body. So I suggest you stop acting hysterical and find her, or you’ll be looking for another job.”
Dr. Thomas spun on his heel and stalked through a pair of swinging doors, leaving Pat behind. She stared at the settling doors, hands limp by her sides.
“I’m not crazy, you son of a bitch,” she said in a small voice. Not much of a fighter, that one. Then her entire body went rigid. Slowly, she turned in a small circle, eyeing the room. Her head snapped toward the far corner, as though she’d heard a noise. I held my breath and waited.
“Hello?” she said. “Chalice? Chalice Frost? Are you there?”
Chalice Frost? I could only imagine the sort of teasing she’d endured as a child. Probably why she (I?) had turned to drugs. Not that I possessed any memory of such a thing; I only had the track marks on my arm as proof. The gash, too, and the longer I stared at it, the more convinced I became that the exposed flesh had knitted, drawing the skin closer together. Healing.
“Get it together, Pat. It’s your blood sugar, that’s all. It’s off, so you’re seeing things.”
It was just too painful. I stepped into the autopsy room, still clutching the front of my borrowed sweatpants in an ongoing attempt to protect my modesty. The door shut with a solid thump. Pat jumped and spun around. Her mouth fell open, eyes widening to impossible proportions.
“If it helps,” I said, the voice strange to my ears, “you aren’t really crazy.”
She adopted an unhealthy pallor, then fainted dead away. Her head bounced off the tiled floor with a sickening crack. I winced. She lay still, her chest slowly rising and falling.
“So much for not scaring anyone,” I muttered. Chalice’s voice was deeper than mine. It felt powerful, like I could scream to wake the dead. No pun intended.
I crouched next to Pat and checked her head, but found no gushing wound. Just a small lump. It’s not every day that someone sees a reanimated corpse. Likewise, it’s not every day a person becomes a reanimated corpse. My day was decidedly much worse, so I did the first sensible thing that came to mind. I stole her tennis shoes.
No way was I walking hell knew how far in my bare feet. The white canvas shoes fit snugly, unlike my clothes, and helped provide a bit of warmth for my ice-cube toes. I padded over to the medical examiner’s desk. A cardboard box labeled “Effects” sat on the blotter, surrounded by untidy files, scraps of paper, and other office sundries.
Inside the box, I discovered a stack of manila envelopes, each one different in thickness and weight. I sifted until I found a slim one with “Chalice Frost” printed on the front. I tore it open and upended the contents onto the desk.
Out fell a pair of sealed plastic bags. Inside one was a gold hoop—the missing belly ring—and in the second a pair of silver cross earrings. No wallet or license. No scraps of information to tell me who this Chalice chick was, besides poorly named.
I needed an address, or even a phone number. I’d broken into morgues in the past, usually to check mutilated bodies for signs of Dreg attack, so this wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar environment. I plucked her chart from the foot of the exam table. Chalice Frost, aged twenty-seven. She lived in an apartment in Parkside East, one of the last “nice” neighborhoods in the city.
The chart also listed a phone number. Pat said my—her—roommate identified Chalice’s body. Was she at home? Would she pick me up if I called? Or would she freak out and faint like reliable old Pat?
The one thing I really wanted was a cell phone. Pat had a phone on her desk, but as I reached for the receiver, I couldn’t think of a single number to call. Not even Wyatt’s number. I should have known his number. I had dialed it a thousand times. But no, the little space in my brain reserved for that string of digits was empty.
This was bad.
I tore a piece of paper from one of the M.E.’s files and scribbled down the address and phone number. With no pockets in my extra-baggy clothes, I stuck the paper in my borrowed shoes.
A daily newspaper caught my eye. Ignoring the headlines about inflated gasoline prices, I checked the date. May twentieth.
“Twentieth,” I said, trying it out. “May. Twentieth.” Nope.
It had to be a mistake. My brain was fuzzy and my memories hazy, but I knew that I set out to find Wyatt on May thirteenth. It was the day that the Owlkin Clan was attacked; the entire nest was destroyed because of me. Everything had changed two days before that, the night my partners and I were attacked by a pack of vampire half-breeds. My partners had died; I hadn’t.
The other Hunters had come after me, screaming for my head, and I’d run. I’d eventually gone to the Owlkins—a peaceful race of shape-shifting birds of prey. Then I’d been found and the Owlkins slaughtered. It hadn’t made sense then, and it didn’t make sense now. I’d given up and decided to turn myself in. To stop running. To stop getting others killed.
Had I gotten myself killed in the process? Chalice died last night, but when did I, Evangeline Stone, die? What had happened to the last seven days? And why the hell was I back?
Instinct told me that someone had screwed up. You didn’t mess with a reincarnation spell without putting all of your ducks in a row, and while my new body was strong and young, it felt untrained. Unready for the physical, painful nature of my former job as a Dreg Bounty Hunter, and whatever task still lay ahead of me. Chalice Frost could not have been their first choice—whoever “they” were. Someone should have been there to greet me when I woke. Instead, I was rooting through a dead woman’s personal effects, scaring the shit out of hapless coroners, and hoping I could get away without being caught.
Time to trek across town to Chalice’s apartment for more cash and a change of clothes. Maybe I’d even remember Wyatt’s phone number on the way. I just hoped that her roommate wasn’t home. One freak-out per day was my limit.
From the desk drawer, I rustled a key ring that held at least a dozen different keys, all attached to a glittery metal P. One of them had a black, plastic sleeve around the top, engraved with a familiar logo. Car key. Bingo.
“Who the hell are you?”
The male voice echoed through the cramped room. I pivoted on one foot, dropping my shoulders and balling both fists. At least, that’s what I did in my head. In reality, my gradually loosening limbs tangled, and I stumbled two steps forward, hands up like a drunk ninja.
Dr. Thomas stood just inside the room, a file in one hand and an expression of confusion painting his age- lined face.
No one had sneaked up on me in years. Not even a goblin, and they were built for stealth. I should have heard the squeak of the door hinge and ducked before he ever saw me. But I was listening with someone else’s ears—untrained ears, without years of survival to make them sharp. Indecision froze me—not a place I liked to be.
Dr. Thomas shifted his confusion from me to Pat’s sprawled body, his caterpillar eyebrows arching high on his small forehead. “Pat?” His attention reverted to me, widening both eyes. “What did you do to her?”
His voice quavered. He didn’t launch himself at me or attempt to help Pat, further hinting at the total wimp beneath the angry bluster. I considered whamming him with the truth, but didn’t really want a stroke on my conscience.
“I didn’t lay a hand on her,” I said, which was very much true. The next part, not so much. “I got lost.”
He stared, not quite believing. His attention wandered, probably taking in my odd state of dress. He paused on my right hand. I looked down and groaned. The plastic I.D. bracelet still clung to my wrist, probably attached when the body was brought down to the morgue.
“Damn,” I said, tugging at the reinforced band. It didn’t give.
“That isn’t possible,” he said.
I smiled. “What’s not possible? A frozen dead girl coming back to life? Doc, if you only knew half of the things that happen in this city after dark, you’d run screaming for the sunny south and never look back.”
He continued to stare, all of the color slowly draining from his face. Better ask my questions before he did something crazy like scream for help or pass out.
“I don’t suppose you know where Shelby Street is from here, do you? I’m a tad disoriented.”
He jacked the thumb of his right hand over his shoulder—a vague direction at best—and grunted something. I took fast advantage of his incredulity, and headed for the door. On second thought, I about-faced and snagged Pat’s keys off the desk.
“Wait,” Dr. Thomas said.
