 |
| Book 1 in The Reaper Diaries |
“Hel-lo!” Mrs. Woodbine screeched, snapping her fingers in front of my face. I blinked, my thoughts skittering, and resisted the urge to slap her hand away. “Teenagers today! I swear to God! You’re all worthless.” She huffed at me, turkey neck quivering, as she poked the arm. “Did you hear me? This is the third time his damn arm has fallen off.”
It ka-illlled me, but I smiled. “Let me see what we can do for you.”
“I want a discount,” she said, her flat brown gaze flashing with triumph. “A big one. You’re lucky I don’t call the Zombie Safety and Inspection Service on this place!”
You’re lucky I don’t whap your big stupid mouth with Mortimer’s arm. I slid the pathetic limb off the counter then picked up the phone. I buzzed the cell of my sister, Ally, who was supposed to be organizing the storage room, but was probably making picket signs for Citizens for Zombie Rights. Ally and her friends had created the group last year after watching a Dateline exposé on zombie abuse.
She’s such a dork.
“What?” she hissed.
Ally didn’t care much about social graces, diplomacy, or keeping her mouth shut. That was why I was manning the customer care center and she was stuck re-arranging all the crap in storage. I didn’t necessarily like everyone who walked through the doors, but I knew how to be polite. Most of the time. Ally sighed in that dramatic, you’re-making-my-brain-melt-with-your-stupidity way that always drove me nuts. I wanted to ride her about making idiotic protest signs instead of stacking toilet paper, but I didn’t dare misbehave in front of a customer. Not even cranky, gnarly ol’ Mrs. Woodbine. Nona Gina had ears like a reaper and a rolling pin we called “lightning fury.” Our grandmother was unafraid of whacking our butts with it. That was how she’d raised our dad, and he was still afraid of the rolling pin.
“Mrs. Woodbine has an issue with her zombie,” I finally said. “Would you mind keeping her company while I take care of Mortimer?”
“That hag is back again?”
I smiled at the hag. “Yes. So, can you come up?”
“Gawd!” She snapped her phone shut.
A moment later she stomped out of the door situated behind the customer care desk. Her scowl zeroed in on Mrs. Woodbine. Ally was fourteen, tall and gangly, still flat-chested, and had braces, too. She had the best hair—long, silky chestnut waves with auburn highlights, but did she care? No. She also liked to wear baggy clothes in blah colors. Even though I would never admit it to her (not ever), one day she’d be gorgeous.
Y’know, after she lost the metalwork, got some boobs, and developed some fashion sense.
“Mrs. Woodbine,” she said. Her voice held a hint of accusation. “Would you like some tea while Molly takes Mortimer for repairs?”
The woman was caught between reacting to my sister’s less-than-friendly tone and the seemingly polite question. Finally, Mrs. Woodbine nodded. “I would love some tea. Did your grandmother make any cookies?”
Sometimes I wondered if she broke Mortimer’s arm on purpose so she could chow down on the almond biscotti Nona baked fresh every day for customers. Ally gestured toward the seating area and Mrs. Woodbine hurried toward the side table that held dispensers filled with three kinds of herbal tea and two large platters of Nona’s treats.
I rounded the desk, holding poor Mortimer’s arm, and then grasped the hand of the arm still attached. It was like gripping crusted leather. I felt another surge of anger at Mrs. Woodbine’s poor zombie management skills. “C’mon, z-man. Let’s get you fixed up.”
We entered the same door my sister had flown out of, and she sent me a glare,
and hissed, “Hurry!”
“Do you want to take the zombie to Demetrius?” I asked.
Ally eyed Mortimer, and I got the distinct feeling she was imagining some kind of jailbreak. Knowing her and her nutso friends, they probably had a plan for that kind of thing. “Never mind,” I said. “I don’t want to get grounded because you’re planning zombie intervention.”
“Whatevs. Just go already.” She looked down her nose at me, and then she perched on the stool behind the customer care desk. Her glare tracked Mrs. Woodbine as the woman filled a plate with cookies.
I kinda hoped Ally would do something mean to Mrs. Woodbine, but even Ally had her limits on rudeness. Probably.
I took Mortimer down the hallway, which had one door on the left (employee bathroom), two on the right (supplies, storage), and one at the end (sahnetjar). Sahnetjar was the ancient Egyptian name for the place where they made \mummies and zombies. Necromancers still used the term today, probably because it sounded all fancy and mysterious.
As I led the zombie to the sahnetjar, I felt another pang of pity. I don’t know why Mortimer hadn’t put an Advance Zombification Directive into place. Lots of people had an AZD—and sometimes, their relatives would still try to zombify them. Dad read anyone the riot act who tried to circumvent an AZD—and sadly, a lot of people tried.
Zombies are just animated corpses. We need only one teeny tiny part of the soul, the ka, to make that happen. A soul doesn’t need the ka. It’s like a spleen, or an appendix, or wisdom teeth. But if you’re attached to a SEER machine, then your spirit energy belongs eternally to whoever owns it. And if you think people are mean to zombies, you should see some of the stuff spirit slaves have to do. The worst part is that they’re sentient energy. They know what’s being asked of them, and they have to do it.
Like I said, a lot of people opted for an AZD and chose cremation. Signing a piece of paper saying you didn’t want your corpse zombified didn’t mean thieves wouldn’t steal your freshly buried body. Black-market zombification was big business. Bodies were stolen, shipped off to crappy zombie-making factories, and then sold to people who did not read literature regarding the humane care of the walking dead.
Zombies didn’t have souls. Okay, most zombies didn’t have souls. Every so often during a transition, a deadling would wake up with its memories, personality, and humanity intact. Probably because the ka heka messed up and put the whole soul back in, or something. Only, a dead body is still a dead body, you know what I mean? Zombies work mundane jobs and understand simple commands; they don’t need to sleep or to eat, either. Okay. They don’t need to eat, but they love sticking things
down their craw. They have unceasing hunger even though they don’t require food. Part of raising the dead includes creating an appetite suppressant. That costs extra, and you gotta re-energize the magic annually, which was why some people choose zombie supplements instead of necro-incantations.
Not feeding a zombie isn’t like not feeding your cat. He. Will. Eat. You. And your cat. People who forget to pick a case of Ghoul-AID sometimes don’t live to regret it.
Capiché?
Finally! I reached the end of the hallway, which took forever because Mortimer wasn’t exactly good at the walking thing. I unlocked the door, waited sixty years for the zombie to shuffle inside, and locked the door again. When you’re dealing with zombies, security is important.
We were standing in a tiny foyer. Calling it a foyer was stupid. It was just a little white room with a couple of plastic chairs. I let go of Mortimer’s hand. This was the only way to get to the sahnetjar, and I still had another door to unlock.
“Stay here.”
Mortimer stared at the ground, looking like the most pathetic zombie ever. I sighed as I headed toward the door at the other end of the room. I wasn’t much for my sister’s whole save-the-zombies effort, but I have to admit I wouldn’t mind seeing Mortimer put to rest. I’d bet his wife ran him just as ragged when he was alive. At least now, he didn’t know it.
I tucked poor Mortimer’s leathery limb under the crook of my arm, pulled my keys out of my pocket and unlocked the door that led to sahnetjar. I heard a noise behind me. Startled, I turned and found Mortimer three inches away, his jaw cracking as his mouth opened impossibly wide. I dropped the keys (duh), backed against the door, and held out his severed arm like an old, bent sword.
Then Mortimer tried to eat me.
