How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back (23 page)

I wasn't quite ready to head inside, so instead I crossed the street to the little park across from the hotel. Up close and at night, it wasn't all that pleasant. Two of the benches had homeless men on them, and a couple of people wearing hoodies and baggy jeans huddled together on the far side of the fountain. Something changed hands, and the two walked off in opposite directions. Common sense told me to return to the hotel, especially since I was still in the battered evening gown and barefoot, but I didn't give much of a shit about common sense at that moment.

A guy with scraggly hair and a pinched face, with the desperate eyes of a drug addict, began to sidle up to me. I snarled at him and made a mock-lunge, and he scampered off. I swept my gaze around to make sure no one else assumed I was an easy target, but the others seemed to sense the monster beneath and kept their distance. Or maybe I simply looked totally crazy. Either way worked for me. Satisfied, I checked the time. Only nine-thirty back home. I punched in my dad's cell phone number.

“
What?
”

The snapped-out question caught me briefly off guard before I remembered my dad didn't have this number in his contacts. “Um, Dad?”

I heard a quick intake of breath. “Angel?
Angel?
”

“Yeah, it's me.” I had to work hard to control the slight tremble in my voice as a wave of homesickness swept through me. “Just calling to check in, y'know? Make sure you're doing okay.” I saw the scraggly druggie returning, and I bared my teeth at him.

“Yeah, sure. I'm okay,” he replied. “How 'bout you? You still, um . . . You still in Denver?”

“Sure am. Staying in a real nice hotel. Four stars.” I laughed, but it sounded strained. The connection was crappy and cutting in and out, but it was damn good to hear his voice, even with static. “Nicest place I've ever been.” His words abruptly registered.
Why did he specifically say Denver when he knew it was a cover story?
My worry rose. “You okay, Dad? Are you at the house? Is someone there with you?”

“Yeah. I mean, no. Shit! That was a lot of questions, Angel,” he grumbled. “I'm fine. With Rick at his house.”

I grimaced. Rick Belluci. Bad enough my dad went on a double date with him, but Rick's house was where some of the worst drinking used to happen. “You sure that's a good idea? He can put down a six pack in about an hour.”

“I ain't seen him drink yet,” he told me, “and that don't matter anyway. Not with him taking me in like he did.”

“Wait. Taking you in? Why?” I shook my head as if that would help things make sense. “You're sleeping there?”

“Well, I spent last night here and prolly gonna stay tonight as well.”

I reached up to grip my hair. “But you
hate
going to his house!”

“Huh? I ain't never been here before. You should know that. You sure you're okay?” He paused. “Uh, maybe you need a . . . snack?”

“What? No! I'm not hungry. Not like that. You're the one I'm worried about.” I scowled. “Every time you get back from Rick's house you complain about how it stinks like old cabbage and how he keeps the TV full blast and how the toilet's always clogged.”

He made an aggravated noise. “Shit, Angel. Why the hell would I be at Rick Belluci's house? I ain't been to his house since he got busted for drunk driving his four-wheeler through the Tucker Point High School homecoming game, and his ex-mother in law moved in. I'm at
Nick's
house.”

That still didn't make any sense, and my poor brain refused to help me out. “Nick? Nick who?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered. “Your Nick. From the morgue.”

“Why—” I needed a couple of seconds to completely shift my thinking. Not that it helped. “Why the hell are you at my Nick's house?”

My dad took a deep breath. “'Cause he came to our place to check on me 'cause of the fake lawyer and your phone, then there was a car out front that left when a cop car drove by, so I came here.”

I fought to understand any of that but finally seized onto the “phone” part. “Oh! My phone! It made it to the coroner's office? And what fake lawyer?”

“The fake lawyer that came looking for you at work. Supposedly she wanted to give you a bunch of money from a trust fund or some shit like that, but because your phone rang, the other guy, um,” I heard someone speaking in the background, “Huh? Oh, okay. Allen. Yeah, Allen didn't fall for it and didn't tell her nothin'.”

