I rubbed my head, scowling. “Okay, okay.”
He grimaced. “I feel responsible that all of this happened. I should have come back to the morgue with you.” He looked truly upset, and I was reminded for the zillionth time that this man, who looked like he could still play linebacker without breathing hard, had the gentlest soul I’d ever encountered. No wonder he was so damn good at dealing with the bereaved.
I shook my head firmly. “Derrel, I’ve been to the morgue at night a zillion times. And if you’d been here he probably would have shot you.” I stepped back and made a show of sizing him up. “Though he might have had to use several bullets.”
On impulse I gave him a quick hug, though my arms didn’t come anywhere close to reaching all the way around him. “It’s cool, big guy. And if you keep that shit up I’ll start crying, and then I’ll have to kick your ass.” I gave him a mock-fierce look that was as much an attempt to cheer myself up as him. “And don’t you think I can’t! I play dirty.”
He grinned. “I know. It’s why I like you so much.”
Chapter 7
The rest of my shift was blessedly uneventful. No deaths, no autopsies, and at five p.m. I quickly changed into the clothes I planned to wear to Pietro’s and drove to Marcus’s place. I sure as hell didn’t want him to pick me up at my house. My dad still had no clue who I was dating, and I intended to keep it that way until the right time to break it to him that I was dating the cop who’d taken him to jail for domestic violence.
In other words, never.
Marcus greeted me with a smile and a kiss. He didn’t seem annoyed or upset, which told me that he hadn’t seen the article. And I didn’t feel like bringing it up and putting a damper on the rest of the day.
Fortunately—or unfortunately—the whole prospect of meeting his uncle was more than enough to distract me.
“Would you please calm down?” Marcus abruptly said after we were well on our way.
I stopped jiggling my leg, clamped my hands together, and gave Marcus an overly wide smile. “I’m calm. Totally calm. Like ice.”
He reached over to give my hand a squeeze. “Angel. It’s going to be fine. I promise. My uncle’s pretty damn cool.” He smiled. “He puts up with me, doesn’t he?”
I snorted. “Yeah, like that’s hard.” I glanced his way. “So, is he your dad’s brother or your mom’s? What’s the rest of your family like?”
“He’s my dad’s older brother—both adopted. The rest of my family is great. Mom, Dad, my sister, and before you ask, no, they don’t know I’m a zombie. My uncle’s the only one who knows.”
“A sister? Younger or older?”
“Older,” he replied. “By about ten years. She works up in Boston.” He smiled proudly. “She’s brilliant. Masters in Modern Lit and going for her Ph.D.”
“Have you thought…” I stopped, tried to figure out how to ask what I wanted to ask without killing the mood. “Never mind.”
“What?”
I grimaced. “Um, well, this has been on my mind ever since I found out how old Kang was.” Kang had been a mortuary worker at Scott Funeral Home, and was the first zombie to give me some pointers for how to exist in my undead state. He’d looked like he was in his early twenties, but had actually been closer to eighty—that is, until Ed killed him and chopped off his head.
A shadow passed over Marcus’s face, and I instantly regretted bringing the subject up. “You’re wondering how I’m going to someday fake my death and start over somewhere else?” he asked.
“Well, jeez, it sounds so depressing when you say it like that.”
He let out a breathless laugh. “I have thought about it…and my answer is, ‘I don’t know.’ I figure I’m probably all right for another ten, maybe fifteen years before I have to start wearing makeup or dying my hair grey or something to look older. That’s what my uncle does.”
“How old is he?”
Marcus pursed his lips in thought. “Sixty-ish, I guess? Something like that. He said he got turned about thirty years ago, and so far he’s managed to get by with hair dye and a little bit of makeup that makes it look like he has more wrinkles than he has.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I’m not going to make any decisions about what I’m going to do any time soon.”
“Makes sense. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, Angel.” The smile he gave me was tinged with sadness. “You’re still getting used to all of this. I’ve had six years to adjust.”
I sat back and watched the scenery of forest, swamp, and small towns go by as I thought about what he’d said. How long would it take me to adjust? And what did that even mean? Was I still essentially human, but with a weird disease? Or had I been changed so thoroughly that I was something else entirely now?
