Page 9 of The Undead

“We get plenty done.”

“Mmm. My goodness, and I thought you were in a bad mood.”

“I am. Can’t you tell?”

“Eight damn years,” Maggie sighed, and put her head on my shoulder. Her hair fell over my skin like satin. I traced the rising bud of her nipple with my fingers. “I can’t believe you can still do this to me—and I can’tbelieveyou’re doing it when I’ve got to leave. I’ll be late for work, Mikey.”

“You started it,” I argued, and touched my tongue to that rose-colored flesh. She shivered hard against me and did her hands over my forehead. Right on the bump.

I suppose I made some sound of pain. The shock made me go a little faint, so I’m not sure; when my eyes focused again, Maggie was frowning at the state of my skull. Her eyes were wide and frightened—and then angry.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me you ran into a goddamned door, aren’t you?”

“It’s nothing, Maggie.”

“Yeah, right. You got double vision? Hallucinations?”

For a strange, disorienting minute, the dark panic of the park was overlaid with a translucent memory of the morgue, and Adam speaking from a great distance. I shut my eyes and chased the memory, but it got away.

“No, I’m fine,” I heard myself saying, even though I wanted to blurt out my fear. I’m crazy, Maggie!“Really. It doesn’t even hurt.”

She frowned at me, scared and doubting, but I smiled. My lips smiled, at least; I was screaming inside, standing on the edge of a very long, very fatal drop. Maggie finally sighed and sat back, shrugging the nightgown back in place.

“You’re a big boy, I guess, but damn I don’t like it.” She searched my face anxiously. I don’t know what my expression told her, but she didn’t look reassured. “Mike, you don’t—you haven’t gotten into anything—strange, have you?”

“You mean like whips and chains, some bimbo in leather on the side?” I smiled, and kissed her hand. “Why would I need it? I’ve got a bimbo beyond compare of my very own, thank you for your confidence. Hey, maybe you got a little too enthusiastic last night in the throes of passion:”

“Not funny, Michael,” she said severely, and slid off my lap. “You’re being a shit. Quit it.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I took another bite of my eggs. It hurt to chew with the headache, but I needed the energy. “I’ll see you tonight when you get home, and well talk then. Okay?”

“If you’re lying to me, I’ll take it out of your hide,” she warned me, and ate the rest of her breakfast in silence. From time to time she gave me an assessing look. The cop in her wasn’t about to let this go. I lingered over breakfast, so she wouldn’t see me shuffle around, and dumped the dishes in the machine before going to the bathroom to look at the damage.

I could see, in the bright glare of the Hollywood lighting, that the bags under my eyes looked darker than rich Corinthian leather. She wasn’t kidding when she said I looked like hell. I sat down on the toilet and lowered my head into my shaking hands. Damn, it hurt. The pain came in hot waves from the base of my skull forward, dragging my stomach with it. I felt that sudden nauseating surge of disorientation again, and closed my eyes.

Adam turned, eyes questioning behind the round glasses. He opened his mouth to say something, and then he looked over his shoulder. At the reflection.

At the lack of reflection.

I reached out, while his head was turned, to touch him with tentative, wondering fingers. Before I’d come within six inches, his hand flashed out in a pale blur and caught mine in a crushing grip.

He hadn’t even turned his head yet. Now he did, very slowly, and looked at me. There wasn’t anything in his face at all; a lack so profound that it terrified more than rage.

“I’m sorry,” Adam said, very gently. His grip on my hand, though, was like a vise of bone, as add as drilled iron. His voice was distant and faintly rich with an accent I’d never noticed before. “My fault, Michael. But now we have a problem.”

“Mike?”

My head jerked up, in spite of the pain; Maggie stood there in the bathroom doorway with one hand on the knob and the other on her hip.

“Yeah?” I croaked desperately. She stared at me, doubtful and concerned.

“Mike, you look like shit, and I’m not kidding. Go back to bed. I’ve got to go; Nick’s waiting on me at the station. He thinks Angelo’s getting ready to skip, so we have to go put a scare into him.” Maggie paused and moved forward a little, still staring. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” I lied, and stood up. I forced myself to do it painlessly, at least on the outside, then crossed to her and put my arms around her. “You be careful, Detective.”

“Me? Hey, I’m not the one that looks like the loser in a championship fight.” She hugged me suddenly. I winced, but the body contact felt good. Felt safe.

“I’ll see if I can get Carl to pick up rounds for me,” I promised her, and tugged on her long golden braid. “Bring ’em back alive, Tex.”

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