With anyone other than my dad I'd have thought they were fucking with me. Once again I dug through the nonsense. “Someone was looking for me? And what was the deal with the car and the cop?”

He made an exasperated noise. “You're makin' this hard, Angel,” he said, and in that moment it was a damn good thing he was over a thousand miles away. “Your phone rang in the box and they figured something was wrong, 'cause phones don't usually show up in the mail there. When the fake lawyer turned up, Allen saw right through it and didn't tell her shit. Then Allen and Nick figured someone should check on me, so Nick came out. That's when the car stopped out front being all suspicious and mysterious-like, and Nick called the cops. With the, er, trouble going on and everything,” he cleared his throat, “y'know, I figured I needed to get outta there. I was gonna go into town, but Nick brought me here instead.”

“Oh.” Holy shit, I actually understood him. “You're staying with Nick?” And I still sounded like an idiot. “That's really cool. Can I talk to him?”

“Sure. He's right here.”

I heard some rustling and then, “Angel?”

“Nick!” The homesickness ratcheted up a notch. “What's the deal with my dad?”

“I went to check on him, and a suspicious car stopped out front,” he said, automatically slipping into the cadence of giving a report or testifying. “He told me there'd been trouble before, and with you mailing the phone to yourself, and the woman looking for you at work, I thought it best to bring him here.”

“You're so fucking awesome,” I said with a smile. “You have no idea how much I appreciate this. What did the woman look like?”

He cleared his throat. “Athletic-looking black woman with braids that reached to mid back. She had a business card, but there's no firm by that name.”

Rachel Delancey, Tribe security second-in-command. Not a Saberton person. “Okay. I know who that is. I can't imagine you'll have any more trouble from her.” I doubted Rachel would do anything to hurt my dad. She was after Kyle, not me. “Are you
sure
you're okay with my dad staying with you?”

“It's no trouble. I have plenty of room.” Nick paused. “Are
you
okay? Your dad won't tell me anything.”

Relief and regret coiled together. Nick was a good guy and would watch over my dad like his own, but there was no way I could let him know what was really going on. “I'm okay,” I told him. “I promise. I'm here with some other people. And, well, I can't talk about it. Sort of a nondisclosure thing, y'know?”

“As long as you're okay, that's all that matters,” he replied, voice upbeat but with a layer of stress and worry he couldn't completely hide. “And you're going to
stay
okay, right?”

I couldn't help but smile. “I will, I promise.”

“Good. Dr. Leblanc misses you, so come back soon.”

“As soon as I possibly can.” The homesickness swelled up again, and I had to quickly scrub at my eyes. “I miss you guys too.”

I caught a whiff of the scraggly druggie even as I saw movement out of the corner of my eye, and only my zombie reflexes made it possible for me to twist away before he could snatch my phone. “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME, YOU GODDAMN LOSER!” Growling, I slammed the palm of my other hand into his chest to send him staggering back to fall on his ass. “And take a fucking
bath!
”

I heard someone frantically calling my name then realized it was Nick. I yanked the phone back up. “Hey, sorry about that, Nick.” I raised a fist and took a threatening step toward the druggie as he scrambled up. He backpedaled, then finally had a smart idea and hurried off. “Some dickwad here, uh,” I quickly shifted what I was going to say since telling him that someone had tried to steal my phone probably wouldn't go over well, “he, um, keeps wanting a handout.”

“Angel, where
are
you?” he asked, worry thick in his voice.

“Across the street from my hotel,” I said glibly, avoiding a direct answer. “It's all cool. Can I speak to my dad again, please?”

“But . . .” He sighed. “Sure.”

My dad took the phone. “What happened?”

I scowled. “Some fucking druggie tried to take my phone, so I knocked him the hell down. Stupid jerk.”

