The Chosen

yourself. You assert yourself, and then they’re pissed off that you’re overbearing and selfish. Lemi was grateful he didn’t have to worry about romance. I’d go fucking nuts, he concluded.

Zyra traipsed in naked, slipping into her panties. “You turn on the gas?” Lemi asked.

She only nodded. She seemed dreamy, or contemplative. Lemi squinted at her.

“What did—” He squinted harder. “How come your belly’s stickin’ out like that?”

And it was. Zyra was a hardbody—trim, toned, and zero body fat. But right now that lean stomach of hers protruded almost like she was four months pregnant, and wouldn’t that be a kick? Zyra the murderer mother. The Factotum would shit right there on the chancel floor if one of his girls got knocked up.

“I drank his blood,” Zyra said very softly, rubbing the tight belly. It was sticking out so tight her amethyst might pop out. “It makes me all warm inside, and full. I kind of like that idea. Even though he’s dead, there’s some of him still alive in me, like I’ve taken him into me, like he’s become part of me. You know?”

Lemi rolled his eyes. “Quit blabbering all that philosiphal shit and get dressed. We gotta slip.”

“That’s split, Lemi. Not slip. Jesus.” She pulled on her jeans, top, and coat, having to leave the jeans unbuttoned against the grossly distended stomach. “What’s wrong with her?” she asked, peering quizzically at Ellen.

“She passed out.” Lemi chuckled. “I guess my TCL was a little too much for the gal.”

“T-L-C, you stupe,” Zyra complained yet again, regarding Lemi’s continued ignorance of colloquialism. “Tender loving care. There’s no such thing as TCL.”

Lemi didn’t care. He hoisted the reedy black-rooted blonde over his shoulder. “Let’s split, okay?”

“Go warm up the van,” Zyra suggested. “I’ll get the guy.’’

“No need to. Just leave him. Let him burn up with the place.”

“But why?” Zyra objected. “It’d be a waste.”

“We don’t need it.” Lemi began to walk toward the door. “The Factotum says we’re all full up on meat.”

««—»»

One step at a time, Vera thought, running her finger down the rezz list at the hostess desk. Sixteen reservations. And that didn’t include the walk-ins. It was only seven thirty and the dining room was half-full. Things weren’t great, but they were sure getting better.

Donna whizzed by with a tray of covered main courses for a four-top in the corner. When she came back, Vera asked, “What’s the kitchen done so far?”

“Twenty-two, and about half of them are walk-ins,” Donna responded as she automatically tabulated a check. “The grilled Louisiana andouille is going like mad, and so is the banana-cream pie and the Michelanglo Peppers. This isn’t bad at all. I’m actually pulling some serious tips.”

“Good. If this keeps up we might have to hire a part-time waitress.”

“Over my dead body,” Donna said. She crammed a wad of bills into the tip jar. “Did you read the book?”

“Yes,” Vera close to groaned. “Ghosts from an insane asylum. The whole story was just so silly.”

“Silly, huh?” Donna shot her a wicked grin, then headed back to the kitchen. Was she