personal fashion advisor. Because I love you, I am willing to assume the burden. You may thank me later. Time’s a wasting, so forget the shower for now, just go run a comb through that rat’s nest currently masquerading as your hair, grab your purse, and let’s go. Mom and Dad will keep an eye on the girls for a while, right?”

  “Anyway,” I stalled while rinsing out the used coffee mugs and stacking them in the dishwasher, green on the left, blue on the right, just the way Gail preferred them. “I don’t get paid until next week, so I really can’t afford to go shopping.”

  “Max,” my sister said quietly, coming up behind me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders, and giving me a gentle squeeze. “Roger left you more money than you’ll ever spend. He’s been gone for over a year, and you haven’t touched a penny of it. Not to mention the tidy sum you got for the condo. What’s holding you back? Roger couldn’t take it with him, and you can’t either. He would want you to enjoy that money. You know he would.”

  What was holding me back? Was it simply that I’d learned to embrace Lifestyles of the Necessarily Frugal, or was it that it still didn’t feel as though the money was mine? Which was ridiculous. I was fairly certain the U.S. Treasury Department didn’t print a single bill that would be accepted as legal tender in the Between, the Crossroads, the Office of Central Processing, or whatever other little enclave of the afterlife Roger was now calling home. I looked down at my sadly rumpled attire. If I was honest with myself, it wasn’t that different from the rest of my wardrobe currently biding its time in the laundry basket, hoping to get lucky. So maybe I should use some of my money and go shopping?

  “Well, if I do decide to take my life in my hands and agree to let you take me shopping, you have to promise me we’ll be back by four,” I offered in a cautious tone. Knowing Denise, I harbored a reasonable fear we could disappear into retail hell for days. “I have to get in the shower, and you know how long it takes for my hair to dry.”

  The enthusiasm with which my sister Denise acknowledged my reluctant agreement to accompany her on a retail expedition cannot be overstated. You may think you’ve seen the epitome of excitement on one of those television commercials where they show up unannounced at some poor sap’s door with balloons and a giant check for an obscene amount of cash. Those people have nothing on my sister. After squeezing the life out of me and dancing an ungainly jig around the kitchen, barely able to believe her good fortune, Denise sat down at the kitchen table with a pen and paper and commenced the development of a complicated and strategic attack on the mall that would have put the Joint Chiefs to shame. I guess everyone has to be good at something. I shot a nervous glance in Gail’s direction. No help there. She squeezed some lemon-scented liquid detergent into the dishwasher, closed the door, and hit the wash cycle before returning my look with an expression that clearly told me she believed I’d lost my mind. Oh well, I was up to my neck in it now and maybe I’d get lucky and find something in my size. Something that was neither pink, pea soup green, nor constructed of fleece. Hey, even the wicked witch was just trying to get her hands on a good pair of shoes.

  Chapter 9

  In my defense, I’d actually fallen for the charade that we were going shopping for me. Two hours, eight shopping bags, and three shoeboxes later, my head throbbed, my feet ached, and I’d yet to purchase a single item. Denise, on the other hand, had managed to acquire half of her new spring wardrobe. I wasn’t trying to be difficult, I swear. It’s just that Denise and I had wildly divergent opinions on appropriate wardrobe choices for a foray into the afterlife. Acutely aware I would be spending at least a period of time with Morgan Kane, Denise was advocating high class hooker-wear, while I was stubbornly clinging to the practicality of cargo pants and combat boots. It appeared I was destined to return to my one bedroom over garage empty handed and sadly fated to renew my relationship with my stackable washing machine. And then it happened.

  As I schlepped along in Denise’s wake, half-heartedly stepping on the backs of her shoes, too tired and frustrated to be more than mildly amused at the way it caused her to wobble in an attempt to regain her balance, it was as though a celestial spotlight suddenly shone from above. I won’t swear to it, but it’s entirely possible I also heard angels sing. I stopped, released the bags from my cramped fingers, and simply stared. There in the window of Lucky Larry’s Luscious Leather Goods, displayed seductively between an interesting selection of metal studded collars and something suspiciously resembling an item of lingerie constructed of straps and chains, was my idea of the perfect afterworld attire. Hallelujah! It was a Christmas miracle in March right in the middle of the Tannerstown Outlet Mall.

  I moved toward the entrance with the single-mindedness of a mid-western cow caught in an alien’s tractor beam, oblivious to my sister who was high-tailing it back in my direction while screaming dire warnings of doom.

