Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 (11 page)

When I got home, Martin was sitting on my sofa, and he had that look in his eyes
56
. He’d taken advantage of my key maneuver; I’d given a set to him a week ago, under the ruse of hanging on to my extras, in case I lost mine. There he was, and despite being exhausted, I wanted him bad, like a kid wants an all-day jawbreaker. But something caused me to tense.

“Late evening, huh?” He walked over to meet me at the table by the door.

I mumbled a quiet yes, and set down my keys in a molded steel bowl. His arms snaked around my waist from behind, and squeezed, molding me to his frame. Our eyes met in the foyer mirror, lingered there. He rubbed his cheek against mine, a slightness of stubble scraped, breaking the fantasy. His eyes were heavy-lidded, sleepy. He smelled of soap and woods and leather and…meat.

“I couldn’t wait to see you.”

“Oh yeah? So I’m safe; you already jacked off, then?” I wiggled free from his embrace. “I don’t see any wadded-up tissues.”

“Very funny, Mandy. But you know me better than that, I’d just let it fly.”

“Gross. Remind me to go with leather when I redecorate, will ya?”

This was exactly what I needed, right? An amorous boyfriend standing in my apartment, ready for some dirty loving, whom I would, in turn, have to struggle against devouring. And, this, after the last twenty-eight hours of my undeath, my defenses worn down to a stub. Let’s recap shall we:

1. Tripped and died in a parking garage (a total piss/shit nightmare).
   
2. Attacked by a vampire (gay, but purse awareness is a plus).
   
3. Found out I’m a zombie (but made, like Ray Liota in
   Goodfellas
   , only dead).
   
4. Lost a battle with my exploding bowels (gag).
   
5. Ate some street hustlers (porcelain is the way to go for fillings).
   
6. Broke into a funeral home to steal cosmetics (high point).
   
7. Barely escaped a low-budget zombie outbreak (
   ew!
   ).
   

Suffice it to say, I was not feeling particularly horny. Not to mention, the issue of feminine lubrication and my makeup ending at my cleavage. Below that line was a hot body clad in a grey catsuit with blue veins painted on. Do you think I could convince him?

When I spun back to turn Martin down, he had already stripped off his shirt to reveal a black ribbed wifebeater. Oh, I thought, trailer park sex. Musty, sweaty, groping, white trash sex. I had to think quick.
What to do? What to do?

“Give me a sec,” I said, rushing off to the bathroom. I made a quick side trip to the nightstand for my bottle of lube.

The bathroom was a mess, an avalanche of compacts, bottles and makeup sponges. I would have to clean before the maid even showed up for her weekly visit. I tore through the drawers, hunting for that special something that might take the edge off. And, since alcohol brought some warmth to my surface skin, I yelled out for Martin. “Honey, could you make me a brandy?”

“Comin’ right up.”

In the last drawer checked, a blue glass jar with white lettering drew my attention, it read: Heet. I opened it, and fingered out a glob. I dumped the rings from a small dish on the vanity and knocked the glob off into it. Like a biochemist working for a cancer cure I mixed the thick paste with the lube. I brought the dish to my nose. Smelled okay, dense with vapors, sort of like childhood sick days, only this stuff wasn’t for rubbing on congested chests. If it worked, I’d find a way to market it to the sexually arid undead.

“What a mess!” Martin was standing in the doorway with a snifter. His pants were gone. He wore accountant boxers in white, and I wanted them, they’d look so cute on me. He turned, exposing the boxer standard baggy butt and carried my drink into the bedroom.

“Yeah, yeah.”

He was right. The bathroom was disgusting. When I bought the condo it was out of a deep resounding love for the bathroom. The scale and warmth of the fixtures. This love was second only to that of my skin—need I bring up the summer after high school? Steam, exfoliate, rinse, tone, rinse, again, and moisturize. Sweet Jesus, if you take anything from our relationship, let it be to moisturize your ass off. My skin-care regime was so easy even the most brain dead among you could follow it
57
. God help those who don’t heed my dermal warnings and their ruddy, dry (or oily, we are all uniquely afflicted), unappealing and inextricably flawed skin. I’m talking about blemishes, people, I know it’s not something we like to talk about, but by bringing it to the surface, maybe we can put an end to senseless dating tragedies and vomit-worthy family photography
58
.

