Smitten With Death

by Sharon Saracino

  Have I mentioned how subtle the man can be?

  Plastering a stoic smile on my face, I gave my father another encouraging squeeze and stepped through the door. I reached the truck first and climbed in while Kane loped around to the other side and jumped in the driver’s seat with a faint grin quirking up the corners of his mouth. Turning the key, he gunned the engine and peeled out of the drive in reverse.

  “I didn’t want to say anything in front of your family, Logan…but that outfit does things to me. My mouth is dry, my hands are shaky…hell, I think my heart is beating double time.” He glanced at me from the corner of his bright green eyes.

  “Really?” My face slowly split into a satisfied grin as my chest expanded, and I fought down the urge to fist pump. I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist remarking on the awesomeness that was my ass in these pants indefinitely.

  “Hell, yeah! I always get excited by the smell of new truck.”

  My head swiveled in his direction as my mouth fell open. I mean, I wasn’t crushed or anything. Well, okay, maybe I was a little crushed. His shoulders shook, and I was so put out that this time I barely noticed how wide and muscular they were. I found myself at a loss for words.

  What? It happens.

  Of course, historically it doesn’t last very long. And you know what they say about history. It always repeats itself. Who was I to buck tradition?

  “Stop the truck.”

  “What?”

  “Stop. The. Truck. I want to go home. You think you can show up out of the blue expecting my help after a year of ignoring me, and then just insult me? Well, sorry, Mr. Kane. That’s not how I roll.” I tried to cross my arms over my chest to punctuate that I meant business, but the leather sleeves of my jacket bunched up and stuck together halfway toward the miffed pose I was aiming for. I clasped my hands together in my lap like a well-behaved Catholic school girl at mass, instead. Yeah, that’s right, Reaper…this is what pissed off looks like in Max-land.

  Kane surrendered any attempt to hide his amusement and burst out laughing.

  “I wasn’t insulting you, Logan. I was simply busting your balls.”

  “Clearly it has escaped your notice, but I am a woman. I do not have balls,” I forced out through stiff, offended lips.

  “Believe me, the fact you’re a woman hasn’t escaped my notice for a second. But you’re wrong about the balls. You have the biggest set of any woman I know.” The grin never left his face, and he continued to barrel along the interstate, making no attempt to stop the vehicle as I had so politely requested.

  “You say that like it’s a good thing,” I grumbled.

  “It is,” he replied enigmatically, dropping his hand onto the turn signal as our exit appeared ahead. Looking around, it was difficult to reconcile the dissimilarity of the current scenery to that which I’d experienced on my last visit to the Grim Reaper. Sure the trees were still bleak and bare, but if I looked closely, I could discern hints of green where tiny buds struggled to emerge, a drastic change from the heavy burden of snow they’d been groaning under when I saw them last. If I were prone to philosophical thinking—something no one’s accused me of in recent memory, or ever—I might interpret these subtle signs of renewal as some cosmic confirmation that nothing stays the same, seasons change, the world moves on, and now I’d moved on, too.

  I mean, c’mon, I was barreling down the interstate in a four by four driven by the Grim Reaper on my way to rescue a snot-nosed kid who I didn’t even like. Wearing leather.

  Of course, I’m pretty sure the powers that be have more pressing issues on their plate than providing me with an understated thumbs-up in my successful navigation of the bereaved state. And maybe I didn’t need one. Sure, it took me a while to see the bigger picture—tell me this surprises you—but though Roger will always occupy a special place in my heart, I finally understood that moving on doesn’t mean forgetting him. It means learning to stop tripping over things that are behind me.

  Hey, I know I may not be the brightest star in the sky, but every once in a while I do twinkle.

  “You’re awfully quiet, Logan,” Morgan Kane observed as he swung the nose of the truck into his driveway. The rustic log cabin hadn’t changed since I’d driven away from it on the day Roger died. Well, except for the fact there were no ten foot snow drifts and there were at least a dozen flowering dogwoods in full bloom. At the risk of being redundant, flowering dogwoods were the odd avocation of the Grim Reaper.

