There was no answer. Bubbles knocked harder. A minute later the door was opened by a very tall cadaverous bodybuilder who loomed over Bubbles menacingly.
“Look, Morticia,” Jonathan said to Aliyah, “she has her own Lurch.”
“Fuck off,” the zombie croaked.
Bubbles only held up a beautifully scintillating bubble. “Listen,” she said, “we’d like to speak with Joey Hebert or Hoodoo Mama or whatever she wants to call herself, and we can do this the nice way or the not-so-nice way.”
“You fuckers got balls,” the zombie finally croaked, “but I ain’t playin’. You fuckers steal little kids.”
“Lilith was taking them to other hospitals,” Bubbles explained. “There was a hurricane coming.”
“Harriet.” The zombie stared. “The weather fucker kept sayin’ she was goin’ to Houston, but I guess you cocksuckers knew what you were talkin’ about after all.” He opened the door farther, stepping back.
It was an invitation of sorts, and as they walked in past more and more zombies, Aliyah paused, stricken. The third zombie was a girl, barely seventeen. She could have been Aliyah’s sister except for the cuts on her wrists. The American Hero T-shirt she was wearing showed the Jackalope from the current season instead of Simoon. Aliyah put out her hand, almost touching the girl’s face, then stopped, looking her own death in the face for the first time.
Her hand began to shake, her fingernails drifting into sand.
Take off the earring, Ellen thought. Now. I can handle this.
Aliyah didn’t have to be told twice. Even oblivion was preferable to the awful truth. And as she slipped the earring out with one hand, the sand snapped back into place on the other.
Ellen stood eye to eye with the dead girl. She was acutely aware that while Bubbles was invulnerable and explosive and Jonathan could turn into countless stinging insects, all she could do if the zombie decided to strangle her was scream and flail at it with her purse while trying to put on an earring—and even once she had the earring on, there were no guarantees that Aliyah would be any help. She missed Nick even more and for all the wrong reasons.
She sniffed then. Inside the apartment was the peculiar odor of lemongrass, and Ellen realized it was coming from the zombies. “That’s Van Van oil and Chinese wash,” a girl’s voice said to her unanswered question. “Us hoodoo women use it for rootwork.”
Ellen turned her head, looking away from the honor guard of zombies, across the room to where the young woman lounged in a purple wingback, flanked by two large, menacing, undead pit bulls and lit for mood or just lack of power by a dozen large votive candles marked with vodoun veve patterns. It was a pose calculated to intimidate and was doing the job admirably.
“It’s your crutch for making the zombies,” Jonathan surmised.
“Fuck no,” said Hoodoo Mama, “I just use it to keep the fuckers from stinkin’ up the place. Axe doesn’t last long enough. Sometimes fuckin’ old school works best.” She gestured to the matching purple couch facing her chair, its back in convenient throttling range of the zombie honor guard. “Have a seat. Let me get you some refreshment. You fuckers like beer-can chicken?”
“It’s pretty good,” Bubbles allowed, sitting in the middle of the couch. Jonathan sat down to the right of her and Ellen perched on the opposite arm.
Hoodoo Mama smiled proudly. “Nobody makes it like I fuckin’ make it.”
There was a thumping and banging then, from the kitchenette to the right of the couch, and the closest zombie, a woman in a KISS THE CHEF apron, went and opened the door of the refrigerator. A quartet of headless plucked chickens gamboled out of the bottom drawer trailing butcher paper, clambered up to the nearest counter by means of a stepladder, and proceeded to sodomize each other with beer cans provided by the zombie.
She offered the remaining cans from the six-pack to Jonathan and Bubbles, who passed, watching the chickens in horrid fascination. Ellen, however, accepted, smiling, and popped her can as the zombie served the last to Hoodoo Mama. It was a test, and when the girl raised her beer, Ellen did the same and drank. It was cold, refreshing, and what she needed.
“You think I can get a job at Brennan’s?”
Ellen shrugged and took another sip of beer, keeping the earring carefully palmed in the opposite hand. Bubbles and Jonathan continued to stare as the sodomized chickens proceeded to breakdance in a roasting pan coated with seasoning salt.
“You’re a fuckin’ cold bitch, you know that?”
Ellen chose to take it as a compliment. “I’ve been dealing with the dead for a while.”
“So who the fuck are you? I seen these fuckers on TV.” Hoodoo Mama jerked her beer can toward Bubbles and Jonathan. “I ain’t seen you before.”
Ellen gestured to her throat with the hand with the earring. “You can call me Cameo.”
The girl squinted at her. “You’re that fucker from the hospital!” The zombies all took a step forward. The zombie pit bulls bared their fangs.
Ellen came to her feet as well, armed with nothing more menacing than a can of weak beer and the earring of a hysterical teenage ace who’d probably be even less help. “So are you.”
“So what? You’re gonna electrocute me now?”
“I could,” Ellen lied, “but my power’s more than that. I channel the dead, and I channel their powers. You’ve already met my friend Nick.” A beer can was not a will-o’-wisp, but if she held it in her fingertips, it felt the same, and Hoodoo Mama could see the pose. “He’s the shocker.” She gritted her teeth, forcing herself not to betray any emotion or any hint that she would probably never be able to call Nick again. “But don’t worry, you got your licks in.”
“Heh,” Hoodoo Mama snorted, leaning back in her chair. “Guess I did.” She gestured to the zombies and they stepped back to their former positions, all except for the chef, who proceeded to put the chickens in the oven and adjust the dials.
“You ran over my ass, too,” Jonathan mentioned lamely.
The girl ignored him, still looking at Ellen. She took a sip of beer. “So,” she said after a while, “this morning, that really fuckin’ was Miss Partridge?” Ellen nodded. “Fuck,” the girl swore. “I really liked that ol’ lady. She was one of the few fuckers who ever gave a damn about me.” She rubbed at the corner of her eye and then slammed her beer, seeming to reach a decision. “So what do you fuckers want?”
Ellen glanced to Bubbles, who was sort of official spokeswoman, even if Ellen had been doing most of the talking. “Well,” Bubbles said slowly, “what we’d like is for you to stop screwing us up. We’re trying to save people’s lives here.”
“What about that fuckin’ vampire bitch, Lilith?” The girl glared. “She’s been stealin’ little kids. I ain’t read much of the Bible, but I fuckin’ know about Lilith the Child Stealer.”
There was a glance between the Committee members, and Jonathan was the first to answer: “She just thought the name sounded sexier than Teleporting Eurotrash Girl.”
Josephine Hebert handed her empty can to the chef zombie. “Okay, I’ll fuckin’ give you that.”
“You know,” Bubbles said, “there are two more storms. We could use your help.”
Jonathan opened, “The UN does have some money . . .”
“Fuck that,” Hoodoo Mama snorted dismissively. “You know how many fuckers die wearin’ wedding bands and fuckin’ diamond engagement rings? I’ve got a whole fuckin’ box full of bling.” She gestured to the mantelpiece. Amid the candles was a makeshift altar, with feathers and shells and the photograph of a woman who would have been attractive if not for the ravages of hard living. And beside the photograph sat an old wooden jewelry box.
Ellen stifled a ghoulish itch to open that box and see who lived inside it.