“Where are you going with that drink?” I asked. I set the dish on my nightstand. Martin handed me the brandy and I sipped it gone, feeling the warmth spread to my extremities. Better make this quick, I thought. The alcohol had a tendency to burn off, and he’d made such a fuss of my temperature last time—and we all know how that ended. I had him turn off the lights before I joined him in nakedness, under the guise of a lapse into teenage self-consciousness. I, certainly, couldn’t just bare deadened blue skin, my human-looking head stacked on top, like a mask, now could I? Until I could figure out all over coverage—like a spray tan—the dark would have to do.

So we did it, made love, screwed, fucked, all of the above, whatever. The hopped-up lube worked like a jalapeno-spiked tab of Rohypnol. Martin even commented that it felt like he was inside a hot watermelon. Which caused a bit of concern—pervert? But who was I to judge?

We lay in each other’s arms, talking about his work (clients were still crazy and that’s good for business) and planning a weekend getaway. With the first lull of conversation, Martin’s breathing deepened with an inkling of sleep. I pulled away. I was sure my skin had begun its cooldown; any colder and Martin might take notice.

It’s amazing, really, that Martin didn’t suspect, or if he did, he didn’t show it. He was wonderful, gentle and warm; so
very
warm. Don’t judge me; there was a battle going on in my head. It played out like this:

With those pleasantries playing like a frenetic symphony of notes in my head, I drifted into Martin’s sweet musk and underneath that into the tantalizing aroma of flesh.

Okay.

I know what you’re thinking: enough with the flashback, already. What about Liesl’s disappearance, weird breathing, and cocktails?

I couldn’t agree more. I just like to give you all the facts, and not go running slapdash into a mystery. That wouldn’t be at all original, or frankly my style.

Let’s recap.

It was the evening after Wendy and I pulled a
midnight meat train
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on the geeky youth of America, and Convent was a happening, wall-to-wall professionals. Absolute glitter. I grabbed my cell and dialed; got voice mail, said, “Wendy, you have got to get your dead ass down to Convent, it’s all-you-can-eat down here.” I flipped the phone shut.

The last time I’d been to Convent was the night of my death. We didn’t know it at the time, but Martin was in serious danger, sitting alone, waiting for me. Beneath the gothica and mood lighting, supernaturals scoped out invited victims, and mimicked the morbid machinations of humans, to ensnare them. It was a mixed club, the undead, neverliveds and “down” humans dancing to the beat of the same drum and bass loop. Martin had been possibly seconds away from an untoward advance of the most visceral kind. When I showed up, my peers must have acquiesced to my ownership of Martin, leaving him for my dining pleasure.

Of course, on this night, I would not be dining; I was there for the client meeting with the shapeshifter Claire, soon to be famous for her mastery of the shift, if I had anything to do with it. She had secured the very same banquette that Martin had, under the heavy-handed portrait of the pensive Carmelites. Her hair was severe and blunt, make-up minimal and poorly executed. The bitch needed a makeover for that man face, bad. If only she were pretty on the inside, but sadly…not so much. Claire slid a full drink to the empty spot at the table.

“Hey Claire.” I nestled into the banquette. “Great to see you, and this.” I picked up the drink and took a sip. “Nice.”

“You too.” Claire leaned forward, shielded her thin lips from the crowds and said, “Fine dining, here tonight.” She pointed to a woman in her mid-twenties dancing atop a tall speaker column. The woman had long black hair with a skunk spot of grey that might have actually been natural; she whipped it around her head like a cyclone, writhing with the music. While it would have been fine for Wendy, Gil or Liesl to make lewd suggestions, someone from outside the group only identified themselves as crude by doing so.

“Heh, heh.” I feigned. Claire always had difficulty remaining strictly professional and I wasn’t comfortable with her same-sex-oriented innuendo or blatant passes. In the past, I’d been the object of her unmanicured groping—you’d be proud, I only threw up a little bit.