  “Do you make a habit of looking a gift horse in the mouth?” I retorted.

  “Point taken,” he laughed, green eyes twinkling and white teeth flashing. At least he didn’t shrug those shoulders. “However, when the voices in your head suddenly stop projecting out of your mouth, I can’t help wondering what the little suckers are up to.”

  “Actually,” I said with an offended sniff. “I was just reflecting on how much growth I’ve attained as a person and wondering why in the hell I was putting my life on the line for the poster child for contraception. I mean, c’mon. There are a lot of screwed up kids in the world, and no one is heading into the afterlife to save them from their own mistakes. What’s so special about this particular kid?”

  Morgan Kane turned slightly in his seat and rested his muscular forearm on top of the steering wheel fixing his unnerving green gaze on me at the same time. Then he shrugged.

  Wide shoulders, big muscles, yeah, yeah, we’ve already established I noticed, okay? Sue me.

  “You’re right, Logan. There are a lot of screwed-up kids in the world, and sadly, too many of them don’t have anyone who’s even willing to cross the street to save them, let alone cross the veil between life and death. However, none of those kids have Buddy’s potential.”

  He reached for his door handle and hopped to the ground, jogging around the front of the truck to yank my door open while I was still struggling to unbuckle my seat belt, all the while telling myself the sweat slicking my palms was in anticipation of crossing over to the other side. It had nothing whatsoever to do with those shoulders. Nope, nothing at all.

  “Really?” I struggled to keep my tone neutral.

  Have I mentioned that Buddy was the living, breathing incompetent responsible for my untimely death and subsequent initiation into the supernatural superhero club?

  It was particularly difficult for me to ascribe a single redeeming quality to the weasel, let alone identify any potential.

  Kane swatted my hands away and released the belt with a flick of his long fingers. I did not for a single second contemplate whether or not his expertise extended to bra hooks.

  “Yep, really,” he replied with that faint smile playing around the corners of his lips. “And while I believe every kid deserves to be saved, Buddy is kind of a special case. You see, he isn’t one of those kids who, if left to his own devices, will grow up to rob convenience stores or get involved with drugs. Nasty stuff, sure, but realistically impacting a limited number of people. Buddy-gone-bad has a much broader reach. You see, Buddy has the ability to cause the Zombie Apocalypse.”

  Chapter 11

  Zombie Apocalypse? You would think by this time, I would have flushed any and all disbelief down the toilet. I thought I had. Guess what? I was wrong. Until now I’d had no desire whatsoever to stick my neck out for this kid, but if Kane was telling the truth, I guess I had no choice but to consider embracing my mission.

  One more time, for the record—why me?

  But Buddy in the role of the Zombie Master? Given his track record thus far, I was relatively certain absolutely no good could come from that scenario.

  “What choo talkin’ ’bout, Reaper?” I asked as I skidded into the entryway behind him. The soles of my new shit-kicker boots were a bit slick. At least that was the excuse I used for the ungainly slide which caused me to crash into Morgan Kane’s broad back necessitating an ass grab to regain my balance. Hey, if a girl’s made a decision to embrace life, she may as well start with something well worth embracing, right?


  In case you were wondering, it was just as scrumptiously round and firm as it looked.

  “At such a loss for words you’ve taken to impersonating seventies sitcom characters?” Kane turned his head ever so slightly to peer over his shoulder and glance down at my fingers enthusiastically clutching his ass. I reluctantly released his firm and globular buttocks and laced my fingers together in front of me.

  “Do not hate on the pre-millennial classics of comedy,” I sniffed, attempting to appear offended. In actuality, I was trying to refrain from grabbing his ass again. I was also contemplating how on earth a slick faced teen with moderate acne, purple braces, and a seemingly limitless ability to screw up could possibly be anything as impressive as the Zombie King. Which of course, he couldn’t, because everyone knows Zombies are not real.

  “Now about this whole Zombie Apocalypse thing…” I began primly. Morgan Kane turned to face me and tucked his a loose strand of his long, dark hair behind the ragged remains of his left ear. I hadn’t noticed it earlier. I craned my neck to get a better look. “Your scars are gone, why didn’t your ear heal, too?”

