God, even the man's feet were beautiful.
And Bitsy had seen enough bare feet to know they should've
been, at least, unsightly. At a minimum, amusing. These
feet, though, stuck out beneath the sheet like a final
curtain call, naked, proud, without wrinkles, thickened,
yellowed skin pads or oddly crooked toes. Smooth,
sculpted, these feet did not reveal the many miles walked,
only the fine-grained desire of many miles more wished for.
At the ankles, a white cloth began and spread wide and
long across a large, unmoving body.
Above was the face, tanned and crowned by a bleached cap
of hair. A small circular scar puckered the skin above the
right collarbone, saving the man from total perfection.
Otherwise, the jawline was not too square, not too soft.
The lips tipped at the corners, teasing. The dark brows
arched, then dipped deep toward the nose, finishing the
face with an air of "to hell with you." The eyes were
closed, but they had to be blue, the blue of night secrets.
Bitsy stared at the man, following his features one by one
and thinking of dreams she'd had not so long ago.
The man was beautiful.
Beautiful and dead.
She turned away, clicking her tongue against her teeth in
a dismissive note. The sound echoed across the silent
room, the gurgling and whirring of the taps turned off for
the night. Emotion had no place here. An occasional
retching was allowed. Obligatory solemnness was expected.
But emotional control was the cornerstone of the
profession. And what had called her to her current
circumstance.
She snapped on one pair of latex gloves from a waiting
wheeled table, and then another. She stepped back,
surveying the still figure on the metal stretcher. He
must've just arrived. The skin was supple. The deceptive
flush of life had only begun to pale. The eyes would
require blue stipple work around the lids. The right lid
had opened a crack in the inside corner, but a pinch of
cream worked underneath, then firmed with Number 6, would
take care of the problem. Of course, the head would
incline slightly to put the carotid suture in shadow.
She stepped closer, drawing back the sheet at the neck,
looking for the suture. When Uncle Nelson had suggested
her cosmetology training would be useful in the family
business, she knew it was exactly the type of work she'd
been looking for. Few people understood her choice. Their
reactions ran from macabre fascination to hardly concealed
repulsion. It didn't bother her. She'd come home, seeking
peace and quiet. At the moment, she only asked from life
no more surprises. People could say whatever they wanted
about her job, but one thing was certain. There were no
surprises.
Bitsy looked up. Two blue eyes looked back at her.
Shock threw her body back. The cart she slammed into
skittered across the room. Instruments clattered to the
floor. The eyes, the exact shade she'd imagined, blinked.
She backed away, her hands reaching behind her, patting
the air, searching for something solid to grasp and
support her. Even above the room's always bitter odor, she
could smell her shameful scent of fear.
Control. Her mind repeated the command, seeking to quiet
her racing heart.
The eyes staring up at her blinked again, slowly, like a
newborn babe.
Spasmodic muscle contracture. It was not uncommon in
corpses. Some had been known to rise right up in their
caskets. As if to prove her point, the body before her sat
up.
She found the counter, fought to stay standing. The sheet
fell away from the man's upper torso, revealing a bronzed
span of muscled chest. Frantic fear beat against Bitsy's
breastbone. Her mouth opened in a silent protest as her
mind moved into overdrive, attempting to calm her. Okay,
okay. Major cadaveric spasm. She gripped the counter's
sharp edge.
The corpse's gaze narrowed, focusing. He rubbed his
forehead. Closing his eyes against the harsh overhead
light, he moaned. Bitsy ran out of rational explanations.
"You're dead." Her held breath whooshed out with the words.
The man squinted one eye open, letting out another soft
groan. His body shuddered at the room's cool temperature.
His nose sniffed the chemical smell. Shielding his eyes
with one hand, he gave Bitsy a thorough once-over. She
pulled tight the lab jacket she'd slipped on against the
room's coolness, but her leather miniskirt and fishnet
stockings were still visible. She watched the man's gaze
lift to take in her skull earrings, the white foundation,
black lipstick, her hair dyed jet-black and streaked with
silver.
He wet his lips and swallowed as if his mouth were dry.
His voice came out a croak. "Something tells me this isn't
the Pearly Gates."
"This is Memorial Manor," she said with as much dignity as
possible for someone with a bride of Frankenstein beehive.