“I heard about your friend,” she said. My head spun at her like a top; I must have looked stunned. “Oh. I’m sorry, Amanda. I didn’t mean to bring up such a tough subject.”

“It’s alright. I just…well, I’m very concerned.”

“Absolutely,” Claire continued. “As you should be. A wereleopard client of mine disappeared two weeks ago.”

“Is that right? I think I heard about that,” I lied. My interest was piqued, there might just be a connection; it never hurt to dig a bit and I hadn’t been focused on finding Liesl with any sincerity. I’m embarrassed to admit, I was still a bit irritated that she had taken the entire focus away from me.

“Oliver Calver.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oliver Calver, the missing wereleopard guy.”

“Mm. What happened?” I asked. “Do they know?”

“His girlfriend told the police that he left for work at the normal time, but then the receptionist at his office said that he never arrived. I’ve heard nothing else. He just vanished off the face of the earth.”

“How did you come by the information?”

“Well, I had an evening meeting scheduled with Oliver and stopped by their apartment. His girlfriend told me what had happened.”

“Do you think she’d mind a visit?”

“What do you mean?” Claire’s eyes narrowed to slits—not a good look for her. “He’s coming back, you know. The girl does not immediately become food.”

“Oh no. That’s not what I meant at all. I mean, do you think she would mind talking to me about it? I mean…me.” I gestured to my face, while quite beautiful, striking, really, it may give away my identity, particularly my once-blue eyes, which have become lighter and lighter to the point of ice. Can you say Meg Foster?

“Oh stop it, Amanda. You totally pass for human. And even if you didn’t, this girl is familiar with supernaturals. Oliver told her everything.” She reached into her purse, a sedate Dooney & Bourke—a surprise, I expected a fanny pack—and withdrew a business card. On the back she wrote in swirling loops the girl’s name and phone number. She handed me the card, which I dropped to the table without review.

“Thanks.” I said.

“Not a problem. Good luck in your search for Liesl, but you know…” She leaned forward again, unblinking. “The succubi are a secretive bunch, they may be off somewhere doing ‘things’.” She winked on the final word. But then must have seen the look of confusion spreading across my face. “You know. Making little succubi and incubi with turkey-basters, or whatever the hell they do.”

Gross
, I thought. The idea was disturbing. I hadn’t really thought about the possibility of a job-related absence. It would explain Liesl’s disappearance, but not her negligence in clueing her friends in and certainly not her last text message. Unless…she wasn’t in agreement with the process and was forced to comply through some demonic contract. Can you tell? I’m grasping for straws and I don’t even understand that figure of speech.

Our concentration was broken by the sudden absence of techno beats and a bass boom of a voice blaring through the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please.”

On the far wall, an enormous intricately carved altar—various saints and angels pointing at grimacing demons—began a slow spotlit turn and slipped into the wall like a revolving door. The opposite side revealed a red velvet draped stage. It came to a stop, the emcee’s voice echoed through the space, “Burlesque of the Living Dead!”

The crowd broke into voracious howls, screams of delight and applause. A group of men—well…they used to be men—clung to spots at the footlights of the stage, stomping. Off to the right, another curtained area lit up, and opened to reveal a three-piece band, plucking out a traditional “bump and grind.”

Gold cords rose from either side of the main stage drawing the plush velvet back, revealing a voluptuous redhead, a silver-satin-covered ruby, arms shrouded in startlingly white opera gloves; her face grey with death and hips gyrating to the beat. She was
so
the glitter. The crowd went insane. They hooted and clapped, some of the men were visibly drooling and I don’t think this could be described as glee, possibly appetite, not glee. To my right, rapid thumps to the underside of a nearby table signaled public masturbation. I turned to check out the offender, and wished I hadn’t. A burly man with a basketball head was furiously pumping at himself, his mouth hung open and a tearstain trailed down his chubby cheek.

Claire scooted over next to my side and yelled directly in my ear, “Have you seen this one before?”

“No.”

“Fantastic. Wait until you see the finale. It’ll make you spit up your drink.”

“Special.”

