Page 15 of Deader than Dead

We were standing in the living room of an apartment, the décor lodged somewhere firmly in the 1970s, all browns, oranges, and yellows. All the doors stood open, allowing me a glimpse into a kitchen that was far more modern than the living room, like someone had intended on doing the apartment up, but had run out of money after the kitchen. Either that or they’d suffered a forced eviction. Another door led into what was presumably a bedroom. I couldn’t help noticing that so far everyone in the vicinity was breathing and vertical.

As if reading my mind, Crocodile jerked his head at the bedroom door. “In there.”

I nodded, reluctance making me want to stay where I was. Something had wrapped itself around my nerve-endings, some sixth sense that told me if I went in the bedroom, things would never be the same.

Crocodile’s eyes narrowed. Fucking hell, that was terrifying, like becoming the chicken carcass to his snapping jaw. “Problem?”

“No problem,” I said.

“Then I suggest you do your job.”

“Or what?” It wasn’t the most sensible of questions to ask.

Crocodile didn’t blink. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen him blink once yet. It added to the deadly demeanor. “Or we’ll have a problem.”

“How do you normally deal with problems?” What the hell was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I just keep my mouth shut?

Crocodile gave a slow smile that wasn’t really a smile. “Quickly and efficiently.” He pointed two fingers in my direction and mimed firing a gun, complete with a little popping sound for maximum impact. When I jumped as if someone had really shot me, he laughed, the sound affecting me the same way fingernails down a chalkboard might. The other men joined in with the laughter. All except for Gold Tooth, who’d stayed by the door, watching us with a lazy amusement.

“I guess I better go in then,” I said.

“I guess you’d better,” Crocodile said.

With blood thudding in my ears, I stepped inside the bedroom. There were no sheets on the bed, the corpse lying on top of the bare mattress. Everything stopped as I stared at the man on the bed, because I knew, no matter how ridiculous it was, no matter how much anyone might argue that there was no way I could know, this was the man I’d been searching for all my life. The other half of me. My fated mate. The man who would complete me.

And he was dead before we’d ever met.

Chapter Eight

John

I had no conscious recollection of approaching the bed. One minute I was by the door and the next the bed was in front of me and I was staring down at him. He was beautiful. Or he’d been beautiful, I corrected myself. I wasn’t a necrophiliac. But no. that wasn’t right. He was beautiful. Even with the gray pallor of death, the blue lips, and the unnatural stillness, he still made my heart beat faster. It should have worried me, but it didn’t, because I understood it was just this man. That nobody else would have that same effect on me.

I was greedy for details about him as I ran my gaze over him. Slightly over six-foot if I had to hazard a guess. Although, it was difficult to tell for sure when he was lying down. Brown hair, which I suspected held flecks of red in the sunlight. High cheekbones. A lean body that said he’d looked after himself when he’d been alive.

We were dressed almost identically, only his jeans were black where mine were blue, and his T-shirt was purple, rainbow letters across his chest proclaiming that Life is for Living, the irony not lost on me. No jacket. Where was his jacket? The weather wasn’t warm enough today to have come out without one. What did that mean? Did he live here? Was he one of these people? What was it they’d called him? “A two-faced cockroach.” It felt like I should be able to make some sort of inference from that, but I couldn’t, rational thought beyond me.

How had he died? From what I could see, he didn’t have a mark on him. No blood. No bruises. No puncture marks. He looked like he’d gone to sleep and just not woken up. His eyes were closed, leaving me with a burning need to know what color they were. What was his name? Where had he lived? So many questions.

“Well?”

I jumped, Crocodile standing less than a foot away from me. I’d been so wrapped up in my own emotions and thoughts that I’d forgotten where I was and why I was supposed to be here. It was my job to bring him back. If I did that, I could find out his name. I could have a conversation with him.

One conversation to last a lifetime.

Would that ease this feeling in my chest or make it more painful? It didn’t really matter when the choice wasn’t mine to make, anyway. Crocodile had already made it clear what would happen if I didn’t go along with their plans.

“What’s his name?”

Crocodile’s stare was as cold and emotionless as ever. “Does it matter?”

I met his gaze, refusing to be cowed. “Yes, it matters. Names matter even when someone has died.” Especially this someone.

“Bellamy.”

Something rejoiced in my chest at the simple piece of knowledge, cutting through the grief. Bellamy. A good name. A strong name. Did he shorten it? Did he go by Bel? Or did he prefer the full version? More questions.

I nudged the bed with my thigh, something about the way Bellamy—I refused to think of him as the corpse—moved, setting off alarm bells. I slid my fingers around his wrist—the skin was cold, so cold—and lifted it off the bed. “Either this man has been dead for less time than I was told, or for longer.” Please let it be less.

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