One
10:06 AM. I grabbed the phone, not sure I wanted to know who could possibly be calling this early.
"Olivia Peters," I said, my mouth moving around the words as automatically as most people say Hello.
"Liv, sorry to wake you." It was Lincoln Anderson, my boss, and the owner of the Forever Crossed funeral home. Like hell he was sorry.
"I need you to be sharp this morning, Olivia," he said. "Detective Rutledge has a crime scene that needs your attention."
Crime scenes aren’t my specialty, people are, but I didn’t want to go down that road this morning.
"What’s so special about this one that you’re dragging me out of bed to take it, Linc?"
"Hey, you’re young, Olivia, you’ll recover." Sometimes Linc’s voice took on a sweet paternal tone when he spoke to me. This was not one of those times. "It’s a cop case. It doesn’t need to be special. And it’s a homicide."
Well, that explained it. I’d go in as a Bereavement Specialist, offer what comfort I could to the remaining loved ones, and poke around the crime scene to see what I could see.
"Another homicide? Does the victim have family at the scene?"
"Like I said, Liv, I don’t have the details. Detective Rutledge called, I answered, and you’re on the job."
I reached for the aspirin bottle on my nightstand. The medicine wouldn’t help. My body would metabolize the painkillers before they had half a chance to work, but the tinkling of the little round pills as they spilled into my hand always made me feel better.
"Damn it, Linc. I haven’t slept, and I have a headache. Can’t Danny take this one?"
Linc answered me with silence, a sure sign my co-worker, Daniel Sundeen, could’ve handled the case, but Linc was giving it to me regardless. Well, whatever his reasons for adding to my workload, he certainly wasn’t sharing.
I took the address of the crime scene and swallowed an extra aspirin for good measure. What else could I do?
After I hung up, I cursed myself for not pulling a few more details out of Linc. Never one for telephone chitchat, Linc had said less than usual this morning. An uneasy feeling pulled at my belly, a wisp of a nudge, more irritant than a warning.
Linc’s family had owned Forever Crossed for three generations, but by the time Linc took over, the business had started to go bad. That’ll happen when families pay good money to bury a loved one, only to find Grandpa back in his old chair a few weeks later, rotting zombie-brains from the inside out—or worse yet, roaming the old neighborhood in the darkest hours, Undead and aching for an easy meal.
So Linc did the only thing he could do to save his family’s business. He brought in some new blood, namely me and Danny, and these days, Forever Crossed is the hottest funeral home in the Triangle. We haven’t had a body rise in the three years I’ve been here, and we haven’t had a single case of unrequested vampirism, either.
I don’t stake the dead, Linc and Danny do that. And I’m not a necromancer, although Linc is thinking of bringing one onto the staff. What I do is different.
I speak with crossing souls. Or more accurately, they speak with me.
When I’m in the presence of a soul in transition, I catch glimpses of their final moments, reliving in pictures the last few moments before their bodies died. The images linger until the soul leaves this plane of existence — usually about seventy-two hours, just long enough for me to see how they crossed over and whether or not they intended to come back.
I’m also a survivor, not that there’s a twelve-step group for people like me, I’m not that kind of survivor. I was attacked by a wereleopard when I was a teenager. He died. I didn’t. End of story.
Of course, the attack was big news at the time, a media feeding frenzy, not that the reporters cared about my survival. They wanted a hot story. The problem was, turning sweet little me into a cold-blooded killer wasn’t exactly firing up the ratings. So they jumped on the conservative bandwagon and called in their medical correspondents, all of them demanding an explanation for my DNA.
I hated what they were doing, the way they were making me into a victim all over again, but I wanted an explanation, too. Because despite the attack, despite everything I’d ever heard about shapeshifters, I hadn’t changed. I was human right down to the last twist of my double helix, and none of the experts could explain why.
I do have some interesting side-effects, more like the shapeshifter’s version of consolation prizes than anything else. But, like my mother says, it isn’t something we talk about in mixed company. I’m pretty sure Linc knew all the sordid details when he recruited me, though.
Of course he did. He wouldn’t have hired me otherwise, and it really didn’t bear thinking about any further. Still, as I stumbled toward my bathroom, I wondered if I could make it as a freelancer in this city. There might be enough work for me here, customizing burial rituals and weaving graveside protections. Might be, I thought, but in the mirror, my reflection’s hazel eyes looked doubtful.
The last three weeks had brought a rash of vampire murders to the Triangle. Two humans had been murdered, drained completely and unnecessarily of all blood, their bodies displayed in public places for all the world to see. On top of that, three of the local Undead had been destroyed, corpses abandoned to the night, or to the sun, whichever happened to find them first.