The woman peeled off her clothes slowly and tossed them spinning through the air into the audience. The gloves were the first and she used them as a tether for a man’s head down front; she ground her pelvis into his face and then let him slip to the floor in a mock faint. The dress, she tore away in a single motion, revealing a ’40s era bra, seemingly connected to the panty by a shiny metal accoutrement ending at her garter belt and attached to silk stockings, the kind with a seam up the back. The dancer thrust her pelvis back and forth as she made her way from one gentleman to another, each more eager than the next. A greasy-headed business ghoul unhooked her garters with trembling blue hands. She used his shoulders to prop her legs on while slipping the stockings off. The bra was next. She reached behind her, unhooked, shook the bra loose with a series of wild twirls and grinding. Beneath it, her nipples were covered in shimmering tasseled pasties, in silver to match the dress, natch.

Claire elbowed my ribs. “Are you ready for it?” She made a quick gesture to imply that people may vomit and to prepare myself.

“Huh?”

Now I’m no prude, you may have gathered, and, yes, I eat human flesh and have seen terrible vile things since my transformation. But what came next was just, well…wrong.

Wait for it…

The woman turned to the audience and ran her hands up and down the sides of what could only be described as a zipper. It was embedded in her skin from her sternum, to somewhere inside her panties. The music slowed to a pattern of thump and cymbal with no accompaniment; the crowd hushed, some covered their eyes with loose fingers, ready to close them and shut out the vision. The dancer began to do an ad-hoc belly roll and twirled the pasties at the same time; she reached up and slid the zipper down while rolling her stomach, seductively. The tab was drawn to the band of her panties. She tore the underwear off and drew the zipper to its final destination, just north of her vagina. She rubbed the sides of her belly and the motion caused her abdomen to open like a shaggy grin. Intestines spilled out of the cavity onto the floor. The dancer continued to bump and thrust, twirling her guts around her shoulders like a feather boa. I noticed that her innards were either embedded with gemstones, or bound with strands of pearls, emeralds and sapphires. There may have been rubies but those could not be distinguished from the swollen redness of the bowel, itself. A murky slosh burped from her abdomen, onto the stage boards, like chum from a trawler. The woman’s face contorted in a stroke of orgasmic acting, as the curtains descended. I drained my cocktail, a Black Magic (see inset); I needed a little magic, just then, to soothe my stomach; it was flopping like a dying fish.

Black Magic

 

1½ oz. vodka

¾ oz. Kahlua

1 dash lemon juice

Serve in a Collins glass with ice.

Garnish with a lemon twist.

The crowd was of two minds: impressed and disgusted; hands covered mouths while others clapped wildly over smiling faces. Screams and laughter blended together into a roar of astonished bewilderment
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.

Claire nudged me and pointed across the room, where a woman was, at that moment, rising from a crouch over a now-filthy spew-covered trash can. When she finished wiping her face, I realized it was Wendy. We ordered another round and tried to stop laughing.

I’d taken to doing supernatural marketing projects on the side, just until I got up the nerve to sell my share at Pendleton, Avery, and Feral. We mulled over a marketing campaign for her consulting firm, but my mind wandered to Liesl, again. I planned to call the wereleopard’s girlfriend the next day, generate some movement in the search. I glanced down at the card still faceup on the table; I hadn’t taken a good look before.

Rochelle Ali—555-9063

My mouth dropped open.

“I’m going to get going, Claire.” I scooted from the booth. “It was great meeting with you. I’ll have Marithé, my assistant, contact you when we’ve prepared a workable strategy.” I excused myself and stepped out into the mist to clear my head.

Outside of Convent, a storm was brewing. Both figurative and literal flashes of lightning pierced the night sky, as well as that sustained darkness that is my mind. I was flabbergasted, flummoxed, one or the other, both. The name was instantly identifiable. I had just seen the bitch, oddly enough, on the same night that Liesl blew town. At the Well, she was on the arm of the diminutive Cameron Hansen. That’s right, folks; Rochelle Ali was that princess of the elements, the plastic-surgery-riddled Channel 8 weathergirl. Whore. I struggled to draw air into my dead lungs. A spark was catching fire in me, and I needed Wendy. Where was she?

I headed back inside.