  “No, Max, no. Step away from the leather. Step away from the leather! Honey, you haven’t got the ass for it.”

  Skidding to a stop, shopping bags scattered around her, Denise groped wildly for my arm, but it was too late. I had crossed the threshold and Lucky Larry himself, rubbing his nicotine stained palms together, and wearing an oily smile, moved out from behind the counter to attend to my needs. Undeterred by the crinkling of paper behind me as Denise retrieved her bags, immune to her mumbled monologue lamenting the complete impropriety of leather pants on anyone over the age of eighteen, I slowly raised my arm and pointed reverently to the window display.

  “Size?” Lucky Larry leered, flicking his tongue over his thin lips and running his gaze over me from head to toe. Both the question and the leer gave me pause. For one thing, I had no desire to share the size of my ass with Lucky Larry. For another, I was willing to bet that despite the title he wore so proudly, with his stringy hair, pigeon chest, and dirty fingernails, Larry hadn’t gotten lucky in a long, long time. I hated to break it to him, but even if he offered me fifty percent off, his losing streak wasn’t about to change.

  “Uh, I’m not sure…just give me one of each and I’ll decide which fits the best.” I hedged as he shuffled toward the display.

  “Color?”

  “Black, naturally.”

  “Well, at least I’ve managed to teach you something,” Denise huffed up behind me and collapsed onto a bench outside the curtain-covered doorway of the fitting room. I’m sure my sister assumed I’d chosen black due to its universally recognized slimming qualities. While I was all over that idea, she was probably giving me too much credit. Loathe to disabuse her of the notion there might, indeed, be hope for her persistently style-challenged older sibling, I simply smiled and nodded agreeably. Actually, the choice had far less to do with her fashion tutelage than with previous experience. Roger’s Aran sweater, jeans, and tennis shoes hadn’t served me very well on my previous expedition to the other side.

  Need I elaborate on the discomfort of wet, dirty wool with insulating properties?

  I’d decided if I ever suffered an attack of temporary insanity and agreed to return to the afterlife, I would definitely dress appropriately. Leather seemed the logical choice for creeping fog, swirling dust, and sudden unpredictable downpours. Besides, if I was going to be a supernatural superhero, I should at least look the part, right? Let’s face it, black leather and boots are way more kick-ass than jeans and tennis shoes no matter what dimension one finds oneself in.

  Gathering an armload of tanned and dyed cowhide, I dumped the pile into Denise’s lap and stepped into the dressing room, tugging the curtain into place. As she handed them in to me, I attempted to squeeze into one pair after another.

  “Much too big,” I announced, tossing the first pair aside and reaching through the curtain for another which Denise obligingly slapped into my palm. After numerous contortions, the outcome was clear.

  “Way too
small,” I gasped, sticking my arm through the curtain.

  “Who are you? Goldilocks?’ Denise muttered from outside the cubicle.

  “Apparently I am,” I crowed, yanking the curtain aside triumphantly. “Because this pair is just right!” Well, assuming I was willing to ignore the twelve inches of leather trailing beyond my feet. Otherwise, the fit was more awesome than I could have ever hoped. Soft as butter, the leathers clung to my thighs like a second skin, squeezed and lifted my butt, and cinched in my waist at just the right spot. I twirled in the mirror, admiring myself from every angle. I was in love. Now all I needed was a good pair of stilts.

  I stepped out of the fitting room and was gratified to see my sister’s professionally arched brows take a one-way trip to her hairline.

  “I have to admit, I had my doubts, but except for the length, those do look pretty awesome on you, Max,” she grinned. “You should definitely get them.”

  “Ya think?” I regarded myself doubtfully. “I won’t be able to wear them tonight, though. I doubt there’s a pair of heels on the market that can make up the difference, even assuming I’d be able to walk in them. These need to be shortened at least a foot.”

  “Nikos can have them ready by five if we get there within the next hour or so.”

  “Seriously?”

  Things were looking up. I peeled the awesomeness that was my soon to be new leather pants from my butt and poked my legs back into my jeans. While I dressed, Denise managed to pile two additional pairs of pants on the counter, along with some kick-ass boots sporting a sensually curved, but manageable one-inch heel, a bright blue T-shirt, and a black leather jacket that looked like it should come with its own motorcycle. Apparently, when my sister decides to get on board, she prefers a yacht to a rowboat.