“Kick his fuckin' ass!” He gave a quick cough, and I easily pictured his guilty glance at Nick. “I mean, that's what he deserves, y'know.”

I laughed. “I got it covered. Don't worry.” I wanted to tell him how messed up everything was, but I knew it would only worry him more. “It's really good to hear from you. I love you and miss you.”

“Love you too, Angelkins,” he said, with a rich warmth in his voice that brought tears to my eyes again. “You know when you're coming home?”

I winced. “No. Not yet. I'm sorry.”

“You call me again soon, y'hear?”

“As soon as I can.”

I hung up after we said our goodbyes then made my way across the street again. To my surprise the doorman gave me a very nice, “Good evening, ma'am,” as he opened the door for me, and didn't bat an eyelash at my bedraggled appearance. Made me wonder what the hell
would
earn an eyelash-bat.

Yet, as I entered, I caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure leaning against a building about half a block down the street. Kyle, who'd obviously seen my complete lack-of-common-sense park visit and had stuck around to be sure I remained in one piece. I smiled and continued inside while Kyle pushed off and headed the other way.

Naomi was in the process of hanging her jacket in the closet when I came in. Her eyes swept over me and widened in shock. “What the
hell
happened?” she demanded. “I thought everything went down as planned. Jane came out, and then we got the signal to return to base.”

I trudged toward the bathroom. “Well, the good news is that I found Brian,” I said, peeling off the fucked up dress as I went, noticing barely in time that Philip was in the room as well.

“What?” Naomi hurried me into the bathroom then helped me with the zipper. “Did you take him out?”

I explained what happened as I stripped down and scowled at the various scrapes on my forearms and knees. “And now I need to get cleaned up so I can go talk to Jane even though it's late as hell.” I grimaced. “Sorry about the dress. And, I lost the shoes when I was making a run for it.”

She peered at the ruin of the gown. The rip at the knee could maybe be dealt with by making the dress a
lot
shorter, but the stain on the front was such a combo of street-grime that I doubted there was any way to get it out. “Yeah, you sure did a number on it.” Then she smiled and shrugged. “No worries. You're in one piece, and that's way more important.”

She gave me a quick hug, then went out to get a change of clothes and a slice of brains for me. About the time I finished cleaning up, Kyle returned with a brown paper bag containing a big jar of loose algae and two bottles each of algae capsules and Vitamin C.

After taking a whiff of the loose stuff, I opted for the six capsules. It wasn't that it smelled
bad
, but props to Kyle for having the foresight to get pills. I choked down the algae and three C's with a full bottle of water, and in ten minutes the spongy rot on my face faded to a patch of odd discoloration that I could cover with makeup—or at least make it less
OMG what the hell is that on your face?
I checked the places on my side, arm and thigh as well and was enormously relieved to find all of them significantly less icky. Meanwhile, Philip had mixed the loose algae with water to create something resembling industrial sludge and slammed it down. Hardcore.

“You can barely see it,” Naomi reassured me after I peered in the mirror for the umpteenth time.

“Not fair,” I said, glancing past her to Philip and the matching blemish on his jaw. “It makes
him
look tougher.”

“No, it makes him look like he missed a patch shaving,” Naomi corrected with a grin.

“As long as he looks equally silly,” I said.

Philip gave a long-suffering sigh. “Are we done destroying the last shreds of my self-esteem?”

“For now.” I punched him lightly on the upper arm. “C'mon, let's go see Jane.”

Jane was staying at the Langston Arms Hotel which, I was told, was as nice as The Fairbourne but smaller and more low key, and apparently better for security purposes.

The lobby was fully carpeted in patterned royal blue, and along with cream colored walls and off-white cushy chairs, had a light, cool feel. The desk clerk didn't bat an eye when I told him I was there to see the congresswoman, and obligingly called up to the room. I had little doubt my reception would've been far different—probably involving burly security guards—if I hadn't phoned Jane to let her know I was on the way over for a midnight rendezvous.