  “Distractible much?” He reached out and cupped his long fingers around the nape of my neck, propelling me in the direction of the kitchen. The warmth of his fingers sent a shiver of sensation racing from the base of my skull all the way down to the bottom of my spine. I’m pretty sure my toes curled within the snug leather confines of my lovely new boots. Truthfully, I was finding the Grim Reaper increasingly distracting the longer I was in his company. Of course, there was no reason to share that with him, although the gleam in his arresting green eyes hinted he might already suspect. Some people move on by dipping a toe hesitantly into the shallow end of the kiddie pool. I apparently cliff dive. It was entirely possible I was in big trouble. Sadly, it wasn’t a new experience for me.

  “C’mon, Logan, let’s talk about Buddy over a cup of coffee. It’s been at least an hour since you fed your caffeine addiction. I don’t need you going all ape-shit crazy before we even get started.”

  “Do you have doughnuts?”

  “Nope.” His fingers squeezed my neck lightly before he dropped his hand to capture mine and drag me the remaining distance to the kitchen. It was as lovely as I remembered with its high beamed ceiling, wide planked pine floors, and U-shaped granite countertop. At the far side of the room, a fire blazed cheerily in the large, fieldstone fireplace. I thought it was terribly negligent of him to have left it burning while he was out, but given his origins in the suburbs of Hell, I figured he knew his way around a fire better than most.

  He pulled out one of the mismatched chairs around the weathered farmhouse table and pushed me into it before moving around the breakfast bar to start the coffee. For such a large man, he navigated the java preparation area with an efficient economy of movement. That led me to believe he did this often. Perhaps his coffee consumption was on a par with my own, which honestly increased his appeal in my book. While the coffee brewed, filling the kitchen with the aroma of heaven, he rummaged in a cabinet, tugging out a crumpled brown paper bag. After pouring a cup for each of us, he hooked a finger through the handles of both and plunked one down in front of me, sliding the other and the paper bag to his own seat. Apparently remembering how I preferred my poison, he didn’t offer the sugar bowl. He stepped back to the fridge to retrieve the cow shaped pottery creamer and set it within my reach before he dropped into his chair.

  I tipped the creamer, allowing the cow to spew a dollop into my cup, then raised the cup to my lips, took a large sip, and closed my eyes in ecstatic appreciation. The Hellhound really was a coffee brewing god.

  “Now about Buddy and the Zombies,” he took a sip and set his cup on the table with a clunk.

  “Morgan, everyone knows there are no such things as Zombies.”

  Okay so everyone also knew there was no such thing as Laminae hookers, or three-headed guardians of the gates of Hell, or shape-shifting Hellhounds, either. Right? Yeah, well, I’d already had that prettily woven rug pulled unceremoniously from beneath my fugly booted feet. I knew he was going to prove me wrong, but I was desperate to cling to my delusions just a while longer.

  Seriously, can you blame me?

  “Oh sure,” I continued with an edge of desperation in my voice that was apparent even to my own ears. “There was that case involving a man who died in a Haitian hospital in 1962, was pronounced dead by two different doctors, and was buried. Then he walked up to his sister in a rural village in 1980 and introduced himself. While you might argue that’s potential proof Zombies exist, you should know research determined it was most likely his experience was the result of complete faith in bokor sorcery and the use of complex powders made from dried and ground plants and animals. Still pretty impressive, but hardly supernatural.”

  “Do tell.” Kane leaned back in his chair, stretched his long legs out in front of him, and brought his cup to his lips, hiding the faint smile I saw hovering there.

  “Well, yeah,” I continued stubbornly. I was not buying into Buddy the Zombie Master without a fight. “And if one subscribes to the theory Zombies are by definition will-less, speechless, reanimated human corpses, let me just point out that guy went on to resume his life and even have children after his miraculous return from the grave. I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard of a single dead guy who can procreate.”

  “Good point.” He gave up any attempt to hide his amusement and set the cup back on the table, leaning forward in my direction. “Tell me, Logan. What other useless trivia do you have clattering around in that pretty head of yours?”

