Bubbles sighed. “All we really need is a truce.”
Hoodoo Mama shrugged. “Okay, fine, you’ve got it.” She glanced to the three of them. “Anything else you fuckers want?”
There was a long uncomfortable silence with glances between Michelle and Jonathan, and between Ellen and the watchful eyes of all the zombies before she finally settled on Hoodoo Mama’s. “Can you really see through the eyes of the dead? Even animals?”
Josephine Hebert grinned proudly. “Fuck, yeah.”
Hope is a thing with wings. In this case, a dead pigeon. A whole loft of them. “I lost something when the levee broke,” Ellen told her. “A hat. An old gray fedora.”
“You fuckin’ want me to look for a hat?”
“Yes.” Ellen bit her lower lip. “It . . . it belonged to my friend Nick.”
Hoodoo Mama gave her a sly look. “You can’t work your mojo without a personal object, can you?”
“No,” Ellen admitted. “I know you don’t want money, but if there’s anything else, anyone you’d want to talk to . . .” She glanced to the photo on the mantel, the candlelight flickering over the tired woman’s face.
Josephine Hebert looked as well. “You’re a fuckin’ dangerous bitch,” she said at last, “but fine, I’ll keep my eyes out. But not because you’ll let me talk to my mama. I’ll do it because I saw what you did for PJ. You ain’t as cold a fuckin’ bitch as you let on.”
Ellen broke eye contact with the dead woman’s photograph to look at her daughter. “Thank you.”
Hoodoo Mama nodded, then looked at all of them. “So are you gonna get the fuck out now, or you still wanna stay for dinner?”
There was a second awkward silence, broken a moment later by a digitized version of “Tiny Bubbles.” Michelle looked to the zombies, then fumbled open her Hermès bag and got out her cell phone. Ellen glanced over and was able to read the text message just received: Michelle—Help, please. I’m in danger. Please come. I’m in Cross Plains, TX.—Niobe.
Bubbles quickly stowed the phone back in her bag but was visibly disturbed. “Would you be terribly offended if I took a rain check on the dinner? A friend of mine needs help.”
Hoodoo Mama flicked a hand. “Fine by me. Y’all should come for Thanksgivin’. I do self-bastin’ turkey.”
Back at the Place D’Armes Ellen let herself into her room. She didn’t like old rooms. They came with too much history, and this one was no exception. Whatever the reason, and today there was a particularly excellent one, the maid had not been in. Slowly, reverently, Ellen put her purse on the dresser, took out Aliyah’s T-shirt, and hung it up to dry. Then she picked up Nick’s jacket and sat down on the bed, clutching the fabric with both hands.
The tears came again, but there were no memories, none strong enough for her to call him back. It was an empty shell, without even a trace of the ghost of the man she’d made it for.
There was a soft knock on the door. “Who is it?” Ellen choked out.
“Uh, Jonathan. Can I come in?” She didn’t answer, and he took that for a yes. “Are you okay?”
“Do I look like I’m okay?”
“Not really, but you seemed kind of glad to see me earlier, and, well, I was thinking about what Nick said to me before . . .” He sat down on the bed beside her. “About how a man should treat a lady. I haven’t treated you very well.”
“It happens. When you were sleeping with Aliyah, I was thinking about Nick.”
“Ouch.” Jonathan sighed.
Ellen looked at him. “Were you honest when you said I was easy on the eyes?”
Jonathan grinned, his eyes twinkling poison green. “I think we both know the answer.” He reached out and touched her hair, which was in a state after the levee breach and the hurricane. “But I think we could both stand a shower.”
Ellen looked mournfully at Nick’s jacket. Then she set it aside. Nick was dead, had always been dead as long as she’d lived. To everyone but her at least and at last.
Jonathan was alive, and he wanted her. And if some bit of Nick’s wisdom, his gentlemanliness, his simple gallantry, had passed to Jonathan, then good. And even if not . . .
He tasted like nectar to her, to Ellen, with no other soul in between. He reached up, pulling her dress and her slip both down by the shoulders, working the zipper and letting the whole fall into a beaded pool around her feet. She did the same with his pants, his bony thinness making this simple, and a half minute later they were both stumbling into the shower, laughing as they worked the taps and got the right temperature, soaping and exploring the shape of each other’s bodies. Starting fresh, starting clean, with no other impressions.
The suds ran smooth down her body and he stroked her breasts, touching her nipples, bringing them full and alert until his talented tongue tasted each in turn, then traced his way down, and then up. Then he entered her, and embraced her, and they kissed, no ace powers except the honey of his taste and her hands on his back, feeling the impressions of the women who had touched him before. There weren’t very many.
They tumbled out into towels, Ellen letting him take the hotel robe. “Fresh linen,” she said. “It’s . . . a bit of a fetish of mine. . . .”
Jonathan grinned. “Easily done.”
He ducked out into the hall and a minute later came back with an armload of fresh sheets, stripping the bed and making it for her. She lay down atop the bed, naked, and they set to the second round of their lovemaking. Halfway through, Ellen reached out to the bedside table and retrieved the earring, the simple bit of silver and Swarovski crystal. She handed it to Jonathan. “Be a gentleman and do the honors.”
“But I was wanting to be with you.”
“And last time you were wanting to be with her.” She placed a finger on his lips, stilling them. “This way, you can be with us both. Care for a threesome?”
He grinned. “I contain multitudes. Sex with me is never that few.” He then leaned down and kissed her, then the next moment, slipped the earring into her ear. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. Your Prince Bugsy awaits.”
“Jonathan?” asked Aliyah. “What happened?”
Everything’s fine, thought Ellen. Hoodoo Mama’s not going to bother us.
Aliyah took stock of her body, Ellen’s body. “We’ve been having sex.”
“Just picking up where we left off.” Jonathan’s eyes twinkled. “You okay with that?”
“Oh, yeah.” She reached out and grabbed him.
Political Science 401
Walton Simons & Ian Tregillis
MANDY PARKED THE CAR near what looked like the center of Cross Plains. She adjusted her gear, which was probably a good idea, and they all got out.
He’d gone maybe two steps when his nose caught the scent on the wind. Corn dogs! There was no other smell like it on the face of the earth. Maybe Bubbles was near the corn dogs, maybe not, but that’s where Drake was going.
The street he was walking down would have been the main road in Pyote, but even Cross Plains was a lot bigger than Pyote. He imagined what it would be like to chow down on a corn dog, cotton candy, and a huge Coke. Miserable as he was, food had always done the trick for him. He’d been starving lately, and had even been nibbling on bits of his own sunburned skin when he knew Niobe wasn’t looking.
Drake stepped out into an open area and stopped dead in his tracks. It was like he’d gone from Texas to WoW in an instant. There were people, grown-ups, walking around with swords and helmets and shields. Some were wearing furry pants and others even smaller furry pants. There was one man wearing a scary-looking preacher costume. He had a sword and an old flintlock-style pistol. Then Drake saw a woman. She was wearing a chain-mail bikini. Even the she-elves in games wore more than this woman. Mandy fit right in with these folks.