“Someone will be down momentarily to escort you to her room,” he informed me, then gestured toward a bank of elevators.

Philip and I moved that way, and a few minutes later Jane's bodyguard, Victor, stepped out of the elevator. He held the door while he looked beyond us and around, then beckoned us in with two fingers.

I hurried to get in but Philip simply glanced at Victor and stayed where he was. “I'll keep watch down here, ZeeEm.”

I hesitated, then nodded. Better to keep it as simple and nonthreatening as possible. Once the doors closed Victor slid a key card into a slot, then put in a code on a keypad. He remained silent, gaze steady upon me as the elevator rose, and when the doors opened he led the way down the hall to a set of double doors. Once again he used a key card and a code for entry, then proceeded into a suite about the same size as the one at The Fairbourne, but with tons of dark wood, antique-looking furniture rather than the modern style of ours.

Jane stood beside the sofa wearing rich blue velour pants and a top that looked comfortable and elegant at the same time. She turned as we entered. “Angel! I tried several times to call the number you gave me but it kept going to voicemail.” She looked worried and stressed and off-center—not at all her usual self. “What on earth is going on?”

“A lot of shit,” I said with a grimace. “I'm sorry. I lost my phone.”

She sat down but didn't relax. “Where is Pietro?” she asked, tone firm. She wasn't going to put up with evasions any longer. “He doesn't answer his phone, and his assistant will only tell me that he's away on business. But why is Brian here if Pietro is in trouble?”

I glanced at Victor and then back to Jane. “Um, any chance we could talk in private?”

Jane looked to the grim-faced bodyguard. “It's all right, Victor. Could you step into the bedroom please?” He opened his mouth to speak, and she lifted a hand. “Yes, you may leave the door open.”

Victor gave me a dark look, then stalked into the bedroom, positioning himself on the far end of it, but still with a line of sight that allowed him to glare at me. I couldn't really blame him, but it bugged me that he might still be able hear our conversation.

I sat on the sofa beside Jane and lowered my voice. “Can you trust him not to repeat stuff he hears? Even if it's kind of weird?”

“I trust him completely,” Jane said, matching my low volume. “But what do you mean by weird?”

“Well, for starters, Pietro's been kidnapped, and Saberton's behind it.”

Shock swept over her features. “Kidnapped? When? Why? What are the authorities doing about it?”

“Wednesday. Three days ago,” I said, “and we can't call the authorities.”

“Why on earth not? Does this have something to do with the defense contract?” Her eyes narrowed. “Is that what the Sabers wanted?”

“Huh? No.” I shook my head, though now that she'd said it I wondered if maybe there was more going on here. “It has to do with a . . .” What the hell, I'd try the same approach I used with Randy. “A medical condition he has. And I have. Brian and a bunch of others too.”

That caught her off guard. “Medical condition?” Her eyes narrowed. “Is it related to the blotch that appeared on your face?” She peered at my jawline, clever eyes noting that it was still there beneath the makeup.

I automatically lifted my hand to my jaw, grimacing. “It's related. Kind of. Saberton wants to, er, find out more about how the condition works, and I think they wanted to kidnap
you
earlier today in order to put pressure on Pietro.” My thoughts returned to her comment about the contract. “But I might have been wrong,” I confessed. “I think maybe they might also want to pressure Pietro and, in turn, you, to get them that defense contract they want so damn badly.” I considered it for another couple of seconds then blew out my breath. “Yeah, that actually makes a
lot
more sense, though I'm still glad I got you away from them.”

“So am I, to be honest,” Jane said. “But what could they possibly want to pressure Pietro about?” Her gaze remained steady upon me, and I had to fight not to squirm beneath it.

“Um, about the medical condition. And his organization, I guess.”

She leaned closer. “And
why
aren't the authorities involved?”

Damn it, I was utterly out of my depth. I felt my shoulders hunching. “The medical condition is . . . it's pretty weird.”