  Pretty? I blinked. He thought I was pretty? Well, apparently he though my head was pretty at least. It was a start. But I digress.

  “And just for the record, there’s no evidence he ever snacked on human brains, either. Seriously, how ridiculous is that anyway? I mean, c’mon, the human brain is relatively small, more protected, and less accessible than any other organ in the human body. What self-respecting and hungry Zombie wants to work so hard for so little? If Zombies were real, it would be far more sensible and satisfying to gnaw on a chunky butt or thunder thigh. Don’t you think?”

  “So you’ve got this whole Zombie thing all figured out, huh?” He arched a dark brow and leaned back.

  “Probably not.” I chuffed out a resigned sigh. “But it was worth a shot.”

  “Has anyone ever mentioned you have a particularly well-developed talent for rationalization?”

  “Not lately, but there have been rumors.”

  “Sorry to burst your well-researched and artfully articulated bubble, but Zombies do indeed exist.”

  “Of course they do. Couldn’t you just lie once in a while and let me wallow in my naiveté?”

  “Well, I guess I could, but it wouldn’t change the facts in the long run. Besides, your reactions are always so entertaining.” He laughed.

  Entertaining and pretty? Things were looking up. Now if he would just compliment my ass, my work here would be done.

  “So what do you think of my pants?”

  Yes, I asked.

  I threw it right out there like a cookie and waited for him to bite. The cookie, not my ass, although I was game for either.

  “We’re discussing the possibility of the end of life as we know it, and you’re fishing for compliments?”

  “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “Whether or not you’re biting. A situation is never so dire a girl does not welcome an ego boost.”

  “Fine. Your ass is positively edible in those pants. From past experience, I can also confirm I find it much the same, and perhaps even more so, out of them. Now, can we get back to the business at hand? We’ve got bigger problems.”

  “Problems? You think being attracted to my ass is a problem?”

  “Try to focus, Logan. Lives depend upon it.”

  “Right. Buddy and the Zombie Apocalypse. “ I sat up straighter in my chair and took another slug of coffee determined to
give him my full attention. Morgan Kane thought I was pretty and entertaining and thought my ass was edible. Things were looking up. Well, except for the whole prospect of a Zombie Apocalypse.

  “Have you ever heard of the field of neuroparasitology?”

  “Something to do with parasites of the nervous system?”

  “You knew that?” While I would have been quite happy to bask in Morgan Kane’s clear admiration of my superior intelligence, I didn’t want to give him the impression I was one of those socially challenged and frigid brainy types. Because I so wasn’t. Frigid, I mean. Or brainy. Socially challenged? Well, two out of three isn’t bad, right?

  “Word roots. Lucky guess,” I conceded with a sigh. “Anyway, what does that have to do with Buddy and Zombies?”

  “What if I told you the potential for Zombie conversion already exists in a large percentage of the world’s population, both living and dead?”

  “That’s impossible,” I muttered under my breath.

  “You’re a formerly dead Retriever sitting here having coffee with the Grim Reaper who also happens to be a shape-shifting Hellhound, and you’re really going to go there?”

  “Let me rephrase that.” I sighed. “How is that possible?”

  “Influenza,” he announced.

  “Come again?” I narrowed my eyes and screwed up my face as I tried to figure out what the hell he was talking about. Then I realized it probably wasn’t an attractive look and, loathe to have him suddenly begin re-evaluating his previous assessment of the prettiness of my head, I forcibly relaxed my features.

  “Influenza,” he said again. “You know, seasonal flu.”

  “German measles.”

  “What?”

  “Chickenpox. Aren’t we playing Name That Illness? Do I win? Are there prizes?”

  “For the love of…Logan, this isn’t a game.” He yanked at the elastic band holding his hair back, then raked his fingers through it before shaking it out with even more agitation than he had earlier. It settled around his shoulders—his broad, muscular shoulders—in a dark cloud framing his face. I was trying to pay attention, I swear. But between the hair shaking and shoulder shrugging, I had my work cut out for me. If he flashed a glimpse of that ass, I would not be responsible for the consequences.