She'd been dressing when the phone had rung. Gwen's son
had tripped over the shreds of his mummy costume and
needed stitches. Could Bitsy fill in at the funeral home
for a few hours? Uncle Nelson never left it unattended on
Halloween. Bitsy had zipped a skirt over her bodysuit and
fishnet stockings and rushed right over.
The man massaged his forehead. His hands were broad, big-
knuckled. "What's Memorial Manor? A halfway house to
heaven?" His speech was thick. He paused to wet his lips
again. "Your people must not have talked to my many fans.
They'd definitely have me first in line to fire and
damnation."
"You're not dead."
The man's mouth lazily lifted at one corner. "That's a
relief. Now, maybe you could tell me where the hell...
sorry, poor choice of words. Where am I exactly?"
"Memorial Manor is a funeral home."
The man pointed a finger at her. "But you said I'm not
dead."
"You were," she tried to explain. "Now, you're not."
"Either I'm dead..." The man swung his long legs across
the narrow gutter on the side of the gurney.
"...or I'm not." He stood up quickly as if needing the
floor's firmness beneath his feet. The sheet almost
slipped away from his body. Before he caught it, Bitsy
endured a vision of golden maleness.
She averted her head. "Believe me, you're alive."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence. Now, explain to me
what I'm doing here and how I got here?"
The slur was gone. He spoke with the strength that defined
him physically. Bitsy looked back, relieved to see the
sheet securely gathered and tucked in tight at his
waist. "There must've been a mistake."
He arched one brow. "A big mistake," she offered.
He studied her with keen, assessing eyes. "You work here?"
She nodded. Her skull earrings swayed. "And your job title
would be?"
She went for a delicate laugh. "Haven't you ever seen Vera
the Vampire Vixen before?"
"No. And yet until now, I believed I'd lived a full life,
which, according to you, I'm about to continue."
"Heck, I saw three of them tonight already on my way here
from the house. Vampire vixens were more popular than I
expected this year."
The man kneaded his forehead as if warding off a
migraine. "Who would've guessed?"
"I'll admit we do get carried away, but around here,
Halloween is like a national holiday."
The man stopped rubbing his brow. "And where exactly
is 'around here'?"
"Canaan, California."
The man still looked blank.
"About twenty miles south of San Francisco," Bitsy
explained. "The City of Death."
"The City of Death?" the man repeated.
Bitsy nodded. Her skull earrings swung. "We've got
seventeen cemeteries, one million corpses and a funeral
home on almost every corner. We've got more famous
residents here than Los Angeles — except ours are all
dead."
The man looked at her as if waiting for the punch
line. "Tina Turner's dog was buried in a fur coat at the
Pets Rest Cemetery."
The other corner of the man's mouth quirked, his smile
complete. And devastating. "It's Halloween. I'm in Canaan,
California, City of Death," he repeated. He studied her,
his large palm still shading his face, making the angled
lines longer, bolder. "You're a mortician?"
"Restorative artist," she corrected.
The man stared at her a second more before breaking into a
spontaneous laugh, his teeth flashing white. Something
seized inside Bitsy and tightened. Yearnings remembered,
desires denied. She smiled back tentatively. Alive, the
man was deadly.
"Okay, what am I doing here?" His laughter stopped.
Bitsy's hesitant smile remained. "The report of your
demise is greatly exaggerated?"
Clutching the sheet at his waist, the man began to pace,
sidestepping the large drain in the middle. Despite his
size, he moved with an unanticipated grace. He stopped and
aimed a finger at her. Bitsy pressed tighter to the
counter.
"Let's go over this once more. You're Vera the Vampire
Vixen." His finger jabbed his bare chest.
"I'm Lazarus." His one hand clutched the sheet while the
other panned the room. "And this is Memorial Manor, where
they obviously strive to put the 'fun' in funeral."
Unable to give the man the logical explanation he
demanded, Bitsy said nothing. The slim glint of a scalpel
on the floor near him caught her attention. She took a
sideways step toward the instrument fallen from the cart.
She was sure there was a reason for what had happened, and
the man seemed harm-less...but bottom line, he was a man.
A half-naked, very alive man. It was more than enough of a
combination to make Bitsy wary.
She inched her body along the counter, closer to the
scalpel.