“Are you ever mad at me for doing what I did?” he asked, breaking the silence. “I mean, turning you into a zombie.”
“Seriously?” I asked. “Hon’, I’d be dead, remember?”
“I know, but—”
“Stop it,” I said, cutting him off. “No, I’m not mad. It’s never even occurred to me to be mad. It’s not just that I’d be dead, but look at me—I have a job, and I’m not a complete fucking loser anymore.”
“You were never a loser,” he said.
I let out a rude snort. “Now you’re just spewing bullshit. Trust me, I was. I’d given up and didn’t give a shit.”
“You’re not one anymore,” he said.
“I damn well try at least.” And that really was the biggest change, I realized. I cared about my “loserness” and did what I could to fix it. Some things could never be fixed, though, only lived down. I was a convicted felon, my dad was an alcoholic, and my mom had gone to prison for child abuse and then committed suicide while incarcerated. Don’t give a shit had been my mantra for the last several years, which I’d pulled off by neglecting and abusing myself far more than my mother ever had. I couldn’t go back to that uncaring attitude now. Not and survive. Maybe that was why that article stung so badly. I did give a shit, and it pissed me off that anyone might still think I didn’t.
I snuck a glance at Marcus. He had a lazy smile on his face as he drove, clearly in a good mood. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him about the damn article now. Let’s get through this party thing, I told myself. An hour or so of making nice, and then I could get back to what passed for normal in my life.
I had the first inkling I might be in over my head when Marcus made a turn in to a subdivision and had to stop at the guard gate to show his ID. A short ways past the gate I got a good look at the type of houses in here. Nothing less than two stories, and all big enough for my dinky house to fit into them half a dozen times over. Pristine yards, expensive cars, and the occasional jogger wearing an outfit that cost more than my car. I knew that Pietro Ivanov was, as Marcus put it, “filthy stinking rich,” but I was only now beginning to realize what that meant.
After a few turns we pulled up to a three story—well, “mansion” was really the only word that worked. Pale grey brick, three stories, columns in the front, exquisite landscaping including trees near the front door that were shaped into spirals. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst was that this was clearly not going to be “just a few people.” The broad circular driveway was already packed with cars, and the street had at least a dozen more lined up along it.
I gave Marcus a panicked look. “I thought I was just meeting your uncle and a couple of others?”
He winced. “I guess my uncle invited some more people over.”
“Some?” I cast a frantic gaze over the ten or so cars in the driveway alone.
He gave me a sheepish smile. “He did say it was a cookout. And he likes to have a big crowd.” He paused as he scanned the line of cars. “Looks like he invited my folks over as well. There’ll probably be a number of associates and family friends…” He trailed off at the aghast expression on my face.
I stared at him. “Did you know this was a possibility?” He didn’t have to reply; the guilty expression on his face told me everything. “You knew. And you didn’t warn me? Marcus, how could you do this to me?”
“Angel, relax. I knew you’d get nervous if I told you that you might be meeting my whole extended family—”
“For good reason!” I wailed. I looked down at what I was wearing. I’d dithered for over half an hour on my clothes and had ended up with my nicest pair of jeans, a plain black sweater, and black boots. But the jeans were pretty low cut, and the sweater was a bit tight on me. Fine for meeting a zombie uncle, but…parents? I could lie to myself and say that I looked fashionable, but I was fairly certain I looked more skanky than vogue. I flipped the visor down to quickly peer at my reflection. Being well fed on brains was making my hair grow like crazy, which meant I had about half an inch of dark roots at the base of my bleached blond hair. Which made no sense to me at all. How could my hair grow if I was dead? I scowled as I swiped at my eye makeup in a doomed effort to make it look less whore-ish.
“Angel, you look great. Please stop worrying.”
I gave up on my makeup and settled for wiping away smudges. “Yeah, whatever,” I muttered, unable to hide my anger and hurt. “I guess I’m pretty much screwed now anyway.”
He opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head and closed it. I started to get out of the truck but he reached out and caught my arm in a gentle grip. “I’m sorry.”
I responded with a sour glare. He sighed and released me, but I didn’t make another move to get out.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I was trying to protect you…keep you from getting uptight—”
“Uptight?”