Forever Crossed had been called in when the second corpse was found. I hadn’t liked it then, and I didn’t like it now, either.
Since I spend more than my share of time around all sorts of corpses, I tend not to socialize with vampires in my off hours. Besides, my ability to communicate with the dead makes dealing with these particular folks creepy on all kinds of new levels, so I keep my distance when I can.
I checked the clock. Time never seemed to be on my side. Nevertheless, I would make it to the crime scene in thirty minutes, as promised.
I’d showered before I fell into bed just a few hours ago, though I hadn’t bothered to blow dry my hair. I pulled my fingers through the still-damp tangles, twisting the long strands into a sleek knot at the back of my neck.
It was dark in my bedroom despite the hour, night blinds drawn tight against the morning, but I didn’t bother flipping on a light before I peered into the closet. No need. Prepping the dry-cleaning before putting it away was my mother’s habit. It was also the only way I could keep the kind of crazy hours my work with Forever Crossed demanded and still feel like a human being when I walked out the front door. Each hanger held a solid color sheath, a matching jacket, and a rope of beads or a pretty scarf around the neck. They were all perfect, and all more or less the same. Some of the jackets even had coordinated earrings in the pockets. I grabbed the nearest one and got dressed.
The only part of my wardrobe not on the hanger was my weapon. Before I got involved in this business, it never even occurred to me that a grief counselor might need a gun. But from my very first day with Forever Crossed, I’d carried Linc’s weapon of choice—a 9mm Sig Sauer—in a right draw shoulder holster. Concealed-carry is one of the benefits of being a citizen in the South, and every once in a while the funeral home business truly does get a little hairy. That’s why at Forever Crossed, all of our bullets are hydroshock silvers. Between the silver itself and the massive exit wound of this particular bullet, odds are good it’ll damage just about everything that goes bump in the night.
I shook my wrist a little as I smoothed my hair, listening to the jingle of the charms on my bracelet. It sounded like peace to me, just a few seconds of floating calm whenever I needed it. Slipping into low-heeled pumps, I grabbed my handbag and headed out. No breakfast, as usual, and I’d have to put my lipstick on in the car.
Plus, I needed to make a quick stop at the office on the way, since I’d left my briefcase there the night before. I hadn’t needed it then, and I wasn’t thinking too clearly when I left. I’d spent the wee hours at the hospital with a client, doing the type of work that keeps me busy when I’m not helping the city’s finest solve crimes.
Last night I’d comforted a widow-in-waiting, describing the images swirling through my mind as her husband crossed over in his sleep. His heart was full of her, his memories of their life together vivid in my mind, and I knew that they would meet again soon. Tears streamed from her eyes, but she didn’t try to keep him with her.
Hey, I’m a professional. I see death for a living, have seen it all my life whether I looked for it or not, and mostly, the job doesn’t move me. This session did. The short drive back to the office wasn’t long enough to clear my head, and my eyes had welled with unshed tears. More emotional overflow than anything else, but they were salty just the same.
Even this morning, in the brilliance of a new spring day, my throat constricted a little just thinking about it. I swallowed hard, wondering if I could blame my reaction on a freak surge of hormones. I tried to pinpoint exactly when I’d last had a period . . . It had been cold then, and dreary. Six months ago? Seven, maybe? Not a new record for me, but getting close. Well woo-freakin’-hoo, I thought, making the sharp turn into the parking lane reserved for Forever Crossed staff.
I hurried up the back stairs of the revitalized Victorian and into the business offices of Forever Crossed, a prayer to Desmas, the Patron Saint of funeral homes, already crossing my lips. Late morning light glinted off the windows, and I could feel my professional persona wrapping itself around me with every step. I smiled at our receptionist, Ellen, as I walked in, but her sparkly aura dimmed slightly as I approached. Damn. I must have looked worse than I thought.
I detoured into the cubbyhole we all pretend is my private office and grabbed the black leather case I’d come for. File folders, ink pens, and legal pads filled the flip-up section, while a starchy white lab coat, a box of latex gloves, a sturdy plastic toolkit, and extra ammo clips were tucked into the wider bottom. A couple of liters of bottled water, a roll of breath mints, and an emergency makeup case rounded out the sides. Just the basics.
As I came back through the reception area, Ellen handed me a cup of coffee in a tall travel mug.
"Bless you, Ellen," I said, taking that first sip. Strong, but light and sweet, too. Perfect.
So, yes, welcome to my world. Sleep is optional and the dead talk back, but coffee is one of the four food groups, and you gotta love that!
Text Copyright 2004 by A. Leigh Jones
Copyright 2004 ImaJinn Books