She straightened and pressed her lips together in obvious annoyance. “Angel Crawford,” she said, snapping the name out with more authority than my third grade teacher ever had, “that is the second time you've used the word ‘weird.' This is
Pietro
,” and the unspoken
My
came through with that. “I need to understand, because right now I want to pick up the phone and call the FBI.”

I groaned. “Okay. Shit. Shit.” Damn it, Brian would kill me but at this point what the hell choice did I have? I stood and moved to the little kitchen area of the suite, and a couple of seconds of digging in the drawers produced a small knife. I tested the edge with my thumb. It would be sharp enough for what I needed to do. Good thing I had a little packet of emergency brains in the side pocket of my cargo pants.

Knife in hand, I began to move back toward Jane. She stood up in alarm, even as I registered a blur of motion to my left.

In the next instant my face met carpet, with Victor on top of me and my breath somewhere in the Hudson River. In less than a second he had the knife out of my hand and secured somewhere on his person. My face was squished against the floor, but I managed to squawk out, “I wsnt ging to hrt her!”

“Angel!” I saw Jane—or rather, from my angle, Jane's shoes and lower legs—take a few hesitant steps toward me. “What were you going to do with that knife? Victor, let her up, please.”

Victor shifted off me and gave me some not-very-gentle help getting to my feet. I narrowed my eyes at him, but not because he'd pissed me off. Hell, he'd done exactly what he was supposed to do, and I'd been a fucktard for coming at Jane with a knife, or at least looking as if I was about to.

Yes, Victor had done his job very well.
Very
well, and the speed with which he'd made it from the bedroom to me had been pretty darn impressive. He met my gaze with an expressionless one of his own. I took a slow step toward him, pleased when he didn't retreat—not that I expected him to flinch. But even better, he didn't pull back when I leaned close, inches from the side of his face, and
sniiifffffffed.

“What the
hell
is going on?” Jane demanded, baffled frustration heavy in her voice. Okay, I totally understood how the part where I sniffed her bodyguard was the final straw.

A muscle in Victor's jaw twitched as I straightened, but when he met my eyes he gave me a very tiny confirming-though-grudging nod.

“I'm about to show you,” I said to Jane, then shifted my attention to Victor. “If I stand ten feet away from her, will you let me have the stupid knife?”

He clearly knew what I wanted to do, and he gave Jane a measuring look first, no doubt considering whether he should protect her from the knowledge I was about to give her. Apparently he came down on the side of
Jane can handle it
. He produced the knife from a pocket within his jacket, handed it to me, then stepped back.

It wasn't until I gripped the knife and stuck out my left arm that I remembered this sort of thing really hurt. I hadn't thought that far ahead. I almost asked Victor if he'd do it for me, but one glance at him and the look in his eyes told me it
might
not be such a great idea to ask him to cut me.

“Okay, Jane,” I said. “I'm about to give you a crash course on my weird medical condition.” I lifted the knife, looked down at the carpet, then backed up a few feet until I was on the tile of the kitchenette, all while Jane watched me as if I was insane. She probably wasn't far from wrong.

Before I could chicken out, I stuck the point into my forearm, then pulled it down and across to slice a deep gash. “Fucking shitballs,” I gasped as the pain shot up my arm in a burning wave.

Jane sucked in a sharp breath. “My
god!
Angel!”

Thankfully the pain dulled after only a couple of seconds. I dropped the knife and grabbed a towel off the counter to catch the worst of the blood, then pulled it aside to make sure Jane could see the gash was real and not some sort of sleight of hand special effects bullshit. Yet I also didn't want her to freak too hard at the sight of me standing here bleeding in the kitchen. Besides, that wasn't the point of this. With my other hand I yanked the little baggie out of my pocket, opened it with my teeth, then gulped down the contents. Within seconds the gash began to close at the edges. I wiped the blood away with the towel again so that she could see it continue to close. Within half a minute the gash was only a red line, and after a dozen more seconds even that was gone.

