I gasp. The back wall isn’t empty. The back wall is full.
A painting of a young Elise, dissolving into the clouds, being thrown around books and music and what looks like a schoolhouse. A picture of the crab-apple tree, of a pointy white woman I assume is Beverly. Paintings of her naked with boys, with girls, with people without faces. Color, color everywhere, images, details, so much that I can’t absorb it all—her entire life.
I didn’t know she had talent like this. I wonder when she discovered it.
I wonder when she became this Elise Snow, instead of the princess I knew. Was it sudden, like my change from normal boy to raiser of the dead? Or was it gradual?
Mom was right. Elise was misunderstood—by me at least. And she did change. So did I. She became beautiful, and I became...this.
“Will it take long?” a voice asks—I can’t tell whose.
“No,” I say, shaking my head, trying not to stare at the painting. “No, it won’t.”
It won’t take long because I’m not going to wake her. I can’t. I can’t turn down Beverly’s offer. And besides, I already used some of the down payment to keep our electric bill on.
“How did she die?” I ask. I never ask this. I usually don’t want to know. I look down at her body; her hair is dark, but it’s been colored. She has tattoos of roses covering her clavicles, disappearing into the neck of her shirt.
“Does it matter?” someone asks.
No. It doesn’t. But the shadiness in the person’s voice makes me think I was right about the drug overdose. I don’t feel as smug as I expect to. I wish someone could have helped her. I mean, someone other than me, someone who could have done more than just wake her after—
No. Not wake her. I grimace.
I reach forward, take her hand. It’s difficult—rigor has set in; she’s stiff, icy. I can feel the calluses in her palm, I guess from gripping a paintbrush.
This is just a job. How is a rich person paying me not to kiss any worse than rich people paying me to kiss? It’s all about what can be bought. About using my talent to make money. I feel a swirling in my stomach, think about what the guy said about living, about making a living. He’s just a stupid hippie druggie. You have to make money. You have to survive.
I lean forward. I position my thumb so that my lips can brush it, can stay away from Elise’s skin. They’ll never catch it from where they’re standing. They’ll think I kissed her.
It’s just a job.
I plant my lips on my own thumb, Elise’s skin thick, cold, unkissed beneath it.
It feels like I’m the dead one. All I can think of is the deer in the game ranches, the ones that are fenced in. Of my dad. It isn’t fair, killing something that doesn’t have a chance.
Elise didn’t even have a chance. Her chance was bought for twenty thousand dollars.
I rise. Turn to face them.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I think she’s expired.”
A cry from the background. Their mouths drop. They quiver. Shake. They are a single creature in pain, hurt, fearful. Their eyes light upon me, fill with water.
“No, wait!”
“There has to be something else you can do!”
“Try again, just one more time!”
“Are you sure?”
“The company said six days was plenty of time!”
Their voices harmonize as I take a step toward the door, another, another, another. They need her. They miss her. These people must understand her. I wonder if they could understand me....
No. This is just a job. Just a job. Just a job.
My talent is just a job. I am just a job.
I look up. Elise Snow’s eyes rain down on me from the dozens and dozens of paintings. Blue eyes, blue like water, boring into me, asking me why.
“Please,” someone says, the guy who answered the door. He’s trembling. He’s crying. He looks broken. “Please try again. Just one more.”
I turn around, look at Elise’s body. Someone tucked her into the bed, folded the blankets neatly around her torso. Her hands were in her lap, I realize—I must have pulled one slightly astray when I took it. I wish I’d put it back.
“Please.”
I inhale. Twenty thousand dollars a year. For me, that might as well be a million. I think of the house in the woods, of not having to do this job, of getting rid of all those “Final Notice” envelopes. I think of everything money can do.
I think of all the things it can’t.
I turn, dash back to Elise’s side, slide to my knees. I brush her hair away from her face easily—it feels like feathers.
Lower my lips to hers and kiss her on the mouth, kiss her hard. Because she is not the Elise Snow that I hate. She’s the Elise Snow that I’ve never met. She’s the Elise Snow I’d like to know. That I’d like to join here in this weird warehouse. That I’d like to understand, to change with.
That I can save.
Who can save me.
I pull away, exhale. The room is silent, still, crackling.
Elise’s blue eyes flutter open.
She’s living.
We both are.
* * * * *
About the Authors
Rachel Hawkins was born in Virginia and raised in Alabama. This means she uses words like y’all and fixin’ a lot, and considers anything under 60 degrees to be borderline Arctic. Before deciding to write books about kissing and fire (and sometimes kissing while on fire), Rachel taught high school English for three years, and is still capable of teaching you The Canterbury Tales if you’re into that kind of thing. She is the author of the New York Times bestselling Hex Hall series.
Jeri Smith-Ready has been writing fiction since the night she rescued a trapped fox in the wooded hills of central Maryland. The fox turned out to be a magic muse—the sparkly hat and vest should’ve tipped Jeri off—inspiring eleven published novels so far, including RT Reviewers’ Choice–winning fantasy Eyes of Crow, as well as the PRISM Award–winning Wicked Game and Shade. Her next novel, This Side of Salvation, a contemporary YA story about a boy whose parents disappear the night they believe the Rapture will happen, will be out in April 2014. Jeri lives with her husband and two cats in a house made of tea and chocolate—or so it seems sometimes. When not writing, she can be found, well, thinking about writing, or on Twitter. Find her on the web at www.jerismithready.com, or on Twitter, @jsmithready.
Malinda Lo is the author of several young-adult novels, including most recently the sci-fi duology Adaptation and Inheritance. Her first novel, Ash, a retelling of Cinderella with a lesbian twist, was a finalist for the William C. Morris YA Debut Award, the Andre Norton Award and the Lambda Literary Award. Her novel Huntress was an ALA Best Book for Young Adults and a finalist for the Lambda Literary Award. Malinda lives in Northern California with her partner and their dog. Her website is www.malindalo.com.
Jon Skovron has been an actor, musician, lifeguard, Broadway theater ticket seller, warehouse grunt, technical writer and web developer. He has nine fingers, dislikes sweets and possesses a number of charming flaws. He was born in Columbus, Ohio, and after traveling around awhile, he has settled, somewhat haphazardly, in the Washington, D.C., area, where he and his two sons can regularly be seen not fitting into the general government scene. Visit him at www.jonskovron.com.
Saundra Mitchell has been a phone psychic, a car salesperson, a denture-deliverer and a layout waxer. She’s dodged trains, endured basic training and hitchhiked from Montana to California. She teaches herself languages, raises children and makes paper for fun. She is the author of Shadowed Summer, The Vespertine trilogy and Mistwalker, and the editor of Defy the Dark. She always picks truth; dare is too easy. Visit her online at www.saundramitchell.com.