I looked up at Jane with more than a little trepidation, silently praying I wouldn't see disgust on her face. Wasn't sure I could handle that from her. But she simply stared, utterly dumbfounded. As I watched, a realization spread across her face.

“That's how . . .” She trailed off and sat heavily.

I turned to the sink and washed the blood off, then cleaned up the floor. Figured she needed a minute or two to process everything anyway. Once everything was spotless I moved to the sofa and sat a few feet from her. “That's how what?”

She took a shaky breath, still staring at my arm. “That's how Pietro and Brian walked away from the car wreck that should have killed both of them, isn't it?”

Only a few months ago she'd had a broken leg, and Pietro had been sporting a wrist brace I knew damn well he hadn't needed. “Yeah, it's kind of hard to kill us,” I admitted.

She took another breath, deeper this time and much less shaky, visibly pulling herself together and regaining composure. “I don't understand. What kind of medical condition is this? And why is it secret? It's
miraculous.
” She shook her head. “Pietro could have told me.”

“It's secret because . . .” I fidgeted. “Well, because the way we stay alive is kind of gross. The stuff in that baggie was—” I shot a desperate look at Victor and got a
You're on your own
one in response. Sighing, I turned back to Jane. “It's brains.”

The poor woman once again looked dazed. “What kind of brains?”

My shoulders hunched. “Human brains,” I said, voice small. “It's why I work in a morgue—so I can get them and survive.”

She paled and pressed a hand to her stomach. “You
eat
human brains?
Pietro
eats human brains?”

“Only after they're dead,” I insisted and tried not to think about the two times I'd helped someone along to being dead enough to be my dinner. “We call ourselves zombies, 'cause it kind of fits, y'know? But we're not bad people. I swear.” Mostly. Shit. “Please, just try to think about what you know about me and Pietro and Victor.”

I realized my mistake the instant the name was out of my mouth, but by then it was too late. Jane's gaze snapped to her bodyguard. “
Victor?
”

Oooh, if Victor's look could have killed I'd have been a smoking pile of ash on the carpet. Jaw so tight I thought his teeth would break, he pulled his attention to his employer. “Yes, ma'am,” he said after only a small hesitation—no doubt while he was trying to decide if he could quickly wring my neck and then claim he had to do so because I was obviously stark raving insane and no, of course he didn't eat brains because that was ludicrous, right?

At this rate I was going to get a gold medal at Fucking Up. “Sorry,” I mumbled to Victor.

Jane folded her hands into her lap and crossed her legs at her ankles, visibly donning her armor of Cultured Southern Woman. She had a spine of steel, this one.

“And the Sabers know about all of this,” she said slowly. “And they have Pietro. But,” her brow furrowed, “Brian was with them.”

“Brian managed to get to one of our other guys before Saberton did,” I explained. “He told me he was at the party trying to get info about Pietro. I'm not a hundred percent sure, but I'm pretty sure we can trust him.”

Her hands tightened in her lap. “I knew I had a good reason to hate Nicole Saber.”

“Yeah, well, she's pretty cold-blooded,” I said.

“And of course you can't go to the authorities, since there's too much chance that the detail about, ah, human brains might come to light.” Her lips pursed as she put the pieces together.

I grimaced. “Pretty much.”

Jane lifted her chin. “I assume you're in the city to find Pietro?” At my nod she continued, “How can I help?”

That took me aback. I hadn't really thought past this point. “I don't really know, though I'm sure you can.” Have a congresswoman on our team? It didn't suck. “I should probably call Brian and let him know what the deal is.”

With her eyes still a tad glassy, she looked relieved to have a few more minutes to process all the weird shit I'd just dumped on her. As I moved over to the window, I gave Victor yet another apologetic look. His expression told me I probably wasn't going to be on his Christmas list this year.